MEXICO CITY
Monday morning, a courier showed up at Wells’s hotel room with a Colombian passport for Coyle in the name of Raul Moreno and an American one for Wells in the name of James Walsh. Plus a garment bag that held shiny silvery shirts and black jeans for Coyle, a lightweight suit for Wells. Look the part, the note inside said.
“I’d ask how she knows our sizes, but of course she knows our sizes,” Coyle said. “She’s a genie. With no wish limit.”
“Don’t get used to it. When this is done and they send you to Nicaragua and the station’s air-conditioning kicks out twice a month and you have a broken chair and a view of a blast wall and your chief tells you to chase a lead in the Ministry of Transport and, by the way, don’t lose any more receipts, this will seem like a pleasant dream.”
“I’m going to enjoy it, then.”
“Speaking of, let’s go to the Four Seasons. I want you calling Banamex from a landline that suits Raul Moreno’s tastes.”
Wells spent the morning coaching Coyle on what to say. And how to say it:
Don’t be too polite, you’re rich, you give orders. As far as you’re concerned, these bankers are a bunch of trained seals. You want Mendoz only, no one else. They’re not going to like that, but stick to it. You want to buy a place in Miami, you heard she could help. They ask you why her, someone you know recommended her. No details. You and your American lawyer—no, advisor, lawyer is checkable and advisor isn’t—will tell her what she needs to know face-to-face. Nothing about where the money comes from. Make sure they know you’re busy, you want this as soon as possible, but no deadline, that gives them a chance to say no.
Coyle called, had a conversation shorter than Wells would have liked, clicked off.
“They’ll call back. They asked me how I liked the Four Seasons. They obviously knew the number. Got weird when I asked for Mendoz, said she didn’t meet new clients without a reference. I said her or no one. They asked me if I had proof of the money. I told them, Of course.”
“Sounds good. Now we wait. For them and Tarnes.”
Around 3 p.m., Wells’s phone buzzed. Tarnes.
“A gentleman from the Royal Cayman Bank is going to call in the next ten minutes. He has some know-your-customer questions.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning under the new anti-laundering rules, banks can’t just open accounts for anyone who walks in. The more money you want to deposit, the more questions they’re supposed to ask. An American bank, an account of this size, they’d want specifics about how you make your money. What business you’re in. Maybe even a tax return. If the Cayman bankers want access to the global money transfer system, they have to follow the same rules. In theory. In reality, the way it goes is, they ask. But if you won’t tell them, you say you don’t want to talk about your business, hint maybe you’re trying to move assets in front of a divorce, they’ll just go to the default question: Is the money from an illegal source? And you say?”
“No.”
“Very good. No. Pure as the driven snow. You’re offended they’ve even raised the issue. They ask a few more times. And that’s it. By close of business today, Raul Moreno will be the beneficiary of an account at Royal Cayman Bank held by the Leverdeep Trust Company of Bridgetown, Barbados. The wire will hit overnight. A balance of five million six hundred eighty thousand two hundred five dollars.”
Wells wondered why she hadn’t gone with an even five million, realized she was right. A round number would look odd.
“That’s good enough for Banamex? They know they can take it and move it to the U.S.?”
“My understanding is, the money will still be too hot to cross the border without raising flags. Maybe Banamex routes it through another bank. Chops it into a bunch of smaller accounts, trades Mexican stocks with it. Pork bellies. Piñata imports. My guy didn’t really explain, since it doesn’t matter, the money’s just an excuse to get you in, right? If you must know, ask Mendoz when you talk to her. The paperwork will hit during the day tomorrow, but if all you need is an account number for a screen grab, you’ll have that by the morning.”
“I need to sign anything promising I’ll give it back?”
“The big boss laughed when I asked. So I guess not.”
The room phone rang. Wells hung up as Coyle answered.
