The Mongolian Conspiracy Read online

A dark Chevrolet stopped in front of number 64 and a military officer got out. García drew his gun and approached as the officer was standing in front of the door.

  “Let’s go inside, General. I think Mr. del Valle is waiting for us.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Ring the doorbell, General. No reason to talk out here in the street.”

  At that moment the door opened and del Valle appeared. There was enough light from inside for him to recognize García.

  “I told you not to come for half an hour.”

  “Yes, Mr. del Valle, but here I am. Let’s go inside.”

  They went in and García closed the door. Del Valle said:

  “We’ll go into my office.”

  They followed him. The room was large, the walls covered with bookshelves and hung with paintings.

  “Have a seat,” del Valle said.

  He seemed to have recovered his composure.

  “I’ll stand, if you don’t mind, Mr. del Valle,” García said.

  “Is this García?” the general asked.

  “Filiberto García, at your service, General.”

  “From what they tell me, you’ve been stirring up trouble. They hired you to conduct an investigation, you did it, and your job is over. If you want some money, a hundred or two hundred pesos, we’ll give it to you and that’ll be the end of it.”

  García, still standing, was looking down at General Miraflores. The general felt uncomfortable in his chair. Del Valle sat down behind his desk.

  “The whole business was poorly planned, General,” García said.

  “So, that’s what you think. What do you know?”

  “The people you hired are no good for a job like this. This time, it’s not some two-bit small-town mayor you’re trying to get rid of . . .”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, García.”

  “People like your friends the Toad, Luciano Manrique, and that gringo Browning, General. The Toad and the gringo could expose you. Manrique can’t, because I already killed him.”

  “They don’t know anything,” del Valle said.

  “But they know someone who does know, Mr. del Valle. That’s why I’m telling you the whole thing is poorly planned.”

  “What do you want, García?” the general asked, curtly.

  “Are you going to go ahead with your plans?”

  “I don’t know what you’re —”

  “It’s useless, Miraflores,” del Valle interrupted. “García already knows too much.”

  “Seems you’re right.”

  “Let me think, García.”

  Del Valle remained sitting behind his desk. Here we are, talking, as if this was just a business deal, and there’s Marta all alone. Alone with her death. For us, time is passing, time is running out, but for Marta, there’s no time anymore.

  “Look, García,” del Valle finally said. “You’ve said you don’t have any political sympathies, that you just follow orders.” He was speaking with difficulty, as if he couldn’t find the words in his head. “You aren’t a Communist and you aren’t an anti-Communist, you aren’t a friend of the gringos or against the gringos. You just follow orders. The only reason I agreed to let them hire you to work with the Chinese is because they convinced me that was the case. But now I don’t understand whose orders you’re carrying out. This morning I told you to quit the investigation, and the colonel corroborated. Why have you kept on it?”

  “Orders.”

  “From the colonel?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because of your suspicions?

  “Yes.”

  “I understand. Now, Mr. García, you know that I have more authority than the colonel.”

  He paused without taking his eyes off García’s impassive face or the gun in García’s hand.

  “I’m going to be the president of the republic, García. It’s in your interest to be on friendly terms with the future president, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  General Miraflores stood up.

  “You are a military man, García, so this will interest you. When Mr. del Valle is president, we military men will return to the position we’ve always deserved and that the last few civilian governments have taken away from us. And after Mr. del Valle, I, a military man will be president, because we military men, we soldiers, we are and always have been the most important group in this country. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, García?”

  “I sure would.”

  “Then you should help us make that happen,” del Valle continued. “When, tomorrow, this minor incident is over, I am going to be president, and we are going to lead Mexico along the road to real progress, with strong and respected authority, and we will have a strong and respectable armed forces.”

  “An army that will be respected all over the world, García. And you will be part of it,” the general asserted.

  “As you see,” del Valle continued, “we have not become involved in this dangerous mission out of personal interest or ambition. Love of our nation obliges us to act in this way, against our principles. I can assure you that the new government, the one that will take over tomorrow, needs brave men like you —”

  “Moreover, García,” the general interrupted again, “you should consider this an order, a military order. I speak to you as an army general.”

  “Yes.”

  “So, you agree,” del Valle affirmed.

  “Of course he agrees,” the satisfied general said. “One death more, one death less, that’s not something that scares off a man like our friend García . . .”

  The general laughed smugly. García took one step right up to him, and stared at him straight in the eyes.

  “There’s already been one death too many, General,” he said.

  The general stopped laughing.

  “One death scares you off? I thought you were a man —”

  In one quick move of García’s hand, the .45 traced a short curve and smashed into the general’s face. The gunsight on the barrel cut into his flesh and blood spurted out. The general staggered backward.

  “Don’t say that, General. I already told you, there’s been one death too many in this business. Don’t put your hand into the drawer, Mr. del Valle. Come over here, slowly, so you won’t be tempted. And don’t you move, General.”

