Drone

“It seems to me, Frank, that the case you’ve presented is unpersuasive. My attorney general has gone over everything you sent. She agrees with me that there is no conclusive evidence linking the Castillos to the massacre.” President Barraza’s English was flawless, but he added in Spanish, “Donde no hay humo, no hay lumbre.” Where there is no smoke, there is no fire.

“Of course, Mr. President. We’re not accusing anybody of anything. But it’s precisely because we’re in the dark that we’re searching for any kind of lead we can find. All we’d like to do is to speak to Mr. Castillo and his two sons. Where’s the harm in that?” Romero took another sip of tequila.

“César Castillo is a law-abiding citizen of Mexico. He also happens to be the CEO of Mexico’s largest agricultural combine—our number one supplier of fruits and vegetables to the American market. As a vertically integrated concern, his company also manufactures fertilizers and pesticides for their thousands of acres of productive land, but he exports those chemical products around the world as well. Insulting Mr. Castillo is like insulting Mexico itself, and he’s a very proud man. More important, he is a very private man. Personally, I’ve never met him. I don’t think he’s even appeared in public in over five years.”

“Forgive me, Mr. President, but it almost sounds like he’s in hiding. How is a legitimate businessman able to do business like that?”

President Barraza laughed. “The same way the American billionaire recluse Howard Hughes built his aviation empire, I suppose.”

“But if the man and his sons aren’t hiding anything, why not answer a few simple questions?” Romero asked.

“Because the very question itself is a veiled accusation and an implication of wrongdoing that is all the more damaging for the truly innocent. Right now, you say that you don’t know who the real killers are. So tell me, Frank, in the interest of resolving the issue, should I instruct our attorney general to question President Myers as to her whereabouts on the night of the killings? And what would she say about us if we did make the inquiry?”

“She would be angry and insulted, certainly. But that would be a ridiculous request. There’s no reason to suspect—”

President Barraza held up his hand. “No need to explain, Frank. I agree. But you get my point, don’t you? Rightly or wrongly, César Castillo would feel as justified in his resentment as President Myers would in hers.”

The president rose and crossed over to the credenza, making a beeline for the bottle of Casa Dragones.

“I hope President Myers understands how completely sympathetic I am to her situation, both in regard to the death of her son, as well as the political difficulties she now faces. I hope that she can appreciate my difficulties as well.” Barraza flashed his million-watt smile.

“Unfortunately, Mr. President, there are members of our Congress who are very capable of stirring up trouble for both of our countries. The amnesty bill, the guest-worker program, the NAFTA renegotiation—all of these things that both of our governments want will be difficult if not impossible to achieve if your government is seen as the least bit hesitant to bring this case to a just and equitable conclusion.”

President Barraza hovered over Romero and refilled his glass.

“This really is a marvelous tequila. Sweet pear and citrus notes with a pepper finish. I’m going to have to buy a case,” Romero said.

“No need. I’ll have one sent over this afternoon.” The president crossed over to his brother and refilled his glass, then set the bottle down on the coffee table between them. He took his seat.

Hernán Barraza rolled the snifter between his stubby fingers, never lifting his eyes from it as he finally spoke. “My associates in the distillery business pray for the day you Americans make liquor illegal again—it would quadruple their profits.” He swirled the liquor in the glass and sniffed the aroma. “Cartels make drugs, but it’s your politicians who make the laws that make the cartels rich. The drug problem, as we all know, is a demand problem, not a supply problem. If you Americans had an insatiable lust for tomatoes, we wouldn’t be having this conversation today, and maybe we would have been spilling tomatillo sauce instead of blood all these years.”

Hernán finally looked up from his glass. He smiled at Romero with his sad eyes and a mouth full of small, crooked teeth. “I only see one flaw in your request, Frank. What happens if we do make a ‘discreet inquiry’ and Mr. Castillo and his sons insist they had nothing to do with the El Paso event? Will President Myers be satisfied with that answer?”

Romero set his empty glass down on the table. He cleared his throat.

“Frankly, no.”