Royal Cayman Bank, Wells wrote. $5.7 million. Trust in Barbados. Account details in morning. Coyle would have to handle the rest. Coyle’s end of the conversation seemed to consist mostly of Sí and No. Then, “Frietas. Hector Frietas. Sí, Quito.” He listened for a while. “Sí, sí . . . Mañana.”
He hung up. “They’ll call us in the morning to set a time.”
“Why’d you mention Frietas?”
“They weren’t going to bite. Said they had to have a name. I figured, he’s dead, his phone’s in the jungle somewhere, not like he can tell them anything. If we’re wrong, Mendoz doesn’t know him, we find out now. If we’re right, she’s his contact, his name should get us in. Sure enough, I said it, you heard. A minute later, she told me to come in tomorrow with a statement and we’d talk.”
Wells realized Coyle was right. “Nice play.”
“This job’s not bad.”
Wells flashed to Bogotá, Tony bleeding to death in the back of the cab. Until it bites you, he almost said. But Coyle would learn soon enough, if he hadn’t already.
Tuesday morning, 6:30 a.m. Wells was stepping out of the shower when the room door rattled. He opened up, found Coyle.
“You ever sleep?”
“Turn on the TV.”
CNN again, an overhead shot, SWAT trucks clustered around a stately house. Then at ground level, an epilepsy-inducing number of red-and-blue lights flashing, white sedans with CHICAGO POLICE painted in red. Behind them, a black wrought-iron fence and snow-dusted lawn.
The crawl told the story:
CARDINAL OF CHICAGO KILLED IN PREDAWN SNIPER ATTACK . . . JAMES MCDONNELL, 59, FOUND DEAD IN HIS HOME ON CITY’S NORTH SIDE . . . SHOOTING OCCURRED AROUND 5 A.M., POLICE SAY . . .
MCDONNELL HEADED CHICAGO ARCHDIOCESE, SERVING 2.5 MILLION CATHOLICS . . . IN STATEMENT, POPE “DEPLORES” VIOLENCE, CALLS FOR CALM . . . POLICE AND FBI SAY SHOOTING “BEARS RESEMBLANCE” TO SUNDAY KILLING OF MEGACHURCH PREACHER LUKE HURLEY IN ST. PETERS, MISSOURI . . .
“Guess you were right about Missouri.” Coyle hesitated. “You think this connects to Dallas somehow? The Russians killing clergy now? Stirring us up even more?”
Wells watched the CNN crawl: MCDONNELL KNOWN FOR HARD-LINE STANCE ON INTERFAITH RELATIONS: “HARD TO FIND COMMON GROUND WITH PEOPLE WHO WANT TO BLOW THEMSELVES UP,” HE SAID AFTER DALLAS ATTACK . . .
“Assuming it’s not a copycat. I guess so. The timing is so close.” And these killings felt professional to Wells the same way the Dallas attack had. Not that his old friends couldn’t do damage, but they left loose ends. They were rarely so slick.
“Shouldn’t the Russians be putting out some fake claim of responsibility, then? Leaving a Quran at the hide?”
“They’ve got time, if that’s the game. Plus, if we’re right about Dallas, Shakir didn’t know how they were using him. This guy, if it’s the same, they want to keep it that way.”
“So this sniper, he doesn’t see any religious connection to what he’s doing, killing priests?”
The theory sounded ridiculous when Coyle phrased it that way. “I don’t know. Maybe they’ve twisted him up somehow. Shafer said last night we’re not seeing some big part of this, and he’s right.”
“What if they’re working up to their real target? Like the Pope.”
“Not bad. He coming to the United States anytime soon?”
Coyle pulled his phone, tapped away. “Three months, he’ll be in California and Texas.”
But that theory didn’t work either. The sniper or whoever was using him had to know he’d just dramatically increased the odds he’d be caught. A second shooting in less than forty-eight hours would inevitably leave clues. And the killing of a cardinal was deeply provocative, to say the least. The FBI would make this case equal to the Dallas investigation as a priority.
