Fisk’s phone hummed with the arriving e-mail. He opened the attachment and looked at the photo image of the woman. On his phone, she looked even younger, maybe nineteen or twenty. He forwarded the image to Intel.
CHAPTER 31
Back in his car, before pulling out, Fisk turned to face Garza. “We need to issue an alert about Virgilio.”
“He’s already dead,” said Garza.
Fisk studied her. Her jaw trembled a bit, but her eyes remained fierce, focused. “You’re saying he wouldn’t have allowed himself to have been taken alive?”
“Only if incapacitated. I realize there is always a chance . . . but if the aim is to extract information, about President Vargas’s movements and security, he won’t cooperate. He will be killed when he refuses.”
“Then there is no reason not to issue an alert. It might give us a lead.”
Garza looked through the windshield at busy Fifty-seventh Street. She had already resigned herself to Virgilio’s fate.
Fisk continued, “If you are reluctant because of showing your organization’s vulnerability, or disclosing his true identity . . .”
Garza turned to Fisk. “He was a good man. I cannot accept that he is gone . . . and yet I have to.”
Fisk was checking his mirrors.
“What is it?” she asked.
Fisk said, “I’m making sure nobody picked us up at the hotel to follow us.”
Garza’s eyes narrowed, and she looked at the hotel doors as Fisk pulled out into traffic.
“All right, Comandante,” he said. “I think it is time for you to tell me who this guy is you’re looking for.”
She looked off into the distance as though she was trying to decide whether or not she could trust him.
“You need help here,” said Fisk, more pointedly this time. “And if I’m going to marshal resources, I need a damn good reason. Who is he?”
“Two months ago, Detective Fisk, a row of headless corpses was left on the plaza of the town of Nuevo Laredo, just across the border from Laredo, Texas. The man I am chasing was responsible for those killings and numerous others. We finally tracked him back to a compound in the mountains that was his home. His refuge. He was gone. But before leaving, he killed every one of his servants and even his own men. He was making a statement. He left this behind, just a few feet away from a dead boy we believe to be his nephew.”
She thumbed her phone screen, waiting for Fisk to be able to take his eyes off the road and look over. He saw the image of a newspaper photograph of President Vargas, over which was a peculiar reddish brown design.
“That’s blood,” she said. “And if you were able to look at it closely, you would see that it is not just a random stain. It is a drawing. It is the mark of an assassin known as Chuparosa. It means Hummingbird.”
Fisk glanced at the image again. He could see it now, the wings, the needle-shaped nose.
“Why a hummingbird?”
Garza looked at the image herself before darkening the screen of her phone. “It is a symbol of vigor and potency. But specifically? I don’t know. He was notoriously aligned with the Zeta Cartel as something of an inspirational figure, cherishing violence over all else.”
“And you’ve never seen him?”
“No confirmed photographs exist. I have been tracking this man for two years now, Detective. He existed like a legend for years. In a country of dangerous men, this man is the most dangerous, by far. So brutal that his exploits were denied by many, out of sheer disbelief. Last July was the closest I have ever come to catching him.”
“Why did the Zetas need to rely on one man?”
“He aligned with them early. To give you an example . . . in searching his compound after we secured it, we discovered six metal barrels below a trapdoor in a storage shed about a half kilometer from the main house. Outside the shed was a fire pit covered by a grill. You see, disposing of bodies is problematic, especially in the heat of the desert. Scavengers will dig up anything that is buried. And cadaver dogs can track the scent of the long dead. For every beheaded victim of the drug war, there are another dozen victims who simply disappear. In one particularly horrifying case, a man who reported the abduction of his family was himself kidnapped the next day.”
She paused a moment, and Fisk knew she was thinking of Virgilio.
“What we believe is that Chuparosa would fill a barrel with water and two large bags of lye. He would set the barrel on the grill and light the fire, bringing the liquid inside to a boil before submerging the dead body. Over the next twenty-four hours, the body would liquefy. We found remnants of a pinkish gunk that resembled posole. Do you know what that is?”
“No.”
“It is a stew. Later he would dump the liquefied remains into a nearby stream. We learned this by digging up soil samples and testing them for traces of human remains. But our forensic teams could not identify even one victim. He is as diabolical as he is thorough. Hundreds of families have no answers, and will never know the true fate of their loved ones. He has no regard for human life, Detective.”
She turned to him.
“Let me see the bodies dumped in Rockaway yesterday. There may be something of value there.”
Fisk had some more questions to ask before answering her. “Why does he now want to kill the president?”
“I don’t know. It must have something to do with the trafficking treaty.”
“That seems somewhat extreme, doesn’t it? Why take this on by himself? It seems like he would be motivated more by a personal grudge.”
“It is terror. I believe that is his motive. He is striking at his homeland, our country. He seeks to destabilize and disgrace. Like a . . . a bad seed, an evil son. He wants to destroy.”
“So killing him, or attempting to, in the United States is easier . . . ?”
“No, but it is more profound. It is more unsettling. It shows his reach, his power.”
Fisk remembered the file on Comandante Garza. “So he is certainly aware of you then.”
Garza nodded. “He is.”
“What if you had left the hotel last night?”
She dismissed this outright. “Virgilio left in a state of distraction. The shame of the beheadings had soured him. I believe it was a momentary lapse of attention.”
Fisk frowned. “You’ve never had a momentary lapse of attention?”
“Not when it comes to Chuparosa.”
Fisk said, “It is not a good sign when the Mexican president’s protection needs protections herself.”
“I need no such thing,” she said, indignant. “I need cooperation. I need to see the dead bodies. It is connected, I promise you.”
Fisk said, “What you need is to go to the Secret Service with this information. You need to tell them there is an active plot to assassinate President Vargas in New York City.”
“Yes,” said Garza. “Led by a man who no one can prove actually exists.”
Fisk conceded that.
Garza went on, “Based upon a drawing in blood made over a photograph in a newspaper. See, Detective, there is a difference between what I know and what I can prove.”
Fisk said, “You’re right. If we go to the Secret Service with this, they’ll assign you another agent, maybe two. There’s too many people to watch in New York this week. And when I spoke to the head agent, asking him about the brief on Vargas, he mentioned nothing about a ‘Hummingbird’ or any active threat.”
Garza was quiet a moment, and Fisk realized she was looking at him.
“So you did follow up, after all. After dismissing me yesterday.”
Fisk shrugged. “Maybe I did.”
She said, “You feel it, too. You sense it.”
“Whether I do or not, the problem is getting you the support you need. A threat to your president is one thing. It’s serious, and it’s actionable. But a threat that might involve our president? That brings out all the big hunting dogs. That’s what you want.”