As Emilio Mordida dialed the local office of the Federales, he wondered what would compell the Vice-President of the United States to become a squatter in this hotel. Did they not pay him enough?
The Primer Comandante of the Distrito Federal of the FJP haggled with Emilio Mordida only a few moments before proper remuneration was agreed upon. Swiftly Mordida told the comandante of the Vice-President's unorthodox residence at the Nikko.
"Who else knows of this?" the comandante inquired suspiciously.
"No one, comandante."
"See that no one else learns," barked the comandante, who abruptly hung up.
Emilio Mordida hung up, confident that within a week-no more than three-a fat envelope would be presented to him by a Federal. Corruption was a way of life in Mexico, but everyone valued a good source. The comandante would be true to his word.
Still, Emilio thought, there was always the chance that the comandante would forget or his messenger would pocket the money for himself.
Emilio picked up the receiver and began to dial the DFS. He could have saved himself the trouble. For the Federal comandante had already sold the DFS the intelligence for three times what had been promised Emilio Mordida.
And so, word was eventually relayed to Tampico Zone Comandante Oscar Odio, who had agreed to remunerate his FJP informant handsomely.
Odio quickly put in a call to Bogota.
"Padrino," he said.
"Si?"
"I have news, both good and bad."
"I am listening."
"I regret to inform you that your pistoleros-I assume it was they-were all annihilated earlier today. Their dead bodies were found by my agents beside the Aquila Azteca train, which they attempted to board."
"Muy triste," El Padrino hissed, sounding more hateful than sad. In a softer voice he added, "And their quarry?"
"That is the good news I have for you, Padrino. I have been reliably informed that the Vice-President has been located in one of our best hotels."
Odio could hear El Padrino sit up.
"And el presidente, el jefe, himself?"
"I do not have that information as yet, but I am working on this."
"Who else knows of this, Odio?"
"By this time," Oscar Odio said truthfully, "probably half the Mexican security appartus."
"I have other assets in the area," EI Padrino said smoothly. "But it will take time to move them into position. What can you do to further my interests?"
"The Vice-President is occupying a room illegally," Odio explained. "He can be detained on these grounds."
"Do this, and I promise you, Comandante, you will never stoop to accepting fat envelopes again. You will be passing them out."
"As you say, Padrino. "
Comandante Oscar Odio hung up the phone, his wide smile threatening to pierce his earlobes. He put on his mirrored sunglasses and wrapped a silk scarf around his neck.
Outside, the helicopter was waiting. He anticipated trading it in for a newer model by month's end. Perhaps one with rocket pods. Yes, he would enjoy waving rocket pods.
Chapter 18
Federal Judicial Police Officer Guadalupe Mazatl was forced to give up her search for the loco American diplomats. They had disappeared in the controlled confusion of Mexico City traffic more quickly than she would have believed possible. Even the sick Asian one, who looked as if he could barely walk, never mind run.
Officer Mazatl had given up the foot chase and returned to the taxi. After thirty or forty minutes of aimless circling of the Zona Rosa and questioning numerous local police, she decided they were unfindable. There had been no sign of the Bimbo Bread truck, which had compelled them, for some strange reason, to leap into traffic, risking their very lives.
Something strange was happening, Officer Mazatl considered as the taxi drove her to Mexico City FJP headquarters, a white colonial building with the words "POLICIA JUDICIAL FEDERAL DE ESTADO" in gold lettering over the entrance.
The Mexico City primer comandante was only too happy to assist Officer Mazatl in her plight.
"You have lost your charge, eh, chica?" he said, coming around from his desk. He shut the door. His arm went around Officer Mazatl's shoulders. Officer Mazatl undid the flap of her belt holster. It made a loud snap. The arm withdrew with alacrity.
"You misjudge me, chica. You are out of your district. I only wish to assist you."
"They are an Anglo and an old Asian man," Officer Mazatl clipped out. "The Anglo dresses in a black T-shirt. The Oriental wears a fine red silk robe."
"Ah," said the comandante. "Yes. I have heard of them."
"They are supposed to be attached to the U. S. embassy."
"If that is so, why have they taken up residence in a hotel?"
"Which hotel?"
"Ah, but if I tell you that, what will you do for me?" His voice was like cream.
"We are companeros of the FJP," Officer Mazatl said tightly. "We should be working together."
The comandante smiled generously. "I am, like you, poorly paid, and forced to seek opportunities in order to make my poor way in the world."
"You do not expect me to bribe a fellow officer into sharing police intelligence!" Officer Mazatl flared.
"No, I do not expect it, but . . ." His hands spread like separating birds, lazily taking wing.
"Never mind! I will do my duty without you."
As Officer Mazatl stormed out, the comandante's voice called coolly after her, "When you change your mind, chica, I will be here, thinking of your strong womanly body."
It cost Officer Mazatl only ninety pesos and a look at her credentials to commandeer an FJP car from the motor pool. The comandante had been too eager to have his way with her. He had admitted the americano and his friend were registered in a hotel. There were many, many hotels in Mexico City, it was true. But it would be infinitely easier to check with every one of them than to have to bed that criadero de sapos of a comandante.
As she pulled into traffic, Officer Guadalupe Mazatl noticed the heavy police patrols. On one corner, three officers stood around talking to one another, two holding machine guns at the ready, the third casually swinging a doublebarreled shotgun. They looked tense, even for Mexico City police.