Under those circumstances, three months on the run was an eternity. Besides, if the sniper’s ultimate target was the Pope, he was making his job harder by killing high-profile religious leaders. Even under normal circumstances, only the President had more protection than the Pope. If the shooter was still on the loose when the Pope was set to arrive, the security would be off the charts. The Vatican’s own security team might even try to postpone the trip.
“I think it’s something closer to home,” Wells said.
“The President?”
“Nah, he’s practically untouchable even when he travels. And they’ll find excuses to lock him down until they get a handle on this.”
Wells’s phone buzzed. He knew without looking: Tarnes.
“Anything from Mendoz?” Her voice tense.
“Meeting her today. Good morning, sunshine.”
“You think this is funny, John?”
“Hilarious.”
“A hundred ten threats to mosques already this morning. Only a matter of time before some idiot firebombs one.”
Or worse. “Have they confirmed the shootings are related?”
“Ballistics will come back in a couple hours, but the betting is yes. FBI puts the shot at seven hundred yards. And he was gone fast. They think he’s got a rolling nest like the Beltway guys. You think this is related to Dallas, John?”
Wells wasn’t ready yet to tell Tarnes what he and Shafer had figured out. Not until after he talked to Mendoz. “I have to guess, I’d say probably.”
“That case you sure you don’t want to go at Mendoz officially? Bring in the FBI? Might be faster—”
“Faster? Say the FBI jumps on this today. Which they won’t be happy about, they hate this kind of lead out of left field, but Duto can make them. First, she isn’t American, they don’t even have jurisdiction, they have to ask the Mexican government to interview her. The Bureau is the Bureau. It wants to be sure it can make cases. Rules are rules, even when people are getting shot. Fine, the Mexicans aren’t happy, they say yes, but it takes two days. Second, we ask Mendoz to talk. She says, What for? We tell her. If she has any sense, she tells us to get lost.”
“But the bank can make her. Or just open the records itself.”
“Sure, but they’ll need a warrant, or whatever the equivalent is down here, I’m no expert. But even with a friendly judge, I’m not sure we can get a warrant in Mexico based on hearsay from the wife of a dead man in Ecuador. Not to mention that Graciela didn’t even know Mendoz’s name. That’s another couple days gone, into next week. Then we go up the chain, tell Citi it’s in trouble. Someone in New York realizes the stakes, flies here, makes Banamex lift its skirts, warrant or not. But that’s, what, next Wednesday, Thursday? A week, for sure.”
“In other words, you’re in control, and you like it that way.”
“Let’s see what Mendoz says today. If Coyle and I can’t get to her, we’ll do it your way.”
Tarnes hung up.
“You done flirting so we can get to the Four Seasons?” Coyle said.
Mendoz called at 10:30. Coyle was smiling when he hung up. “Meeting’s at three.”
The high-net-worth offices were in an oversized town house in the southern part of Polanco, near Chapultepec Park. Wells and Coyle passed through a metal detector into a waiting room, with lesser Impressionists on its pastel walls, hidden speakers playing string music. The style suggested Banamex’s clients were of a certain age. Wells and Coyle were the only people waiting. Wells realized they weren’t really inside the bank. Two armed guards watched the steel door between the lobby and the rest of the building. Wells suspected there was a separate entrance, maybe through the garage, for known clients.
He wondered if the security was for show. This bank probably handled very little cash. But the tension on the faces of the guards suggested otherwise. The clients themselves were the targets. A forty-something woman wearing a diamond that should have been measured in ounces rather than carats emerged from the inner sanctum. Her bodyguards gave Coyle hard looks as they passed. Maybe Tarnes had done too good a job dressing him like a narco.
Ten minutes later, the door opened again to reveal a man in a gray suit. He could have been running for Congress. He gave Wells and Coyle the pained smile of a man who’d walked into a meeting an hour late, extended a hand to Wells. “Buenas tardes. Yo soy Manuel Lagares—”
“Buenas tardes, but I think my client is the one you want.”
