“I’ve got something for you. Could be nothing, but we have to take every precaution.”
García said nothing. All in good time.
“I’m not sure it’s in your line, García, but I don’t have anybody else to give it to.”
He took another greedy drag off his cigarette and blew the smoke out slowly, as if sorry to let it go.
“You know the Chinese on Dolores Street.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. This fucking colonel and lawyer knows a lot, more than he lets on. He never wants to let go of anything, so he never forgets. Fucking colonel.
“You’ve worked with the FBI a few times before. They don’t particularly like you, and they aren’t going to like you working on this case. But they’ll get over it. I don’t want any friction — you’ve got to work together. That’s an order. Understood?”
“Understood, Colonel.”
“I don’t want any scandals, either — no deaths that aren’t strictly necessary. That’s why I’m still not convinced you’re the best man for this job.”
“It’s your call, Colonel.”
The colonel stood up and walked over to the window. There was nothing to see but the building’s dark courtyard.
Fucking colonel! I don’t want any deaths, but you call me. That’s exactly why they always call me, because they want people dead and want to keep their own hands clean. That kind of killing ended with the popular uprising, and now everything’s done according to the law. But sometimes the law can only stretch so far, not quite far enough, and that’s when they call me in. It was so easy before. Take out that bastard. That was it, no questions asked. But now we are highly evolved and very well educated. Now, we don’t want any dead people or, at least, we don’t want to give orders for them to be killed. We’ll just drop a hint here and there, that way nobody’s to blame. Because now we’ve all got a conscience. Fucking conscience! Now they’re all squeaky clean, so they have to call in real men to do their dirty little jobs for them.
The colonel spoke from over by the window:
“There are only three men in Mexico who know anything about this. Two of them have read your file, García, and they don’t think we should hire you. They say you’re not a detective or a policeman, you’re just a professional hit man. The third one supports you. The third one is me.”
The colonel turned around, expecting to receive gratitude. Filiberto García didn’t say a word. All in good time. The colonel kept talking:
“I’ve recommended you for this investigation because you know the Chinese, you play poker with them and you know about their opium dens. I assume this makes them trust you and will make things easier for you. In addition, as I said, you’ve collaborated with the FBI on previous occasions.”
“Right.”
“One of the two men against your appointment is coming here tonight to meet you. No reason for you to know his name. Let me warn you, he not only questions your ability to carry out an investigation, he also questions your loyalty to the government, and even to Mexico.”
He paused, as if waiting for García to object. He wants me to give a speech, but speeches about loyalty and patriotism are for cantinas, not for when you’re talking about a serious job. Fucking loyalty!
“Also, García, you’ll be working with a Russian agent.”
His green eyes widened imperceptibly.
“I know, that might sound like a strange combination, but the man you’ll meet will explain it, if, that is, he deems it appropriate.”
García took out a Delicado cigarette and lit it. There was no ashtray near him so he put the burned match back in the box. The colonel pushed the ashtray across the desk toward him.
“Thank you, Colonel.”
“I think that you are loyal to your government and to Mexico, García. You fought in the Revolution with General Marchena and then, after that unfortunate incident with that woman, you joined the police in the state of San Luis Potosí. When General Cedillo led a revolt, you opposed him. You helped the federal government with those problems in Tabasco and with a few other things. You’ve done some good work cleaning up the border, and you did a fine job on that secret Cuban operations center.”
Yeah, a fine job. I killed six poor slobs, the only six members of the great Communist operations center for the liberation of the Americas. They were going to liberate the Americas from their operations center in the jungle of Campeche. Six stupid kids playing at being heroes, with two machine guns and a few pistols. And they died and there was no international conflict and the gringos were happy because they could take pictures of the machine guns and one was Russian. And the colonel told me that those poor slobs were violating our national sovereignty. Fucking sovereignty! Maybe they were, but once they were dead they couldn’t violate anything. They also said they’d violated the laws of asylum. Fuck the laws! And fuck the malaria I got in the jungle. And after all that, they come out in public saying I shouldn’t have whacked them. But it was I kill them or they kill me, because they were very keen on being heroes. And in a case like that, I don’t want to be the one who ends up dead.
The door opened and a well-dressed man entered: he was thin, with salt and pepper hair, and gold-framed eyeglasses. The colonel stepped forward to greet him.
“Am I on time?” the man asked.
“Exactly on time, sir.”
“Good. I’ve never liked to keep people waiting or wait for others. Here in Mexico, we must learn to be punctual. Good evening. .”
He held his hand out to García and smiled. García stood up. The colonel’s politeness was contagious. The man’s hand was hot and dry, like a bun right out of the oven.
“Have a seat, sir,” the colonel said. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”
The man sat down.
“Thank you, Colonel. I imagine Mr. García has already been briefed.”
“I’ve explained that we have a special assignment for him, but that you and another person don’t think he’s the right man for the job.”
“That is not precisely accurate, Colonel. I simply wanted to meet Mr. García before deciding. We have read your file, Mr. García, your history of service, and I am very impressed by a couple of items.”
García remained quiet. The man’s smile looked friendly.
“You are a man who is never afraid, García.”
“Why, because I’m not afraid to kill?”
“As a rule, Mr. García, one is afraid to die, but maybe it’s the same thing. Frankly, I have never personally experienced either aspect of the question.”
The colonel intervened:
“García has previously worked with the FBI, and he knows the Chinese on Dolores Street. More to the point, he’s never let me down, not on any of the assignments I’ve given him, and he’s discreet.”
The man, his friendly smile still playing on his lips, stared at García, as if he wasn’t listening to the colonel’s words, as if he and García had struck up a different conversation. He slowly raised his hand, and the colonel, who was about to say something, got quiet.
“Mr. García,” the man said, no longer smiling, “based on your history, I think we can count on your complete discretion,
and that is of capital importance. However, one thing is not clear from your file. There is no mention of your political affiliations or affinities. Do you sympathize with international Communism?”
“No.”
“Do you harbor strong anti-American feelings?”
“I carry out orders.”
“But you must have some philias or phobias, I mean, some sympathies or antipathies of a political nature.”
“I carry out the orders I’m given.”
The man sat thinking. He took out a silver cigarette case and offered it around.