Loe raamatut: «The Border»

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Monsters and Ghosts

Monsters are real, and ghosts are real, too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.

—Stephen King

November 1, 2012

Art Keller walks out of the Guatemalan jungle like a refugee.

He left a scene of slaughter behind him. In the little village of Dos Erres, bodies lie in heaps, some half burned in the smoldering remnants of the bonfire into which they’d been tossed, others in the village clearing where they’d been gunned down.

Most of the dead are narcos, gunmen from rival cartels that came here allegedly to make peace. They had negotiated a treaty, but at the debauched party to celebrate their reconciliation, the Zetas pulled out guns, knives and machetes and set to butchering the Sinaloans.

Keller had literally fallen onto the scene—the helicopter he’d been in was hit by a rocket and spun to a hard landing in the middle of the firefight. He was hardly an innocent, having planned with the Sinaloa boss, Adán Barrera, to come in with a team of mercenaries and eliminate the Zetas.

Barrera had set up his enemies.

The problem was, they set him up first.

But the two main targets of Keller’s mission, the Zeta leaders, are dead—one decapitated, the other turned into a flaming torch. Then, as they’d agreed in their uneasy, evil truce, Keller had gone off into the jungle to find Barrera and bring him out.

It seemed to Keller that he’d spent his whole adult life going after Adán Barrera.

After twenty years of trying, he’d finally put Barrera in a US prison, only to see him transferred back to a Mexican maximum-security facility from which he promptly “escaped” and then made himself more powerful than ever, the godfather of the Sinaloa cartel.

So Keller went back down to Mexico to go after Barrera again, only to become, after eight years, his ally, joining with him to bring down the Zetas.

The greater of two evils.

Which they did.

But Barrera disappeared.

So now Keller walks.

A handful of pesos to the border guard gets him into Mexico and then he hikes the ten miles to the Campeche village from which the raid had been staged.

More like he staggers.

The adrenaline from the gunfight that started before dawn has dropped, and now he feels the sun and the close heat of the rain forest. His legs ache, his eyes hurt, the stench of flame, smoke and death sticks in his nose.

The smell of burning flesh never leaves you.

Orduña waits for him at the little airstrip hacked out of the forest. The commander of FES sits inside the bay of a Black Hawk helicopter. Keller and Admiral Orduña had formed an “anything you need, anytime” relationship during their war against the Zetas. Keller provided him with top-level American intelligence and often accompanied his elite special-forces marines on operations inside Mexico.

This one had been different—the chance to decapitate the Zeta leadership in a single stroke came in Guatemala, where the Mexican marines couldn’t go. But Orduña provided Keller’s team with a staging base and logistical support, flew the team into Campeche, and now waits to see if his friend Art Keller is still alive.

Orduña smiles broadly when he sees Keller walk out of the tree line, then reaches into a cooler and hands Keller a cold Modelo.

“The rest of the team?” Keller asks.

“We flew them out already,” Orduña says. “They should be in El Paso by now.”

“Casualties?”

“One KIA,” Orduña says. “Four wounded. I wasn’t so sure about you. If you didn’t come in by nightfall, a la mierda todo, we were going over to get you.”

“I was looking for Barrera,” Keller says, sluicing down the beer.

“And?”

“I didn’t find him,” Keller says.

“What about Ochoa?”

Orduña hates the Zeta leader almost as much as Keller hates Adán Barrera. The war on drugs tends to get very personal. It had gotten personal for Orduña when one of his officers was killed on a raid against the Zetas, and they came in and murdered the young officer’s mother, aunt, sister and brother the night of his funeral. He had formed the Matazetas—“Zeta Killers”—the morning after that. And kill Zetas they did, every chance they got. If they took prisoners, it was only to get information, and then they executed them.

Keller had different reasons to hate the Zetas.

Different, but sufficient.

“Ochoa’s dead,” Keller says.

“Confirmed?”

“I saw it,” Keller says. He’d watched Eddie Ruiz pour a can of paraffin all over the wounded Zeta boss and then toss a match on him. Ochoa died screaming. “Forty, too.”