Lagares had a conversation in Spanish with Coyle that ended with Coyle handing over their passports and a statement from Royal Cayman Bank they’d printed at the Four Seasons. Lagares looked over the numbers like they were written in crayon. He’d be in for a surprise when he called the bank.
Ten minutes after that, Lagares reappeared. This time, his smile looked at least half real. Royal Cayman had done its part. Wells and Coyle would meet Mendoz with her guard down. Downish, anyway.
Lagares led them through the security door, up a single flight of stairs. The floors were wood, and none of the doors were marked. The classical music continued. Banamex seemed to intend the offices to have the feel of an exclusive club. Wells hoped the atmosphere would work to their advantage, lulling Mendoz a little.
Lagares led them to a conference room that overlooked the town house’s garden, lush and wide and deep. Three jacaranda trees stood at the back, their flowers almost hiding the barbed wire atop the back wall. Wells and Coyle turned down Lagares’s offer of a drink. He walked out and Mendoz entered.
In person, she had the smooth, shiny glow that came from expensive chemical peels and a little too much Botox. She wore a dark blue suit and skirt with subtle pink piping. She looked the part, a stylish middle-aged woman whom clients could trust. Charming, not glib. Rich, not too rich. She held brochures in one hand, what looked like a contract in the other. No passports. Wells suspected their disappearance wasn’t an accident and would be mentioned if they misbehaved.
“Mr. Moreno. Mr. Walsh. I apologize in advance, my English is not perfect.” In fact, it was smooth, lightly accented. As well groomed as everything else about her. Her brown eyes shifted between them, a frank effort to understand who they were, why they’d come here. “Mr. Frietas sent you.”
Wells had planned to approach her cautiously, see what she might give up about how she and Frietas had operated. But now that they were here, waiting felt wrong. Although she’d agreed to meet, she was suspicious. Better to hit her hard and fast, try to shake her. Anyway, they needed records from her, not a primer on Banamex’s skills at moving money.
“Is this room wired, Ms. Mendoz?”
“Wired?”
“You know what I mean.”
“That’s not how we treat our clients.”
“We’re not clients yet.” Wells leaned over the table. “I’m asking for your protection. Not mine.”
“I don’t understand, Mr. Walsh.”
“I’d like us to be friends. That’ll be easier if we can talk honestly.”
If Mendoz could have knitted her brow through the Botox, she would have. She looked at the door as if she was considering calling for help. Then she seemed to decide she’d better hear what Wells had to say.
“It’s a fine day. May I show you our back garden?”
Up close, the garden was slightly tatty, a space meant to be seen through windows rather than in person. An apartment building loomed over it from the north, ruining its privacy. Broken paving stones were tucked in a corner where they couldn’t be seen from the house.
Mendoz arranged three chairs in a triangle close to the jacaranda trees by the back wall.
“Beautiful,” Coyle said. “I didn’t realize the jacaranda bloomed so early.”
Wells read Mendoz’s mind: Enough small talk. This isn’t going to be fun, let’s get to it.
“I don’t know what Hector told you,” she said.
“Hector didn’t tell us anything, Alina. He’s dead. His wife killed him and dumped him in the jungle.”
“You’re lying.”
“Guess again. I saw a piece of his skull.”
“I remind you I have your passports—”
“Keep ’em. We’ll get more.”
She stood. “You need to leave.”
“Sit down.”
She didn’t sit, but she didn’t walk away.
“We’re not looking for you to clean money. And we’re not looking to arrest you. We’re not DEA. We came here to talk to you face-to-face.”
Now she sat.
“Before she killed him, Hector told his wife he sent some Russians to you. This was about a year ago. They needed clean accounts that they could use inside the United States. You set those up.”
She smiled. Wells could read her mind. That all you got? “I don’t know any Russians.”
