The Mongolian Conspiracy Read online

  They sat down on a bench on the Alameda. The Russian chose one without a back where nobody could get near them without first being seen. He crossed his hands over his lap and contemplated the trees. García said:

  “Seems you know everything, don’t you?”

  “Don’t I?”

  “How’d it go for you guys during the Spanish Civil War? Took quite a beating, didn’t you?”

  The Russian burst out laughing. His eyes shone with delight. He slapped García on the back several times:

  “You’ll make me die laughing, García. You are a man after my own heart. After everything that happened last night, you’ve still got jokes to tell. Wonderful, wonderful.”

  The Russian was laughing like a schoolboy. Here’s another one who’s got the giggles. Seems like in the international crowd, smiles are all the rage. We’ll have to see if they’d keep laughing with a bullet in their bellies. Or when the shit hits the fan. For all I know, they’ll chicken out and piss their pants. For all I know this Russian would just keep laughing. Fucking Russian. The professor says that man doesn’t laugh at death, that’s what animals do. As if you can laugh at life.

  The Russian said:

  “Now, Mr. García, now that we’ve dispensed with the pleasantries, what do you say we talk about our case? You’ve met Graves. I can assure you, that American is one of the FBI’s best agents. Don’t let his stupid laugh and bourgeois appearance fool you. He’s a very good agent and he never hesitates to kill when necessary. That’s why I think you and I should form a united front, of sorts, and not tell him everything we find out. If you weren’t going to tell him about last night, I won’t, either.”

  “How much did you see?”

  “Almost all of it. Once they told me I would have the honor of working with you, I took a room in the hotel across the street from your apartment. Routine stuff, Mr. García.”

  “Same routine stuff with Graves?”

  “Naturally. And he with me, though I think last night he hadn’t yet started his surveillance on you.”

  “How much did you see last night?”

  “The one driving the Pontiac got quite a blow to the head.”

  “Maybe he was one of yours?”

  The Russian looked surprised, and his eyes showed that he was offended.

  “Oh, no. Those men were amateurs. We work only with professionals. The stupidest of my men would never have stuck his head out the window of a car so carelessly. I can assure you, they weren’t Graves’s men, either. He also only uses professionals.”

  “I see.”

  There was a certain sadness in Laski’s voice, as well as a touch of scorn.

  “As I said, they were amateurs.”

  “You know who they were?”

  “I haven’t wasted any time finding out. Early this morning I spoke to the police, told them there was a car parked on the street with two dead bodies. Probably in the afternoon papers I’ll find out who they were.”

  “They were Mexicans.”

  Laski was quiet, thinking. The information surprised him. Finally I say something he doesn’t already know. Aren’t I hot shit! Did he see everything that went on with Marta? The curtain was open. Fucking Russian!

  “This is important,” said Laski, finally. “Very important. Are you sure that those two men, the one in the car and the one you brought down from your apartment wrapped in a sheet, are you sure they were involved?”

  “Who’s sure of anything?”

  “That’s why I’m asking. Given the international importance of this case, it seems very strange that two amateurs would be involved, on either side. See what I mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s why it is essential to find out if their appearance last night was because of the case we are working on or something else, perhaps something personal against you, Mr. García.”

  “I’d never seen either of them before, and their names mean nothing to me, Mr. Laski. And they showed up the same night I begin on this investigation. Could be a coincidence, but I don’t like coincidences.”

  “Last night was also the first time, I believe, you took the young lady to your house.”

  “What do you know about that?”

  “This could be another coincidence. Miss Fong, lovely, indeed, shows up at your house with you. And two men who want to kill you also show up. Don’t you think Miss Fong might be involved?”

  “What do I know.”

  “Or the two dead men might have been after her, there to wrench her out of your arms, Mr. García. Maybe a jealous lover or boyfriend. Could that be?”

  “Yeah, could be. But anyway, you’re the ones who started this whole mess with your Outer Mongolian gossip.”

  “Would you have preferred we say nothing to your government? That would not have been a very friendly gesture on our part, especially when the life of your own president could be in danger.”

  His large blue eyes now showed that he was deeply offended, and somewhat sad. His nostrils quivered.

  “We are grateful for your warning, Mr. Laski; and I imagine that the Americans are, too. Maybe this will put an end to the Cold War.”

  “The Cold War is a bourgeois invention.”

  “What I would like to point out, Laski, before you launch into any speeches, is that both you and Graves, instead of looking for the men who’ve come from Hong Kong, if they exist, are spending your time investigating and watching each other and me.”

  The Russian burst out laughing.

  “Seems like a game, doesn’t it? It’s always like this when there’s international intrigue.”

  “A game that could end, the day after tomorrow, with two dead presidents.”

  “We did our duty by issuing a warning as soon as we found out that something was going on, Mr. García.”

  “Precisely. And we’ve done our duty by thanking you. And now comes the million-dollar question: What interest do you, the Russians, have in continuing with the investigation?”

  “A very good question, Mr. García. Very good.”

  “I’d like an answer that is just as good.”

