25

After DeMarco left, Castro closed his eyes and took in several deep breaths to calm himself. When he was a young man first starting out in his chosen profession, he’d had a violent temper and he reacted to any sort of threat or disrespect with violence. When he was eighteen, if ­DeMarco had threatened him the way he had today, he would have pulled out a gun and shot him without thinking twice about it. ­Fortunately—for DeMarco—those days had passed and he’d learned to control his temper. More important, he’d learned that violence was a tool that should only to be used to accomplish some specific objective, and not for personal gratification.

He poured himself another glass of wine and considered his options.

What Mahoney’s lackey didn’t realize—and that’s all DeMarco was: a lackey—was that he wasn’t the only investor in Delaney Square. ­DeMarco was not just threatening him; he was threatening a number of very serious people.

When he first met Sean Callahan and his second wife at the Los Cabos resort, he was already backing out of the cartel and turning it over to his cousin Paulo. He didn’t need to make more money from drugs, nor did he need to take the risks associated with drug trafficking. He didn’t need to remain a target for the American or Mexican police, or rival cartels, or the ambitious people who worked for him—like crazy Paulo. He’d made enough money to last not only his lifetime, but also the lifetimes of his family for generations to come.

So at the time he met Callahan, he already had money invested in other legitimate businesses and was looking for other opportunities. Although he didn’t need to make more money, if he could do so safely, he would. When Callahan told him about the Boston project, he’d been intrigued and had his financial people research Callahan. They concluded that Callahan was an astute businessman, had been successful many times in the past, and Delaney Square would likely generate a substantial return.

Callahan had also been very honest with him, and maybe that was because of who he was. Callahan had warned him that real estate development could be very profitable for key investors, but at the same time, it was an extremely risky business in that unexpected events, completely out of his control, could cause a project like Delaney Square to fail.

Callahan had said that he needed a hundred million from private investors, and once he had those investors in place, he would get the remainder he needed from American banks. Castro, however, had no intention of putting a hundred million into a single project. That would be too many eggs in one basket. What he did instead was talk to several men in Mexico to see if they wanted to invest. Some of those men—like his cousin—were still involved in drug trafficking. Others were men like himself, men no longer in the business but looking for opportunities. In the end, he and six other men invested in Delaney Square, each putting up approximately fifteen million.

The problem with these other investors was that they would not react well if Delaney Square failed to show a profit—and they’d blame him. A man like his cousin would have the most violent reaction and, blood ties aside, was likely to take his anger out on him in an irrational way—such as kidnapping his wife and daughter for ransom to recoup his fifteen million. Paulo now controlled the army he used to control.

The other problem—and it was really the larger of the two ­problems—was that none of these men wanted the Americans looking into their finances. As DeMarco had said, if the Americans discovered that drug money had been used to finance Delaney Square, they might freeze assets and seize properties. The fact was he didn’t really know what might happen if the Americans started looking closely into the financing of Callahan’s project. All he knew for sure was that he didn’t want them looking.

His long-range plan had always been to move away from Mexico, most likely to Europe. Mexico, thanks largely to men like himself and his cousin, was simply too dangerous a place to live. He wanted to become a simple rich man. An anonymous rich man. He wanted to protect the money he had and make money in the future in a legitimate way for his family, and the last thing he needed was this nonsense with Mahoney and Callahan.

The other thing he realized was that DeMarco would have to be some sort of financial genius to have uncovered his investment in Delaney Square—and he doubted that DeMarco was a genius. The cartel used people with MBAs from Stanford who worked with experienced international bankers to launder money through multiple shell corporations. It would be hard, if not impossible, for experienced Treasury agents to trace the money in Delaney Square back to him.

Therefore, the only way DeMarco could have known that he’d invested in the Boston project was if someone had told him. None of Castro’s fellow investors would have told him, and Sean Callahan certainly wouldn’t have, leaving only one other person that he could think of: Callahan’s ex-wife, Adele. The other thing that convinced him that Adele was DeMarco’s source was that Adele had called Danielle just a day ago to chat with her—and the coincidence of DeMarco showing up at his home following that phone call was certainly not a coincidence.

So. What should he do about all this?