  “You’re crazy, García,” del Valle said, approaching him.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “You’ve always been a hired gun . . .”

  “Yes, Mr. del Valle. I’ve always been a hired gun, but now I told you there was one death too many.”

  “I thought you were with us, that you agreed to what we were offering you,” del Valle said.

  The general wiped the blood off his face. Some had dripped onto his uniform, possibly staining it for the first time with his own blood.

  “This is going to cost you dearly, García. You don’t hit a Mexican general and get away with it.”

  García looked at them in silence, his eyes as cold as ice.

  “What do you want, García?” del Valle asked. “Everything is perfectly arranged, and there’s just been one minor setback. I know the police found Browning’s hotel.”

  “Everything is dis-arranged, Mr. del Valle. Better said, everything was dis-arranged from the get-go. Ever since you wanted to be clever and take advantage of the rumor about the Chinese attack. Ever since you insisted on them hiring me for the investigation, certain that I would fall right into the trap and swear there was a Mongolian conspiracy after I woke up from the blow Luciano Manrique, may he rest in peace, was going to give me. Ever since you made me work with the gringo and the Russian. Ever since you chose this general as your partner and you had him assemble the necessary people, his people, people who can’t even piss straight. And, above all, ever since this afternoon when you sent someone to my house to give me a warning and you killed . . .”

  He paused. Somehow he couldn’t pronounce Marta’s name in that place.


  “Who, García? I swear we didn’t send anybody to your house. You were already off the case, you didn’t matter anymore.”

  When García spoke again, his voice was hard as nails.

  “You’ve never killed anybody, Mr. del Valle.”

  “Of course I haven’t.”

  “Right. That’s why you have your hired killers, to kill without thinking, to kill with orders. But for once in your life, I’m going to make you kill.”

  “Me? You’re crazy . . .”

  “They say you should never order anybody else to do something you don’t know how to do yourself. And you were going to order someone to assassinate the president . . .”

  “People whose profession it is to kill, García. That’s not my profession.”

  “This is all stupid,” the general said.

  García hit him in the mouth with his gun.

  “Nobody told you to talk, General. Learn to follow orders. What do you say, Mr. del Valle? You want to kill someone to find out how it feels? When you know how it’s done, then you’ll be able to issue the orders, without making such a fuss.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Your conspiracy has already bit the dust. You and the general together messed up everything. Now not the Chinese or Outer Mongolia or the Russians can be your scapegoats. For that role you need a Mexican, something the people here can understand. Get it now?”

  “Yes, but . . . Everything is in place for the attack.”

  “Because you already gave the Toad and the gringo their police IDs, so they can be in the square? But that won’t work, because the colonel is giving out new ones to the guards.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Very sure. And if you keep being an important man, who knows, maybe in the next elections you’ll make a good showing. Or, who knows, some other time the opportunity will arise and then you’ll know how to kill people. Not second-hand, like now.”

  “What are you proposing, García?”

  “That you kill General Miraflores. That you then expose him as the author of the conspiracy. In this way, you will have saved, at the risk of your own life, the life of our president. You will have saved the institutions . . . And you’ll always have another opportunity.”

  The general was about to say something, but he looked at García and kept quiet. The blood was pouring down his face and mouth, and his eyes were bloodshot. García kept talking:

  “The general is a gunslinger, like me. He’s a military man, trained to go around killing people; the only difference, he hides behind his uniform. It’s like you said, a killer with a team and the rest of it. But now you can see that doesn’t work. He didn’t know how to organize anything. You, on the other hand, Mr. del Valle, are a politician who goes around preaching peace and the rule of law. You go around talking about how the Revolution is over and how we are now living in peace . . .”

  “Yes, that’s true . . .”

  “But, del Valle —” the general started saying.

  This time García hit him with the back of his left hand.

  “Shut up.”

  There was silence. The general was having trouble breathing, maybe because of the blood filling his mouth and nose. Maybe because of his sobs.

  “If I do what you say —” del Valle said.

  “You’ll be a hero. Who could beat you in the next elections when everyone will know that at the risk of your own life you saved our institutions? And with time, even you will believe it’s all true.”

  “But . . . how?”

  “I don’t think you’ll want to do it with a knife. That’s pretty unpleasant. What gun do you have in your drawer?”

  “A .32-20.”

  “A pistol, but it’ll work.”

  García walked over to the desk and pulled out the gun. He walked back, carrying it in his left hand.

  “Take it, Mr. del Valle. Shoot him in the chest, three or four times. And don’t even think of shooting me. A .45 makes a very big hole.”

  “I understand,” del Valle said.

  The general took one step forward.

  “Keep still, General.”

  “Del Valle,” he said, “del Valle, we’re friends, we’ve been friends for a long time . . .”

  Mr. del Valle had the gun in his hand. He was staring at him.

  “Del Valle,” the general said, “you got me into this mess. The whole idea was yours. I just wanted to help you, as a friend —”

  “But you helped me badly, Miraflores,” del Valle said. “You did everything badly. In that way, Mr. García’s right.”

