The Mongolian Conspiracy Read online

  “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.

  “Thanks, I’ve got my own,” García said.

  He took out a Delicado. The colonel accepted a cigarette and lit it with a gold lighter. García used a match. The man smiled again, his eyes cold and hard:

  “Maybe you are the right man for the job, Mr. García. I’ll admit, it’s extremely important. If we bungle this, there could be serious international repercussions and disagreeable consequences, to say the least, for Mexico. Not that I actually believe anything is going to happen. As usual in such a case, we have only rumors, suspicions. But we must act, we must find out the truth. And only the colonel and I can know what you discover, Mr. García. Nobody else. Understood?”

  “That’s an order,” the colonel said.

  García nodded. The man continued talking:

  “I’m going to write down a telephone number. Call it if you have anything urgent to report. I’m the only one who answers that phone. If I don’t, or if the situation requires it, call the colonel and let him know you want to talk to me. He’ll put us in touch. Here’s the number.”

  García took the card. It was blank except for a typewritten phone number. He looked at it for a few moments, then held it over the ashtray and lit a match to it. The man smiled, satisfied.

  “The problem is as follows: as you probably know, in three days’ time, the president of the United States will arrive in Mexico. He will be here in the capital for three days. If you want to see his schedule, you can get it from the colonel. It’s already been made public. In any case, I don’t think you’ll need it. Protecting both presidents, the visiting president and our own, is the responsibility of the Mexican police and the United States Secret Service. You’ll have nothing to do with that; it is a routine assignment — for specialists, we could say. They are taking all the necessary precautions, and all individuals we believe might pose any danger have been identified and are under surveillance.”

  The man paused to stub out his cigarette. He seemed to be looking for the exact words to explain the situation and having a hard time finding them. The colonel looked at him impassively.

  “A visit like this is always a heavy responsibility for the government hosting a foreign president. We mustn’t forget, in addition, that if there is an attack, our president would also be in danger. And there’s something else: world peace is at risk. This would not be the first war started by the assassination of a chief of state. Plus, we have the precedent of Dallas. You can see, Mr. García, why, even if it’s only a rumor, we have to follow up on it . . . We cannot take any risks. What we’ve heard is very serious.”

  He paused, as if to let his words sink in deeply. García sat without moving, his eyes half closed.

  “I repeat, Mr. García, it is only a rumor. Which is why we must proceed with discretion. If there’s nothing to it, all will be forgotten and that will be the end of it. The press will have found out nothing and we will not have offended a country with which we have, if not yet diplomatic relations, at least a budding commercial relationship. That’s why discretion is absolutely essential. Is that understood?”

  “Understood.”

  The man seemed to keep doubting his own words. He gave the impression that he didn’t really want to reveal his secret. He lit another cigarette.

  “First of all, we have to find out what, if anything, is true, and if there is some truth to it, we must act quickly to avoid a disaster. Or a scandal, which wouldn’t do us any good, either. That’s one of the reasons I’ve agreed to give you the assignment. You do not seek publicity for what you do.”

  “It’s not newsworthy.”

  “Right. This isn’t, either. I see we understand each other.”

  “As I told you, sir, García is the right man for the job,” the colonel said.

  The man seemed not to have heard.

  “Here’s the situation. A highly placed official at the Soviet embassy came to us and told us a strange story. Just to let you know, the Russians do not usually tell us anything, strange or not. Which is why we listened carefully. According to the embassy, about three weeks ago, right around the time the president of the United States announced his visit to Mexico, the Soviet Secret Service learned that in Communist China, that is, in the People’s Republic of China, there were plans afoot to assassinate him during his visit here. They told us they first picked up this rumor in Outer Mongolia. Then, about ten days ago, they heard it again in Hong Kong, and it was learned, apparently from reliable sources, that three terrorists working for China had passed through there on their way to America. You will notice I said working for China, not Chinese. According to the Russian police, one of them might be a North American defector and the other two are from Central Europe. We don’t know what passports they’re carrying. In Hong Kong, you can get whatever passports you want. Needless to say, we’ve already beefed up our border security, but we don’t know if they’ve already entered Mexico or if they are going to show up with tourist visas and false passports. As I said, we have placed under surveillance any foreigners and any Mexicans who might pose a threat because of their criminal records or their ideologies. Many of them, during the visit, will take a short trip . . . on us. But about three thousand tourists enter Mexico every single day. It would be utterly impossible to keep tabs on all of them, so our only option seems to be added protection for the two presidents, with armored vehicles and all the rest.”

  The expression on the man’s face turned sad, as if it disgusted him to have to take such measures. He put out the cigarette that he had barely smoked and continued:

  “This morning, the Russians gave us some more information. It seems the terrorists have been instructed to contact a Chinese man here in Mexico, an agent of the government of Mao Tse Tung. He will supply them with the weapons — it would be too dangerous to carry them over the border. Are you following me?”