  “But that would diminish the stature of such a question. A question like that deserves to remain forever unanswered. That’s another thing about international intrigue: most questions remain unanswered.”

  “I’d like an answer anyway.”

  “Let’s just say, we continue investigating out of curiosity, Mr. García. We Russians are sentimental, feminine in many respects, and therefore, curious.”

  The Russian’s smile was beatific: it oozed innocence. This guy looks at me like I’m a real jackass. But even that doesn’t make me want to smack him. It would be like smacking a child. For all I know he’ll start crying. Fucking Russian! But sharp as a tack. Full of a whole lot of international intrigue. Him and the gringo combined, they’ll investigate me down to my underwear. In the meantime, those Outer Mongolians, if they even exist, are preparing their sniper rifles with telescopic sights or their bomb or whatever they’re going to use.

  “You look deep in thought, García. Would you like to hear something else?”

  “I want to know something, period.”

  “There’s another rumor . . .”

  “From Outer Mongolia? I guess they’re carrying the rumors by camel, like the Three Kings.”

  “Very funny, García, my friend. I think we are going to understand each other quite well, quite well.”

  “So, the new rumor?”

  “Somebody took out of Hong Kong Shanghai Bank, in Hong Kong, a half million dollars, all in fifty-dollar bills. American bills, that is. Not worth as much as the ruble, but still a large sum.”

  “Ten thousand bills. That’s a hefty wad.”

  “Exactly. And it appears that these bills were on their way to Mexico.”

  “Interesting.”

  “But nobody has seen them on any border.”

  “There are many things that are never seen on any border, Mr. Laski.”

 
; “Very true, very true.”

  “You think that money is from Mr. Mao?”

  “The People’s Republic of China.”

  “Maybe it came directly from Moscow?”

  “Maybe. China has cost us a lot of money. A lot.”

  “And now they’re pissed at you.”

  “So it is.”

  “Ungrateful wretches!”

  The Russian was thinking. In a nearby gazebo, the Chinese from Dolores Street had begun to assemble for their daily gathering. Santiago and Pedro Yuan are probably there. And here I am, playing at international intrigue. I smell a rat, but chances are these lofty political issues have already been checked out by the men at the top. Mr. Rosendo del Valle and his bigwigs. None of my business. My business is to make stiffs. Those bigwigs must know why the Russians are going around pointing fingers at the Chinese. But what I’d really like to find out is where the money is. That’s a lot of dough. Find the guys who have it, take them out, keep the dough, as much as possible, and as they say on TV: mission accomplished. Fucking mission!

  “So, Laski, my friend, you people think that dough is going to land here, in the hands of some Chinaman, who’s going to use it to plan and carry out the attack.”

  “That’s very possible.”

  “Have you got any solid evidence? And don’t give me Outer Mongolia again, because by now I’m not even sure it exists . . .”

  “I’ve been there. As for your question, there might be no solid evidence, but it is logical. In these cases of international intrigue, there’s never solid evidence or complete truths, García, my friend.”

  “What makes you think this money will land in the hands of a Chinaman and not somebody else?”

  “The Chinese wouldn’t trust that much money to anybody who wasn’t Chinese.”

  “The Peking Communists, as they are called, have many followers all over the world. Some say they have more than you.”

  “University kids playing at being conspirators.”

  “I’m asking because if it turns out, as I think it will, that the two from last night were mixed up in this business, we’ve got two Mexicans who definitely weren’t doing whatever they were doing out of some kind of political commitment. Which means the money has already arrived.”

  “And they’re wasting it on amateurs.”

  Laski’s big eyes filled with rage.

  “And now, Laski, I’m going to ask you a question, and I hope you won’t take offense. Might you be the one in charge of making sure this money doesn’t get wasted?”

  “I can assure you that if this were the case, the two men who died last night would never have been hired. Anything else?”

  “Yes. How are we going to work together?”

  “You and I . . .”

  “And Graves. Don’t forget Graves, Laski.”

  “No, I never forget him. Where do you propose we start? You are, we could say, our host . . .”

  “I think we should start by finding out several things. First: if your government was pulling a fast one when they issued that noble and disinterested warning. Second: if those mysterious assassins from Hong Kong have arrived in Mexico. Third: if those half a million bucks have arrived and if they’re going to be used to carry out the attack. Fourth: if the two men who died last night were involved in this.”

  “There are other questions, Mr. García, there are others. I would say, a fifth one would be: if Miss Fong, who was with you last night, is involved.”

  García’s eyes turned hard, impenetrable. Laski kept talking, counting on his fingers:

  “Sixth: if Miss Fong is an agent for one of the groups involved, how much power does she have over you, Mr. García? Don’t you think it is important to thoroughly investigate that?”

  “And seventh, Mr. Laski: if the illustrious government of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics hasn’t pulled the wool over our eyes with their Chinese and Outer Mongolian rumors, so that while we’re trying to find the Chinese, the Russians can do what they say the Chinese want to do.”

  Laski clapped his hands in delight and again broke out in childish laughter.

  “We’re going to be friends, García, great friends. That’s absolutely clear to me now. Can I call you Filiberto? My name is Ivan Mikhailovich.”