“They came in with twenty million dollars. Say, eighteen, if they paid Hector two. What’s your cut? Ten percent? Fifteen? Three million dollars. Not bad for a few hours’ work, printing out contracts. You could even use the fancy paper, the heavy stock.”
“Do you have the names of these people? Their passport numbers? Anything at all?”
“Hector knew one of them as Anatoly Vanin.”
“I’ve never heard that name.”
“They were behind the attack in Dallas.”
A glimmer of surprise flitted across her smooth face, a breeze ruffling a sun-dappled lake. “That was crazy Arabs. The usual.”
“Those Russians tricked them into carrying out the attack.”
“You have proof?”
“Yes, but I can’t show you.”
She hesitated, and Wells thought he caught a flash of uncertainty in her eyes.
“Do you think we showed up here to ruin your day because we care about narcos buying apartments in L.A.?”
“Mr. Walsh, Mr. Romero—whatever your names are—I can’t help you. Even if I wanted to.”
“Because you have to protect your customers’ privacy?” Coyle said. “We’ll come back. And when we do, we’ll have warrants. And this will be ten times worse.”
“When that happens—if that happens—fine.”
“Why not now?” Wells said.
“You want to know? Really?”
“Sí.”
“Suppose I am what you say. And I help you. If my clients ever find out what I’ve done . . .” She trailed off.
“But they must know that you’re a bank, sometimes the authorities have questions—”
“If it comes through the courts, officially, fine, I can’t stop it. They may not like it, but they won’t blame me. But if I personally do this, it’s different.”
“We understand,” Coyle said. “It’s okay.”
Coyle was trying to do the right thing. Unfortunately, at this moment, they needed the wrong thing.
“Sergeant, give us a moment.”
The anger in Coyle’s eyes suggested he might argue. Then his Marine chain-of-command training kicked in, and he walked away.
Wells leaned toward Mendoz. “No one will ever know that you talked.”
“You can’t guarantee that.”
“We’re not going to tell. You sure aren’t. Hector’s dead. The Russians will have other problems when we find them. They’ve got nothing to do with narcos, anyway. And guess what? Next week, the week after, we’ll come back with warrants and lock this all down.”
“Then why do you need me?”
“Next week, too long. The shooting this morning in Chicago, it might be connected, too.”
She shook her head.
“Listen. Give us what we need, I’ll give you a pass for Dallas. I believe you didn’t know what they had planned.”
“Big promise from a man who won’t even tell me his real name.”
“But if you don’t agree, forget whatever the lawyers tell you about how Mexico won’t extradite for financial crimes. Just hope the Russians don’t kill anyone else.”
Wells waited, and finally she cracked.
“Why?” A frightened edge in her voice.
Wells leaned in close enough to smell her lilac scent. He had to make her fear him more than she feared the traffickers, his only chance. He stroked the back of her right hand with his left middle finger. Crude and unwanted intimacy.
She didn’t flinch, but a tendon in her neck quivered.
“If they do, I’ll kill you myself. I’ll blow that armored BMW of yours. Shoot you while you’re at a spa with your girlfriends.”
“You can’t.” Her voice trembled.
“You think I’m American government. You think I have rules.” Wells shook his head.
“The narcos—”
“They don’t care about you. They’re too busy with each other. They scare you, leave the country, go to Madrid, they’ll never think about you again. Not me. Four hundred people died in Dallas. I won’t forget.”
Wells looked Mendoz over. She’d held up, considering, but her breathing came fast. Another line crossed. He had never gone after a civilian this way. But Alina Mendoz wasn’t exactly a civilian. Maybe.
“Wait here.” She walked off, short steps on stiff legs. She left the garden, slammed the door, threw the bolt shut.
Coyle came over. Wells expected he’d protest. He didn’t. “Let her off the hook too easy, didn’t I?”
“She’s probably coming back with the cops.”
“What’d you say?”