There was no way that he was going to make the Cayman group call in its loans to Callahan. There was no way he was going to disrupt the project in any way that could adversely affect its completion and eventual profitability. Which meant that he’d have to exercise the second option that DeMarco had given him and force Callahan out of the project so Callahan didn’t turn a profit, which was apparently all Mahoney wanted. The problem with that solution, however, was that it was too complicated. He knew Callahan wouldn’t walk away from Delaney Square without a fight, and he might involve lawyers and even law enforcement if Castro tried to force him out.

Which led to a third option, one that DeMarco apparently hadn’t considered. He really preferred not to exercise the third option but unfortunately Mahoney and DeMarco weren’t giving him any other choice.

And then one other thing occurred to him: he couldn’t let DeMarco or Mahoney have this sort of hold over him. He certainly wasn’t going to do anything to John Mahoney; he would never be so foolhardy as to directly threaten or kill a United States congressman. At the same time he needed to send Mahoney a message, one that would convince him to leave him alone in the future.

He recalled DeMarco’s little speech about egos and how he shouldn’t allow his own ego to cause him to do something foolish. So was taking some action against DeMarco ego driven or was it a pragmatic thing to do? He finally decided he didn’t care, and by the time he finished his wine he’d devised a way to make DeMarco pay for meddling in his business.

He left his lovely, peaceful courtyard, walked into the house, and headed toward his den. On the way he passed the media room and could hear his wife talking to their daughter in New York. He shook his head. His wife and his daughter talked almost every day.

From the desk in his den, he removed one of several prepaid cell phones. He doubted anyone was monitoring his calls but he preferred there not be a record of him making a call to DeMarco. He took out the note DeMarco had sent him and called DeMarco’s number.

“I’ve decided to accommodate your employer,” Castro said.

“I’m glad to hear that,” DeMarco said.

The smugness in DeMarco’s voice made Castro squeeze the phone so hard he was surprised he didn’t crack the screen.

“It will take me a few days, however. This is a complicated matter.”

“I understand,” DeMarco said.

“And I would like you to return to Boston.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not sure how I intend to proceed, and I may need your assistance there. I also may need the assistance of your employer. I just don’t know yet.”

DeMarco immediately said, “I don’t see how I can be of any help to you. And there’s no way in hell my boss is going to help you. From here on in, it’s all between you and Callahan.”

“Mr. DeMarco, you’re the one who came to me, and I’m willing to do what you want. The least you can do is assist me if I feel that’s necessary.”

“I’ll think about it,” DeMarco said, and hung up.

He couldn’t believe the man had just hung up on him.

Using the same phone, he sent an encrypted text message to his cousin: “I have a small problem and would appreciate it if you would allow la Leona to assist me. Thank you.” It irritated him that he had to ask his cousin for help; there was a time when he would have simply issued an order.

DeMarco had still been sitting in the lobby bar at the Marriott when Castro called. He’d been thinking about going to the terrace bistro for a late dinner as Castro’s goons had prevented him from eating earlier. But after he spoke to Castro, he didn’t feel much like eating.

DeMarco didn’t like the idea of going back to Boston, and Castro asking him to go there felt completely wrong. His instincts were screaming at him to run for home. He couldn’t imagine any way that Castro would need his help with Callahan. Castro would either tell the Cayman company to call in Callahan’s loans or he’d tell Callahan to back out of Delaney Square. There was nothing DeMarco could do—or would do—to assist Castro. He wanted to tell Castro to go screw himself. On the other hand, since it had been his idea to force Castro to deal with Callahan, and since both he and Mahoney wanted Callahan to pay for what he’d done . . .

Tomorrow he’d call Mahoney and talk it over with him. It was too late back in D.C. to call him now. And he’d call Mahoney from the airport. He was getting the hell out of Mexico.

The following morning, sitting in the departure lounge at the airport, DeMarco phoned Mahoney.

“I met with . . . the Mexican.”

DeMarco needed to be careful speaking on a cell phone. “Things went well, I think.”

“You think?” Mahoney said.

“He’s agreed to do what I want with regard to the man in Boston. The thing is, the Mexican wants me to go back to Boston in case he needs me there to help him, and I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Well, in for a penny, in for a pound,” Mahoney said, and hung up.

Fuckin’ Mahoney. He’d been hoping Mahoney would tell him to return to Washington, and instead he gets: In for a penny, in for a pound.

He called Castro back, calling the number that had called him the night before, but his call went to voice mail. He left a message saying, “I’m returning to Boston today and I’ll assist you in whatever way I can.” Then he added, in case the call was being monitored, “As long as it’s legal.”