Garza choked down a swallow and walked downstairs to intercept him. Andrés León wore a black suit with silver accents on the lapels, pants with matching cuffs, and silver-toed cowboy boots. His braid was pulled back more neatly than it had been that morning.
“Comandante Garza!” he exuded when he saw her crossing the room toward him. “The woman of the hour, everyone!”
Applause from the rest of the attendees, which shocked her, making her stop when she would have thought no power in the world could have slowed her pace. She stood for a split second listening to their hollow clapping, then continued to the large expatriate, who insisted on making a scene.
“What bravery! What fortitude! And a woman! What a shining example of Mexican mettle!”
Garza reached León, trying to keep her expression calm as she gestured to the hallway. “Don Andrés, may I offer you a tour of the premises? I know you don’t get out much.”
“How can I resist any request from Comandante Garza on a great day such as this? A privilege! An honor! Lead on, Comandante!”
She did, past smiling onlookers, stepping out into the hallway leading to the portrait room.
“Will it be long, Comandante?” he asked. “I haven’t yet had a cocktail.”
“Not too long,” she said, without turning around. She opened the door and stepped aside for him to enter.
He passed her, walking inside with his hands out in a gesture of appreciation. “All the greats.”
Garza closed the door behind them. Portraits hung around the room’s only bench, lit from lamps above each frame. Emiliano Zapata. First President Guadalupe Victoria. Hernán Cortés. Diego Rivera. And the most recent addition, the writer Octavio Paz.
“Magnificent,” he said. “Oh, the lure of the homeland. So kind of you to show me this. So nice to be out of my cage.”
Garza nodded, telling herself to stay focused. “What was your name, Don Andrés? Your former name. Your real name.”
León reacted with surprise. “Strange question.”
“I tried to look you up this afternoon, using both police and Department of State resources. I could not find any so-called financier fitting the profile you described to me this morning.”
“Please, Comandante.” He spread his hands in supplication. “I don’t even like to think of it. On a night such as this? Tonight is about the future.” He waved at the portraits. “The past is history.”
“No,” said Garza, shaking her head strenuously. “No, it’s not. It’s right here with you, right now. Which bank did you work for?”
León sighed, smiling and shaking his head. “So many.”
“Name just one.”
León crooked his head, looking at her with one eye nearly closed. He had noticed her growing more agitated. “I should return to the reception. I was promised a cocktail.”
“Chuparosa did not come to New York for President Vargas,” said Garza, getting the words out quickly.
“No?” He reacted with exaggerated surprise. “But how could that be?”
Garza took one step toward him, all she allowed herself. “He was here for you.”
León pursed his lips, finding this very curious.
Garza said, “You realized that when we went to see you earlier today. You figured out that he had found out about you, your true identity, somehow. Someone like him is the reason why you live behind that wall, those guards, this foreign government.”
León signed heavily. “I am sorry, Comandante Garza—”
“León. Lion.” Her next words reeked of the vomit still on her breath. “Ochoa. Wolf.”
León’s façade of innocence faltered. “Ochoa?”
“He would have succeeded in killing you here,” she said. “Because safeguarding presidents is our first priority. The Hummingbird was exploiting that certainty to allow himself a shot at a much more elusive, yet much more worthy target. Someone who leaves his gilded cage but once each year. Yes, Chuparosa would have been killed in the act. But not before he killed you.”
León looked at the nearest portraits before answering her. “And you warned me, Comandante Garza. And then you killed my assassin.” León—Ochoa, the former cartel leader—bowed slightly at the waist, obscenely.
“You scrubbed your home in Mexico, your cars, everything. And had another man live in them for a time. Then had him killed in your place.” She took another step toward the man. “Your plastic surgery did not result in a fatality. For you, it was a complete success. For the man living in your house—and for the doctors after they performed the surgery—it was indeed fatal. It was his DNA the American DEA matched.”
She looked at his face, the one he had grown into in the years since it was rebuilt. So few photographs existed of Ochoa, and all of them grainy.
“Or perhaps,” she said, “the DEA made sure it matched. Why did you flip? Why did you turn your back on your former self?”
León’s contempt for her was showing. “Prison was coming. My time and my luck were both running out. The end comes for everyone. I did not want it to come for me. So I made a new beginning. I accepted it. I became a new man. A mansion in the United States instead of a shithole prison in Guadalajara. The choice was an easy one. Retirement in secret. And yes—interestingly, an opportunity to atone.”
“To settle scores with your former rivals. But I thought the past was history.”
“You are very dedicated and enterprising, Comandante. Now, if you don’t mind—”
Garza stepped back and drew her Beretta. She settled into a balanced shooter’s stance, the weapon trembling slightly in her hands.
She said, “I want to tell you a story about my mother and sister.”
CHAPTER 78
Fisk and Dubin were trying to badge their way through three rings of Secret Service security, still a block away from the consulate. Dubin was alternately trying to work his phone and stepping between Fisk and another agent, trying to talk them through another checkpoint.
“She’s going to kill him,” Fisk kept saying.
Fisk’s arm was throbbing with pain. He could not get anyone to listen to him.
She was going to ruin herself for revenge. Fisk had to stop her.
CHAPTER 79
Andrés León looked at the weapon trembling in Cecilia Garza’s hand. If he was nervous, he did not show it.
“Comandante,” he said. “Put down your weapon.”
Garza smiled painfully. “Welcome home,” she said.
León held a hand out toward her, trying to stop her from doing anything rash. “This is not Mexican soil. We are in a consulate in New York City, still subject to their laws. You can’t shoot me here and expect to claim it rightful under Mexican law—”
Garza said, “I know full well there is no extraterritoriality here. This is not sovereign territory of Mexico. However, I know also that the host country may not enter the consulate if it acts as a refuge.” Garza felt her shivering ease as she said these words. “You are surrendering to me, Mr. Ochoa. Surrendering to the daughter and sister of two women you kidnapped and forced into sexual slavery.”
León swallowed and said, “I did no such thing—”
“You did! You and your people! No one crossed you! No one did anything that displeased you! You did it!”
“Comandante, listen to reason. You are upset. Your emotions are running away with you. Please listen to me. This thing you are trying to achieve, it will never work. The United States needs me too much to let me go.”
“You are in my custody now, a Mexican citizen in the custody of a federale. They dare not intercede in this matter. Because then the people of the United States and the world will know that they took you in. Knowing who you were. What you were. And that they hosted you, that their taxpayers funded the ‘retirement’ of a former Mexican drug cartel leader and trafficker in human lives.”