Wells shook his head: You don’t want to know. He wondered if Mendoz believed his threat. He wondered if he believed it himself.
He and Coyle sat silently as a helicopter circled overhead. Jacaranda petals fluttered down, providing a counterpoint to the sirens ringing in the distance. After a while, they died out. But the quiet didn’t mean a team of masked Mexican federales wasn’t on the way over, running lights only.
Fifteen minutes later, the lock snapped back. Mendoz stepped out. She stared with frank hate across the garden at Wells, and he knew he’d won. If winning was the word. She’d marked him as the killer he was. She’d seen enough rough men come through this supposedly gentle place to know he was one.
She came to them. Coyle stood. “Stay,” Wells said. “You get to hear, too.”
“You don’t care about how we do what we do,” Mendoz said.
“Correct. Only where the money went. If it went to an American bank, we can find it, chase it down. How you got it clean, that’s your business.”
“It’s within the law, I promise you. What we do is legal. Complicated but legal.”
“Of course.”
The hate in her eyes flared anew. “Hypothetically speaking, these accounts—”
“Accounts?”
“Yes, two. One much larger than the other. One in a man’s name, the other in a woman’s.”
“How much money?”
She looked at them. “Here’s what I can do. The stuff on the front end, you don’t care about that, then we forget about it. In return, I’ll let you see how they spent it. Then you never come back.”
I get a lot of that, Wells didn’t say.
She left. Another twenty minutes passed before the garden door swung open again. Lagares waved them inside.
Wells half expected they’d be jumped as they walked through the door. Instead, Lagares led them back to the conference room that overlooked the garden. Mendoz waited, carrying a leather folio.
“I’m glad we could have an honest discussion about your needs,” Mendoz said. “I’ve brought information about account products you might like. Some of it’s—” She hesitated. “I’m not sure of the word in English—clasificados, business secrets—so it can’t leave this room. But look them over, take notes, if you like. Take a few minutes to read. Fifteen minutes, say.” She handed him the folio, pulled her iPhone, set the timer for fifteen minutes.
Wells flipped the folder open. Found two blank pieces of paper and a pair of gold pens. A glossy brochure. A twenty-five-page contract in English and Spanish. And, underneath, twenty double-spaced pages of bank statements.
They were close now. Not that these pages would necessarily enable them to stop the Russians. Or even find them. But at least Tony from Tampa hadn’t died for nothing.
The statements revealed two accounts, one in the name of Alan Vartan, the second Annalise Fabian. Good generic European names. They could have been French, Spanish, even German in a pinch. Wells figured the fact Alan Vartan’s initials matched Anatoly Vanin’s was no coincidence. They both had addresses in Acapulco, and emails, but no phone numbers.
The Vartan account was far larger. It had held more than fourteen million dollars. A lot of that money had been spent in big chunks fairly early on. Millions to real estate brokers and title companies, lawyers, auto dealerships.
Nearly all of it had been spent in Texas, mostly in and around Dallas. Wells couldn’t pretend to be an expert, but the records seemed to show the account had been used to buy one or possibly two properties. Shafer and the FBI should be able to chase down exactly where.
The big purchases slowed down three months after the account opened, still several months before the Dallas attacks. Cash withdrawals, usually in the range of one to five thousand dollars, replaced them. Two days before the attack, the account had seen one last big withdrawal, ninety-five thousand dollars in cash. Since then, it hadn’t been touched. It still held more than a million dollars.
The Fabian account was much smaller. It had been set up with two hundred thirty thousand dollars. The money had come out in ATM withdrawals, dribs and drabs, all over the West Coast, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Seattle, back to Los Angeles, Seattle again. Then eastern Washington, Spokane, several in a town called Pullman, which Wells recalled was in the southeast corner of the state. Then the account went quiet for months, until one final withdrawal in Fargo, North Dakota, a couple weeks before.
The Russians had come to Mexico City with eighteen million, left with a little more than fourteen. Wells had guessed low on Banamex’s cut. It was twenty percent. Wells wondered how much Mendoz had personally made, didn’t ask.