Forty was Ochoa’s number-two man. A sadist like his boss.

“You saw his body?” Orduña asks.

“I saw his head,” Keller says. “It wasn’t attached to his body. That good enough for you?”

“It’ll do,” Orduña says, smiling.

Actually, Keller didn’t see Forty’s head. What he saw was Forty’s face, which someone had peeled off and sewn to a soccer ball.

“Has Ruiz shown up?” Keller asks.

“Not yet,” Orduña says.

“He was alive the last time I saw him,” Keller says.

Turning Ochoa into a highway flare. Then standing on some old Mayan stone courtyard watching a kid kick a very bizarre soccer ball around.

“Maybe he just took off,” Orduña says.

“Maybe.”

“We should get in touch with your people. They’ve been calling about every fifteen minutes.” Orduña punches some numbers into a burn phone and then says, “Taylor? Guess who I have here.”

Keller takes the phone and hears Tim Taylor, the DEA chief of the Southwest District, say, “Jesus Christ, we thought you were dead.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

They’re waiting for him at the Adobe Inn in Clint, Texas, on a remote highway a few miles east of El Paso.

The room is your standard motel “efficiency,” a large living room with a kitchen area—microwave, coffee maker, small refrigerator—a sofa with a coffee table, a couple of chairs and a television set. A bad painting of a sunset behind a cactus. A door at the left, open now, leads into a bedroom and bathroom. It’s a good, nondescript place to hold their debrief.

The television is on low, tuned to CNN.

Tim Taylor sits on the sofa, looking at a laptop computer set on the coffee table. A satphone stands upright by the computer.

John Downey, the military commander of the raid, stands by the microwave, waiting for something to heat. He’s out of cammies, Keller sees, showered and shaved, wearing a plum polo shirt over jeans and tennis shoes.

Another man, a CIA guy Keller knows as Rollins, sits in one of the chairs and watches the television.

Downey looks up when Keller comes in. “Where the fuck have you been, Art? We’ve done satellite runs, helicopter searches …”

Keller was supposed to have brought Barrera out safely. That was the deal. Keller asks, “How are your people?”

“Phwoom.” Downey makes a gesture with his hands, like a flushed covey of quail. Keller knows that within twelve hours the spec-ops will be scattered all over the country, if not the world, with cover stories about where they’ve been. “The only unaccounted for is Ruiz. I was hoping he came out with you.”

“I saw him after the firefight,” Keller says. “He was walking out.”

“So Ruiz is in the wind?” Rollins asks.

“You don’t have to worry about him,” Keller says.

“He’s your responsibility,” Rollins says.

“Fuck Ruiz,” Taylor says. “What happened to Barrera?”

Keller says, “You tell me.”

“We haven’t had any word from him.”

“Then I guess he didn’t make it,” Keller says.

“You refused to get on the ex-fil chopper,” Rollins says.

“The chopper had to take off,” Keller says, “and I still had to find Barrera.”

“But you didn’t find him,” Rollins says.

“Special ops aren’t room service,” Keller answers. “You can’t always get exactly what you order. Things happen.”

Right from the jump.

They’d helicoptered onto a firefight that was already in progress as the Zetas were butchering the Sinaloans. Then a surface-to-air rocket hit the lead chopper that Keller was in, killing one man and wounding another. So instead of going down the ropes, they made a hard landing onto a hot zone. Then they had to shuttle the team out on the surviving chopper.

We were lucky to have gotten out at all, Keller thinks, never mind completing the main mission of executing the leading Zetas. If we didn’t manage to bring Barrera out with us, well …

“The primary mission, as I understood it,” Keller says, “was to take out the Zetas’ command and control. If Barrera was a collateral casualty …”

“All the better?” Rollins asks.

They all know Keller’s hatred of Barrera.

That the drug lord had tortured and murdered Keller’s partner.

That he’d never forget, never mind forgive.

