Garza was appropriately cagey with León. “He holds a grudge, I believe. He is wedded to the old ways, the old Mexico. The one you seem to know. This treaty could—I think—effect real change in our country.”
León nodded, deep in thought. “You give me pause, Comandante. I wonder if it is wise for me to attend tonight.” He shook his head. “Forgive me, I am not a coward. But I am certainly not a brave man either. How I would hate to miss it.”
Fisk said, “Security is going to be incredibly tight. You can feel confident.”
“But nothing is ever guaranteed, Detective Fisk. You know that as well as I. My position here is precarious. In fact, I rarely leave this home. By rarely, I mean no more than once a year. I am a paranoid man, and rightly so. The restaurant is my only commercial enterprise. I miss the tastes of home, you see. These dishes I used to have prepared here, we started serving at Ocampo. Have you read our Zagat review? I’ll have someone hand you a copy on your way out. Extraordinary Mexican seafood cuisine! Others scoffed when it opened. We have three stars from Michelin! I am sorry to brag, food is a weakness.” He patted his belly. “I live too well. Living well is addictive.”
Fisk said, “So why is it that the president of Mexico chose your restaurant for his celebratory dinner?”
“It should be obvious to you both by now,” said León. “Umberto Vargas got his start in politics as a prosecutor, after leaving academia, roughly around the time I repatriated here. He made his name going after organized crime and the cartels.” To Garza, he said, “You know that started him on his stunning trajectory toward the presidency. He has been an anticorruption, antidrug guy all the way. And I, in my own manner, have been of some help to him. Some prosecutions, I helped make possible. Even from afar. I was his secret weapon, in a sense . . . though I do not want to be thought of as taking too much credit. President Vargas is the one whose face is out there. He is a man of valor, of principles. I have been, so to speak, his counsel in the shadows. Not to overstate it, but we have become . . . I don’t know what you want to call it. Friends? Associates? Neither. Strange bedfellows, perhaps. I have been very, very useful to him, and for that I feel wonderful. I still love our country, Comandante. I love it like . . . like an ex-wife I once wronged, who is still raising my many, many children. President Vargas is . . . an expression of my penance. I supported his campaign in every way, including financially. I honestly believe that a man like him comes once a generation. Now is the time to do great things.”
León grasped Garza’s hand for emphasis.
“You must keep him well and safe. We cannot afford to let these forces of evil stop the progress we have made. This antitrafficking accord with the United States is the greatest attempt Mexico has made at stemming the tide of violence, corruption, and terror. This treaty is a great step forward. And, in many ways, I am its crux.”
CHAPTER 57
With their service pieces and phones returned to them, Fisk and Garza waited until they were outside León’s gate before speaking.
“Okay,” said Fisk. “Now we know who he is.”
“You don’t like him,” said Garza.
“Not especially. He put on a happy face, but a guy who made who knows how many millions laundering blood money has an epiphany and gets a golden parachute into the United States to live off the taxpayers’ money in secret? He’s either a genius or a piece of shit.”
“Or both,” said Garza. “I had a great-uncle like him. A rascal.”
“What about your president, though? Secretly in bed with this guy.”
“I don’t have to like it. It affects me not at all.”
Fisk’s phone began vibrating. Three missed calls and a bunch of e-mails flooded in.
“There must have been something blocking cell signals at León’s place,” said Fisk, checking the source of the calls. All three were from Dubin at Intel.
“Shit.”
“What?” she said.
“That false alarm this morning. My boss is going to try to yank me off this.”
Garza checked the time on her phone. “Vargas is scheduled to leave the consulate soon for the Independence Day celebration.”
Fisk thought briefly about ignoring Dubin and continuing on with Garza. But he did not want to become a distraction. He wanted the Secret Service and Garza’s EMP men focused on the job at hand—protecting Vargas, stopping Chuparosa—exclusively.
It would be an hour’s ride back to midtown, but Fisk chose to drop her off at the consulate first. Then he would check in with Dubin by phone.
“One thing I think is clear,” said Fisk, as they neared the consulate.
“What is that?” she said.
“Unless you can find Chuparosa beforehand, Andrés León is a likely no-show at his own restaurant tonight. He seemed more concerned about the assassin than your president.”
“I think you are right.”
“Hey,” he said, grasping her arm as she tried to hop out at the curb at Thirty-ninth Street and Park Avenue. “Be careful.”
CHAPTER 58
Fisk called Nicole instead of Dubin.
“The Post already has pictures up online of you going after that photographer outside the Mexican consulate,” she told him, her voice low. “It says, HERO TERROR COP ON MEX PRESIDENT DETAIL. You knew you weren’t supposed to be there . . .”
“Dubin been by?”
“Back and forth from his office a dozen times, but he’s not talking to me. You need to come in.”
Fisk said, “This thing is still live.” He was most worried now about getting inside the restaurant that night. The way things were going, Fisk himself would be on a No Fly, Detain On Sight list before then. “Tell him I got a flat tire,” Fisk said.
Nicole said, “I am not telling him anything of the sort.”
“Okay, then tell him he can fire me tomorrow at nine A.M., if he wants to. But not before.”
“You have a sit-rep meeting scheduled with the United Nations security team regarding the General Assembly meeting.”
Fisk heard a beep. He had another call coming in. Kiser from Rockaway.
“Nicole, I’ll call you back.”
“Wait, what am I really supposed to tell Dubin—”
Fisk switched over, picking up Kiser’s call. “Nice job cracking down on the paparazzi,” said Kiser.
“Thanks. What have you got?”
“Three more bodies identified. All you need to know from that is that one was a coyote who went by the name Raoul. A trafficker of women, real piece of fried shit. That’s interesting because of the alert that went out under your name for that Mexican hooker.”
Fisk nodded. “Silvia Volpi.”
“Got a guy here saw her name in the news. You should talk to him.”
CHAPTER 59
The Celebración de El Grito de Independencia took place at a park in Woodside, Queens. The banner over the stage read ¡VIVA MEXICO! in the flag colors of green, white, and red. Women in traditional huipils, as well as dresses from Michoacán and Tabasco, the men in wide, red-rimmed sombreros and charro suits. Mariachi bands played throughout the crowd, and men threw down their hats and kicked up their heels in dance.
All very clichéd, and yet, Garza thought to herself, all very wonderful just the same.
EMP agents wearing less formal guayabera shirts filtered through the crowd undetected. Snipers were positioned on surrounding rooftops. Cameras at every entrance were capturing pictures of entrants and filtering them through facial recognition software.
Garza sipped a Diet Coke through a straw, feeling very anxious but ready. She looked out from the wings of the small stage again, seeing past the families and couples enjoying the day, looking for anything that didn’t fit.