“These addresses?”
“I wouldn’t count on them.”
“Is it standard to open an account of this size without a phone number attached?”
“On an account like this, nothing is standard. A case-by-case basis.”
“Right. We need these pages.”
“These belong to the bank.”
She was serious, Wells saw. She’d let them have the information but not the records themselves. Wells began scribbling names and numbers for the recipients of the Vartan account. He slipped the Fabian account statements to Coyle, and Coyle followed his lead. Mendoz poured herself a glass of water, didn’t drink it. She stood against the wall, watched the iPhone clock count down. They wouldn’t have time to copy everything, but Wells decided not to push for extra minutes. The timer and keeping control of the pages played the same role for Mendoz. They let her think she hadn’t given in entirely. If Wells and Coyle stuck to their side of the bargain, she would stick to hers, let them walk out.
The phone’s alarm beeped.
“Gentlemen,” Mendoz said.
Wells swept the papers back into the folio, slid it across the table. “We’re definitely interested in Banamex.”
“I can’t wait to hear from you.” She reached into her suit and slid their passports back to them. And Wells realized what was missing from what she’d shown them.
“Our friends, what about their passports?”
“Yes?”
“You needed identification from them. Making a copy of the picture page is standard procedure, right?”
“I’m not sure how much those would help you.”
Meaning the passports for Vartan and Fabian were as fake as the ones for Walsh and Montero.
“I’d like to see them, anyway.”
She walked out, came back a minute later holding two creased pieces of paper, each a copy of an identification page from a French passport. Wells reached for them, but she shook her head. “Look, don’t touch.”
“Just the pictures, make us a copy.”
She shook her head.
“What if we take a picture of the page, then?”
Another shake.
So Wells looked. Trying to sear the faces into his memory, steal the souls of the man and woman before him. Vanin, a/k/a Vartan: short hair, slightly pocked skin, narrow eyes. He wasn’t smiling, but if he did, Wells guessed his teeth wouldn’t be great. A killer or a cop. He looked European to Wells rather than a native-born American. But if he spoke good English, he could probably have fooled Ahmed Shakir, who wasn’t native-born either.
Fabian: Even the unnatural flatness of a passport pic couldn’t hide her beauty. Blond hair, pert nose, the edges of a smile. Only her eyes didn’t fit. Wide and blue, yes, but with an uncanny emptiness. They could have been holes in the page.
Wells wanted to snatch the pictures, but all the Botox in the world couldn’t keep Mendoz’s face steady any longer. If they pushed her further, she’d crack open. “Thanks for your help.”
“My pleasure.”
Outside, it was almost 5 p.m. Polanco was taking on its after-work vibe, pretty young things stepping out of Ubers.
“Whatever you told her, she went for it,” Coyle said.
“I’m a real people person.”
“Wish she’d let us have those pictures, though.”
Wells understood the implicit criticism. “She was about to start screaming.”
“You think she’s going to call the Russians, warn them?”
“I think she’s going to hope we never come back.”
Wells and Coyle weaved through the crowded sidewalks until they found a taxi on Avenida Masaryk.
“Annalise Fabian would fit in fine here.” Coyle paused. “Think she could get a sniper to target priests?”
“I think she could do whatever she wanted.”
The afternoon traffic was terrible, and the cab hardly moved. Wells handed the driver a fifty-dollar bill. “Come on.” Now that they had a target, Wells felt faintly paranoid. What if Coyle was right and Mendoz made the worst decision of her life and panicked and called Vanin?
He emailed Tarnes to ask her to set a meeting with Duto as soon as possible.
8 a.m. tomorrow too soon? She wrote back.
Perfect.
Twenty minutes later, they stepped into the NH’s lobby.
“Grab your stuff, Coyle. No more noches in CDMX.”
“We going to Dallas?”
“Washington.”