“I won’t shed any crocodile tears for Adán Barrera,” Keller says. He knows the situation in Mexico better than any of the people in that room. Like it or not, the Sinaloa cartel is key to stability in Mexico. If the cartel falls apart because Barrera is gone, the tenuous peace could fall apart with it. Barrera knew that, too—this après moi, le déluge attitude allowed him to drive a tough bargain with both the Mexican and American governments to lay off him and attack his enemies.

The microwave bings and Downey takes out the tray. “Stouffer’s lasagna. A classic.”

“We don’t even know Barrera’s dead,” Keller says. “Have they found a body?”

“No,” Taylor says.

“D-2 is on the scene now,” Rollins says, referring to the Guatemalan paramilitary intelligence agency. “They haven’t found Barrera. Or either of the primary targets, for that matter.”

“I can personally confirm that both targets were terminated,” Keller says. “Ochoa is basically charcoal, and Forty … well, you don’t want to know about Forty. I’m telling you, they’re both past tense.”

“We’d better hope Barrera isn’t,” Rollins says. “If the Sinaloa cartel is unstable, Mexico is unstable.”

“The law of unintended consequences,” Keller says.

Rollins says, “We had a very specific agreement with the Mexican government to preserve Adán Barrera’s life. We guaranteed his safety. This isn’t Vietnam, Keller. It isn’t Phoenix. If we find out that you violated that agreement, we’ll—”

Keller stands up. “You’ll do exactly shit. Because that was an unauthorized, illegal operation that ‘never happened.’ What are you going to do? Take me to trial? Put me on the witness stand? Let me testify under oath that we had a deal with the world’s biggest drug dealer? That I went on a US-sponsored raid to eliminate his rivals? Let me tell you something that those of us who do the actual work know—never draw your weapon unless you’re prepared to pull the trigger. Are you prepared to pull the trigger?”

There’s no answer.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Keller says. “For the record, I wanted to kill Barrera, I wish I had killed him, but I didn’t.”

He gets up and walks out.

Taylor follows him. “Where are you going?”

“None of your business, Tim.”

“To Mexico?” Taylor asks.

“I’m not with DEA anymore,” Keller says. “I don’t work for you. You can’t tell me where to go or not to go.”

“They’ll kill you, Art,” Taylor says. “If the Zetas don’t, the Sinaloans will.”

Probably, Keller thinks.

But if I don’t go, they’ll kill me anyway.

He drives into El Paso, to the apartment he keeps near EPIC. Strips out of his filthy, sweaty clothes and takes a long, hot shower. Then he goes into the bedroom and lies down, suddenly aware that he hasn’t slept for coming on two days and that he’s exhausted, depleted.

But he’s too tired to sleep.

He gets up, throws on a white button-down shirt over jeans and takes the little Sig 380 compact out of the gun safe in the bedroom closet. Clips the holster onto his belt, puts on a navy-blue windbreaker as he’s headed out the door.

For Sinaloa.

Keller first came to Culiacán as a rookie DEA agent back in the ’70s, when the city was the epicenter of the Mexican heroin trade.

And now it is again, he thinks as he walks through the terminal toward the taxi stand. Everything has come full circle.

Adán Barrera was just a punk kid then, trying to make it as a boxing manager.

His uncle, though, a Sinaloa cop, was the second-biggest opium grower in Sinaloa, striving to become the biggest. That was back when we were burning and poisoning the poppy fields, Keller thinks, driving peasants from their homes, and Adán got caught up in one of those sweeps. The federales were going to throw him out of an airplane, but I intervened and saved his life.

The first, Keller thinks, of many mistakes.

The world would have been a much better place if I had let them go Rocky the Flying Squirrel on little Adán, instead of letting him live to become the world’s greatest drug lord.

But we were actually friends back then.

Friends and allies.

Hard to believe.

Harder to accept.

He gets into a cab and tells the driver to go into centro—downtown.

“Where exactly?” the driver asks, looking at his face in the rearview mirror.

“Doesn’t matter,” Keller says. “That will give you time to call your bosses and tell them a strange yanqui is in town.”