  “Fine by me, Ivan Mikhailovich, now that we’ve shared all our secrets and established such a close friendship, where do you propose we start?”

  “It’s your call, Filiberto.”

  “Of all the issues we’ve discussed, the only sure thing is that the two guys from last night are dead. We could start there.”

  “Okay. Let’s find out if they were involved.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “As will we, Filiberto, as will we. I imagine our friend Graves is also interested, because by now he must know something about what happened last night.”

  “Good. And now for that beautiful question that has so far remained unanswered.”

  The expression on Laski’s face was very serious.

  “My government has certain differences of criteria with the government of the People’s Republic of China. My government also wishes to maintain the current status of its relationship with the United States. Moreover, my government would not be upset if the relationship between the United States and the Chinese Republic deteriorated even further. As you can see, we are not now interested in the death of the president of the United States . . .”

  “But you are interested in the Chinese taking the blame for anything that might happen.”

  “You are distrustful, Filiberto.”

  “I have to be, Ivan Mikhailovich.”

  “Where do you want to meet at seven this evening?”

  “Café Canton.”

  “You think that’s a good idea?”

  “We’ve got to shake things up, Laski. We’ve got to see how those Chinamen react.”

  “Perhaps you are right. We’ll meet there, Filiberto. I will bring those who are following me and you will bring those who are following you. By the way, do you know if your government has ordered that I be watched?”

  García smiled.

  “See you later, Ivan Mikhailovich.”

  The Russian started walking toward El Caballito. A man sitting on a bench and reading a newspaper a little ways away stood up and started walking toward El Caballito. García turned toward Cinco de Mayo and a man was soon tailing him from a distance. It would be easy to lose him, but what’s the point. That fucking Russian knows everything. Like the gringo. Even Marta’s name. How did he find out? For all I know Marta is working for him.

  He stopped at a tobacconist and made a phone call:

  “Marta?”

  “Is that you, Filiberto? I read your note and . . . thank you, thank you so much, but I can’t stay here . . .”

  “It’s your home, Marta. I offer it to you with all my heart.”

  “Thank you. You’ve been so good to me that . . . that I want to cry like a fool.”

  “Has anybody called, Marta?”

  “No.”

  “I’m going to try to stop by this afternoon so we can talk. See you then, Marta, and in the meantime, behave yourself . . . almost.”

  Before hanging up he could hear Marta giggling. Just hearing her laugh gives me knots in my stomach. That damn Marta, she’s so fine. And that fucking Russian! Who’s he playing for a fool? Am I really behaving like a snot-nosed kid with my first girlfriend? And Marta looking at my mug, my stupid mug, while I say: “Consider this your home, Marta.” “You sleep in the bed, I’ll sleep here in the living room.” And her in the bed, looking so virginal. For all I know that Chinaman Liu already had the pleasure. And all I got was a peck on the cheek. With such pretty lips. And to think, I’ve never done it with a Chinese gal. So, what if I am a chump. Fuck that Russian and his goddamned gossip! Maybe he’s right and I should investigate her. I’d do better to investigate between her legs. Word about me and Marta must’ve already reached Outer Mongolia. Fucking Outer Mo
ngolia!

  He dialed another number:

  “García here, Colonel.”

  “Killed somebody else?”

  “I made the contacts. Can you tell me if Roque Villegas had any dollars on him?”

  “He did.”

  “In fifty-dollar bills?”

  “Yes. Thirty bills. That is, if the ambulance people didn’t pocket a few.”

  “All fifties?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “I think we’re starting to get somewhere. Do you have Villegas’s address, Colonel?”

  “He lived with a woman he brought here from Tijuana, a gringa. At 208 Guerrero, apartment 9.”

  “Did you already talk to her?”

  “No, I haven’t wanted her to know anything yet. I want to see what she’ll do.”

  “I’m going to go see her.”

  “I don’t want that gringa ending up dead, García.”

  “I’ll do my best, Colonel.”

  He hung up the phone, then made his way to La Ópera cantina. He went all the way to the booths in the back, where bold and veiled women used to sit in the old days; now, there are only men seeking even more solitude than what they carry around with them. He sat down and ordered some tacos de ubre and a beer. Fucking colonel! He doesn’t want the gringa ending up dead. I don’t give a damn if she’s dead or alive. What do I care about any of it. Outer Mongolia and the Russians and the gringo president. What the fuck do I care about it! And all that crap about my loyalty to the government — what has the government ever done for me? Fucking salary they pay me! And if you don’t stay on your toes, with the government or without it, you’ll be down on your knees, with your loyalty or without it. A lot of fifty-dollar bills are floating around out there. Ten thousand of them.

  “What’s up, Cap’n?”

  “How’s it going, Professor? Won’t you have a tequila?”

  The professor sat down across from him, the marble of the table top between them. His age, like the color of his suit, was indefinite. The few shy and yellowed teeth he still had appeared every once in a while behind his smile, which was also shy. A tie, also of indefinite color, hung from his thin neck. His shirt was old and dirty. His hands, when he brought the glass of tequila to his lips, were trembling.