  “I’m following.”

  “Very well, Mr. García. We need to know if this Chinese man is here in Mexico and if this rumor about a conspiracy is true, and we have three days to find out.”

  “Understood.”

  “That is your assignment. You are going to spend time among the Chinese, you are going to listen for any word of recent arrivals or new activity among them.”
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br />   “What if the rumor is true and I find the terrorists?”

  “In that case, you will act as you see fit.”

  “I see.”

  “Above all, with discretion. If . . . if you must take violent action, do everything possible to conceal the source of the violence.”

  “Understood.”

  It seemed like the man had finished talking. He was about to stand up, then remembered something else:

  “One more thing. With the Russians’ permission, we informed the American embassy, and they insist that you work with an FBI agent.”

  “Okay.”

  “The Russians also want one of their agents, someone who knows a lot about the case, to work with you.”

  “You want me to cooperate with them?”

  “Only in as much as discretion allows, Mr. García. Only if it is convenient. The American agent’s name is Richard P. Graves. Tomorrow morning at ten sharp he will be at the cigarette counter at the entrance to Sanborns on Lafragua. At that precise time, he will ask to buy a pack of Lucky Strikes. You will greet him with a hug, as if you were old friends.”

  “Understood.”

  “The Russian is named Ivan M. Laski, and he will be at Café Paris on Cinco de Mayo at two o’clock, sitting at the back end of the bar, drinking a glass of milk. Understood?

  “Understood.”

  “You three will have to figure out how you’re going to work together. Don’t forget to update me on the progress of your investigation. I repeat: we have only three days, and in that time, everything must be cleared up.”

  The man stood up. So did García.

  “I understand, Mr. del Valle.”

  “You know my name?”

  “I do.”

  “I told you, Colonel, it was silly to try to hide my identity from Mr. García. Now, all I can do is ask you to forget it.”

  García asked:

  “Do the gringo and the Russian know who I am?”

  “Of course.”

  Del Valle turned to leave. The colonel rushed ahead to open the door for him.

  “Good night, Mr. del Valle.”

  “I would rather you continue to avoid mentioning my name, Colonel. Good night.”

  The man left with his friendly smile and his cold eyes. The colonel closed the door and turned to García:

  “You shouldn’t have told him you knew who he was.”

  García shrugged his shoulders.

  “He wanted to hide his identity. He holds a position of great responsibility . . .”

  “So, he should have given his orders over the phone, or through you, Colonel.”

  “He wanted to meet you in person.”

  “We’ve now had the pleasure. Anything else?”

  “Did you understand your instructions?”

  “I did. Good night, Colonel. Just one thing . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Why so much cloak and dagger about meeting the gringo and the Russian? I could just go to their hotels, or wherever they are.”

  “Those are your orders.”

  “Good night, Colonel.

  II

  Mexico, somewhat coyly, calls Dolores Street Chinatown, a Chinatown made up of one street lined with old houses and a scrawny alleyway trembling with mysteries. There are a few shops that smell of Canton or Fukien, and a few restaurants. But there is none of the color, the lights and the flags, the lanterns and the ambiance you find in other Chinatowns, like in San Francisco or Manila. Rather than Chinatown, it looks like a run-down street where a few Chinese have dropped anchor, orphans of imperial dragons, thousand-year-old recipes, and mysteries.

  Filiberto García stopped at the corner of Dolores and Artículo 123. In the fourth house, belonging to a Chinaman named Pedro Yuan, they’ll be playing poker, a forever silent and ghastly game of poker. In the upstairs rooms, several old Chinamen will be smoking opium. Chen Fong manages that business, God only knew for whom, but it couldn’t net much because the smokers are older and poorer by the day. For all I know he keeps them on for charity, like nuns who take in old people and cripples. Once, when I was sent after some opium traffickers in Sinaloa, I pocketed three tins and gave them to Fong. Ever since, we’ve been buddies. Fucking Chinamen! They’ve won enough off me playing poker to keep the whole lot of them dreaming. And anyway, why the hell do I want Chinese friends? So the colonel can give me assignments like this one and let me know that he’s been keeping tabs on me, knows that I know them and cover up their opium dens. Fucking colonel! For all I know he knows about those tins, too. And then there’s del Valle. He didn’t want me to recognize him even though his mug shows up every other day in the newspaper. He must think a gunslinger doesn’t read newspapers. I’d bet everybody and his brother in Mexico knows he’s one of the many who have their hearts set on being president. Maybe they also wanted me to play the chump and act like I don’t even know who our president is, or who the gringos’ president is. Them and their fucking mysteries! Then they feed me that line about Outer Mongolia and Hong Kong and the Russians. For all I know, that Fong with his face of a chump is the agent of Mao Tse Tung. You never know with Chinamen. The professor says they’re my real buddies and maybe that’s true. They’re alright. When I came down with malaria, they visited me and brought me fruit and Chinese medicine. And my own people, they never even knew, and they never stopped by. My buddies the Chinamen. Fucking buddies! Fucking Chinamen! And that half-Chinese gal, the one who works in Liu’s shop, she’s a pretty one, and sometimes she even leads me on. “Can I write you a letter, my lovely?” “Only if you write it in Chinese.” For all I know she’s Liu’s daughter, but these Chinamen don’t give a damn anyway. They’re like the gringos. That gringo sheriff in Salinas, when there was that trouble with those wetbacks. He was looking right at me when I made a move on his woman and all he did was laugh and order another round of drinks. Fucking gringos!