The cabdrivers in every Mexican city where there’s a strong narco presence are halcones—“falcons”—spies for the cartels. Their job is to watch the airports, train stations and streets and let the powers that be know who’s coming in and out of their town.

“I’ll save you some effort,” Keller says. “Tell whoever you’re going to call that you have Art Keller in your cab. They’ll tell you where to take me.”

The driver gets on his phone.

It takes several calls and the driver’s voice gets edgier with each one. Keller knows the drill—the driver will call his local cell leader, who will call his, who will kick it up the chain, and the name Art Keller will take it to the very top.

Keller looks out the window as the cab goes into town on Route 280 and sees the memorials left on the roadside to fallen narcos—mostly young men—killed in the drug wars. Some are simply bunches of flowers and a beer bottle set beside cheaply made wooden crosses, others are full-color banners with photographs of the deceased stretched between two poles, while others are elaborate marble stiles.

But there will be more memorials soon, he thinks, when news of the “Dos Erres Massacre” reaches the city. A hundred Sinaloan sicarios went down to Guatemala with Barrera; few, if any, are coming back.

And there will be memorials in the Zeta heartlands of Chihuahua and Tamaulipas in the country’s northeast, when their soldiers don’t return.

The Zetas are a spent force now, Keller knows. Once a genuine threat to take over the country, the paramilitary cartel made up of former special forces troops is now leaderless and hamstrung, its best people killed by Orduña or lying dead in Guatemala.

There is no one now to challenge Sinaloa.

“They say to take you to Rotarismo,” the driver says, sounding nervous.

Rotarismo is a neighborhood at the far northern edge of the city, hard by the empty hills and farmlands.

An easy place to dump a corpse.

“To an auto body shop,” the driver says.

All the better, Keller thinks.

The tools are already there.

To chop up a car or a body.

You can always spot a conclave of high-ranking narcos by the number of SUVs parked out front, and this has to be a major meeting, Keller thinks as they roll up, because a dozen Suburbans and Expeditions are lined up in front of the garage with guns poking out like porcupine quills.

The guns train on the cab and Keller thinks that the driver might piss himself.

“Tranquilo,” Keller says.

A few uniformed sicarios patrol on foot outside. It’s become a thing in every branch of all the cartels, Keller knows—they each have their own armed security forces with distinctive uniforms.

These wear Armani caps and Hermès vests.

Which Keller thinks is a little fey.

A man hustles out of the garage toward the cab, opens the rear passenger door and tells Keller to get the fuck out.

Keller knows the man. Terry Blanco is a high-ranking Sinaloa state cop. He’s been on the cartel’s payroll since he was a rookie and now there’s some silver in his black hair.

Blanco says, “You don’t know what’s going on around here.”

“It’s why I came,” Keller says.

“You know something?”

“Who’s inside?”

“Núñez,” Blanco says.

“Let’s go.”

“Keller, if you go in,” Blanco says, “you might not come back out.”

“Story of my life, Terry,” Keller says.

Blanco walks him through the garage, past the work bays and the lifts, to a large empty area of concrete floor that seems more like a warehouse.

It’s the same scene as the motel, Keller thinks.

Just different players.

Same action, though—people on phones, working laptops, trying to get information as to the whereabouts of Adán Barrera. The place is dark—no windows and thick walls—just what you want in a climate that is baking hot from the sun or chilled by the north wind. You don’t want the weather or prying eyes penetrating this place, and if anyone dies in here, goes out screaming or crying or pleading, the walls keep that inside.

Keller follows Blanco to a door in the back.

It opens to a small room.

Blanco ushers Keller in and shuts the door behind them.

A man Keller recognizes sits behind a desk, on the phone. Distinguished-looking with salt-and-pepper hair, a neatly trimmed goatee, wearing a houndstooth jacket and a knit tie, looking distinctly uncomfortable in the greasy atmosphere of a garage back room.

Ricardo Núñez.

El Abogado—“The Lawyer.”