  His voice sounded like he was choking, as if it was coming from somewhere far away from his mouth.

  “We’re friends . . .”

  “I don’t have friends. In politics there are no friendships. And anyway, General Miraflores, after what was going to happen tomorrow, I’d already planned to have you eliminated. It’s never a good idea to leave witnesses and I had even thought of hiring Mr. García for the job.”

  “But I thought —”

  “You thought everything wrong, Miraflores. Very wrong.”

  Mr. del Valle pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the general in his belly. He let out a groan and brought his hands to where he’d been shot. The second bullet didn’t hit him. Mr. del Valle had closed his eyes. The general fell slowly to his knees.

  “Please, del Valle, for the love of God.”

  “Now in his chest,” García said. “No need to make him suffer.”

  Mr. del Valle opened his eyes and shot again. The bullet entered the general between his mouth and his nose. The general stretched out his hands and touched del Valle’s legs, leaving five red stripes down his pants. Then he fell slowly, headfirst, onto the rug. García walked up and took the gun out of del Valle’s hand. Then he took the gun out of the general’s holster.

  “You see, it’s not that difficult, is it?”

  Del Valle was staring at the general’s body, his eyes spinning.

  “Want a drink?”

  Del Valle started shaking as if he had severe chills. His teeth were chattering. García when over to a coffee table where there was a small bar service, filled a glass half full of cognac, and brought it to del Valle.

  “Here. It’s like with women. The first time is tough, but then you start to like it.”

  Del Valle drank down his cognac in one gulp. He appeared to enjoy it.

  “This is terrible.”

  “When you kill, Mr. del Valle, you are forever condemned to solitude.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Something I learned this afternoon.”

  Del Valle didn’t take his eyes off the general’s dead body.

  “Is he dead? I thought I saw him move.”

  “Want to shoot him again, just to be sure?”

  “Give me another cognac.”

  “Pour it yourself.”

  Del Valle went over to the table, poured himself a glass, and drank it down in one gulp.

  “You don’t want one, García?”

  “No, I don’t need it anymore.”

  “And now, now what do we do? Maybe the best thing would be to talk to the colonel.”

  Del Valle’s voice was getting stronger, returning to normal:

  “Yes, that’s it. Thanks to you, Miraflores confessed his villainy to me, his plot to assassinate our president, to overthrow the rule of law. He had his gun in his hand and I had to kill him to defend myself . . . No, to defend our president and our institutions . . .”

  Del Valle walked over to the telephone.

  “Don’t move,” García said.

  “What do you want now?”

  “You, yourself, Mr. del Valle, the first time we talked, you ordered me to get to the bottom of this affair, and if there was truth to the rumors, to act according to my best judgment. I am carrying out your orders.”

  “But . . . things have changed completely —”

  “As for me, one death more or less doesn’t matter. The only
death that does matter happened this afternoon, Mr. del Valle . . .”

  “I told you, I didn’t give those orders, I didn’t know anything —”

  “Maybe. But we can’t be left with any doubts. I can’t. And then, you just killed General Miraflores.”

  “You forced me to, García.”

  “General Miraflores came with me, Mr. del Valle, to arrest you for conspiring against the life of our president, and you killed him in cold blood. I killed you, trying to save General Miraflores.”

  “You can’t kill me, García.”

  “I can’t?”

  “You just made me kill a man . . .”

  “Yes, I did. It was good for you to know what it felt like and for me to know what I can expect from you.”

  “I can give you whatever you want, García. You yourself say I’ll have other opportunities to become president. I can make you rich when I’m president —”

  “President of hell, Mr. del Valle.”

  He fired one shot. The bullet entered del Valle right between the eyes, smashed his face, and shattered, along with his eyeglasses, the appearance of a venerable and important man. García placed the gun in the dead hand of the general and put away his own. Then he went to the telephone on the desk and dialed a number:

  “Colonel, García here.”

  “It’s seven minutes after ten, García. I told you to call me at ten on the dot.”

  “Any orders, Colonel?”

  “We haven’t been able to arrest the Toad or the gringo, but I’m certain you were right. We picked up the rifle —”

  “Any orders, Colonel?”

  “Yes. We have to arrest them, arrest them any way we can. I’ve changed all the guards, just in case. I’ve asked the FBI to send reinforcements to station guards in the windows overlooking the square. But we have to arrest the leaders . . .”

  “That will no longer be necessary, Colonel.”

  “What do you mean? This is an order . . .”

  “I’m at del Valle’s house. Seems there was a disagreement, words were spoken, and they shot each other.”

  “Are they dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wait for me there.”

  “I’m sorry, Colonel, but there’s a couple of things I have to do.”

  He hung up the phone, left the room, and reached the door to the street. He had put his gun back in its holster. When he opened the door, he found himself face-to-face with two men. Both had their guns drawn.