  An old Chinaman stopped in front of him:

  “Good evening, Mr. García.”

  “Good evening, Santiago.”

  “You not come today?”

  “Later.”

  “You look at shop of Mr. Liu, right?”

  The Chinaman’s laugh was weak, thick.

  “Little Marta very pretty, very pretty.”

  “You got a dirty mind, Santiago.”

  Santiago walked away, laughing his head off. Fucking Chinamen. They’re always laughing their heads off. And they walk like they’re not even walking, like they’re just floating on air. And they just go floating along from one place to another, from Outer Mongolia to Dolores Street.

  He lit a cigarette and walked over to Liu’s shop. Marta was closing up and Liu was hanging the wooden shutters over the shop windows.

  “Come in, Mr. García, come in.”

  He entered the shop. Marta smiled at him shyly.

  “Would you like a lychee, Mr. Filiberto?”

  “Yesterday, you called me just plain Filiberto, my lovely.”

  “But that was disrespectful.”

  García’s eyes shone in the half-light of the shop.

  “Would you like to have dinner with me, Marta?”

  “I can’t.”

  “We can go right here, across the street. And you can tell me what I should order because I don’t know anything about Chinese food.”

  “Mr. Liu eats there every night. He knows more about food than I do . . . Filiberto.”

  García smiled. His smile was cold, as if he wasn’t used to smiling, as if he hadn’t had enough practice.

  “How old are you, Marta?”

  “Twenty.”

  “Have you got a sweetheart?”

  “No.”

  “You live alone?”

  “In a room, upstairs. Mr. Liu lets me live there.”

  “You haven’t got any family?”

  “No.”

  Marta looked nervous, like she wanted to end the conversation.

  “You don’t want to have dinner with me?”

  �
�I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t want to be seen with an old man, that’s it, isn’t it?”

  “You’re not old, Filiberto. But it’s very late, it’s almost nine.”

  “We can go to the movies.”

  “Another time . . . Filiberto.”

  “The way I see it, Marta, you must have a sweetheart.”

  “Oh, no, Mr. Filiberto. Who would even look at the likes of me?”

  “I would, my lovely, ’cause when I see a beautiful woman —”

  “Don’t say things like that, you make me blush.”

  A man entered the shop and Marta went over to attend to him. The guy looks like a foreigner but not a gringo. He’s too short for a gringo. He looks European, tending toward Polish. I saw him earlier, when I was standing outside, playing the chump there at the door to the cantina. Must be tailing me. They’re already snooping around. Must be the guys from Outer Mongolia. Fucking Outer Mongolia! Crafty bastards. Hey, I got a buddy from Outer Mongolia. Your mother’s from Outer Mongolia. I better get a fix on this shrimp before he starts showing up everywhere, like that lost soul from Sayula in the song, the soul who never finds peace. Fucking souls! Marta is hot, that’s for sure, but I’ll be damned if I’ll ever get to do it with her. I’ve never done it with a Chinese gal. And she’s just a kid. Maybe if I arrange things through one of the Chinamen, then I can do it with her. Like with that Carolina number, the one who was acting all highfalutin, over there on Doctor Vértiz Street. She wouldn’t even let me borrow a smile. Till I arranged things with the owner of the shop and two days later she was mine. They even brought her to my house. All for two hundred pesos and a few favors I could wrangle out of the police. Fucking Carolina! I think it was part of their business plan — snaring chumps like me. For all I know Marta is a business plan for these Chinamen, and they’ll let me take her home so I’ll keep pretending not to know anything about the opium. She’s worth at least two hundred pesos, and I’ve never done it with a Chinese gal. And that Pole, what’s he talking to her about for so long?

  At that very moment Marta handed the customer a package and took his money. Then she walked back behind the counter to where García was standing. Liu had finished with the shutters and was ready to close.