Russell Blake - King of Swords

Aside from the frustrated buzz of a fly at the window, there was complete silence in the room. John was the first to break it. “I see your problem. Your security service won’t go to bat on the basis of an investigation, even if the circumstantial evidence is compelling,” he observed.

“That’s probably the same in your country. Nobody wants to stick their neck out and then be wrong, so it’s easier to do the safe thing than do the right thing…” Cruz said.

“Some things don’t change no matter which side of the border you’re on,” Bill agreed.

“My thinking is that maybe I can go in through the back door and lean on our relationship. Which is why I need to determine whether you know anyone with either agency who could help me out here.”

“My sister-in-law actually works at the NSA, so maybe that would be a decent place to start,” Bill said.

“You don’t have strong enough relationships with those agencies to get some face time?” Cruz inquired.

“It seems your relationship with your intelligence service is about like ours with the NSA. And we have zero contact with Secret Service. So…no help there. Although, I’d be happy to write this up as a formal report and pass it on. I just wouldn’t expect much, for the same reasons you encountered with your team,” Bill advised.

Cruz rose, went to the window and opened it to let the bluebottle escape into the heat of the day. He sighed and said, “This is so frustrating. I know I’m right, and yet I can’t get the attention of the agencies chartered with keeping our heads of state safe. It’s really unbelievable.”

“Welcome to government work,” Jim said.

Once the Americans were gone, Briones approached Cruz’s office, standing politely at the door until Cruz looked up from his paperwork and noticed him.

“Yes, Lieutenant. What is it?”

“We got a hit back from our office in Culiacan. They have someone in custody who claims he has information on El Rey . He’s willing to talk, but he wants to know what he can expect in return for cooperation,” Briones told him.

Cruz put down his pen. “What kind of information?”

“About his background. He said he could tell us a lot about where he came from, and that it’s verifiable.”

“What’s he charged with?” Cruz asked, thinking this was too good to be true.

“Burglary.”

“What? A lowlife thief knows all about El Rey ? How likely does that sound to you?” Cruz scoffed.

“Not very. But then again, you wanted to hear about any and all leads, so I thought I’d run it by you,” Briones said, preparing to leave.

“Not so fast. What kind of burglary, do you know?” Cruz inquired.

“The usual. Breaking into houses, stealing valuables. Nothing violent.”

“I suppose it’s worth at least talking to him. Can we get him flown here?” Cruz asked.

“I already asked. They said if we’d pay for the tickets they’d send one of their men with the prisoner. They didn’t sound too interested in driving him here…”

“No, I wouldn’t think so.” Cruz thought about it. “Fine. Make it happen. Just don’t book them into first class.”

“There’s a flight out tomorrow morning,” Briones said. “Gets here at noon, and then a return flight at three. So they’ll only be on the ground for a few hours. Do you want me to line up a meeting room at the airport? Might be more practical than hauling them around town and having to deal with traffic issues. Last thing we need is for them to miss the plane back.”

“Sure. We can be back here in an hour or two.”

“He’ll want to know what we’re prepared to do for him — you have to address that. So what can we actually do?” Briones asked.

“Depends. I suppose we could always trade some favors and get the charges dropped, but it would have to be one hell of a story to get that card played. More likely, we can get a reduced sentence if he doesn’t have a ton of priors. Also depends on where he is in the system. If the prosecutor hasn’t gotten hold of him yet, it’s all internal to us and we can do whatever we want.”

“Let me get on the line and talk to Culiacan, and find all this out before we sit down with him.” Briones stopped, looking a little sheepish. “Sir, I just want you to know I’m sorry I let El Rey slip by me. I had this weird feeling there was something wrong, but I didn’t trust my gut…”

“Learn from that, Lieutenant. Next time your instinct tells you something’s off, follow it; don’t shut it down. It could save your life. Now get out of here, and let’s get this robber a plane ride,” Cruz said, reluctantly returning his attention to the pile of documents.

“I’m on it. Oh, and maybe we should take the sketches — perhaps slip some placebo ones in as a control? He may be able to identify which is the real El Rey …” Briones suggested.

“Excellent idea. If he can, that would be the first real break we’ve had. I would say we’re about due for one.”

The following day, Cruz and Briones were waiting at the gate as the jet pulled up to the walkway. The first passengers off were their men — one of the perks of being a Federal was that you could command priority, and get it, from the airlines. The escort was a heavily muscled thirty-something-year old veteran of the force in one of the most dangerous and violent epicenters of the drug wars. He looked menacing and tough, which was probably an understatement. You didn’t survive years as a Federal in a battle zone by pretending to be a hard-case. Apart from Ciudad Juarez by the Texas border, there was no Mexican city more dangerous than Culiacan, home of the original Godfather, and the capital of not only Sinaloa, but of the Sinaloa cartel — the largest, most violent and influential of the narcotics trafficking gangs.

The prisoner was a skinny weasel of a man, and old — at least fifty-five — and looking like every day of it had been spent in poverty and hardship. He had the hunched shoulders and defeated gait of a man who’d been bludgeoned by life, and was running out the clock, trying to avoid any further suffering. His skin had the leathery look of an existence spent outdoors — the complexion of a day laborer, or a beggar. As he was escorted towards Briones and Cruz, his pronounced limp slowed him, as did the cuffs on his wrists.

The officer extended his hand in greeting, his face unsmiling and impassive.

“I’m Lieutenant Marquez. Nice to meet you both. Where are we headed?” he asked, after shaking their hands.

“We’ve got a conference room booked over in the old Mexicana club suite. Follow me,” Cruz instructed, moving swiftly to the main terminal area. The others followed, Briones lagging behind with the prisoner and Marquez.

They arrived at their destination, where an airport security man opened the suite and asked if they’d require anything else. Cruz inspected the room, which had a cooler with water and sodas and some sandwiches wrapped in cellophane. He shook his head. The group settled in around the conference table, and the captive put his gnarled, cuffed hands on the table — his cracked nails and hardened calluses further confirmation of a sustenance-level existence.

Marquez cleared his throat. “This is Rodrigo Moreno. He’s charged with burgling several homes in Culiacan, and was arrested four days ago. He was caught climbing out of a ground floor window with a stereo and a few items of jewelry. We put the question about El Rey to him, as we have to all detainees, and he indicated he had information he was willing to share.” Marquez sat back, his role finished until he had to walk the man back to the plane.

“ Trade . I have information I want to trade,” Moreno said, his yellowed eyes darting from Briones to Cruz, lending him the appearance of a fox, or some other wild animal that lived by its wits in a harsh habitat.