Nacho agrees to meet at a remote hilltop finca in the jungles of Nayarit.

—

They stay in the field.

Rather than return to Mexico City and start over, the “Committee” decides that Barrera couldn’t have gone far, so they return to the base at El Salto and try to develop more information.

The army and air force maintain radar scans for any unlogged flights. Roadblocks are set up. SEIDO monitors cell phone and computer traffic with assistance from EPIC.

This is critical.

A bird makes noise when flushed from the bush.

Keller knows that if you force a major narco to move, especially in a hurry, you also make him communicate. Arrangements have to be made, security set up, travel routes planned, the right people notified.

They have to scramble, they have to talk to each other. They try their best to mask it—using cell phones only once, using SAT phones, text, e-mails, routing phone calls through international Internet services, but the less time they have, the harder these things are to do.

Even a sophisticated operation like EPIC can’t keep track of every individual communication, can’t intercept every e-mail or listen in on every phone, but what those guys can do is monitor traffic volume.

They already identified certain hot spots—geographical areas and cell phone towers combined with websites and servers that they know the narcos use—and if something is happening, those areas light up with increased traffic.

Now one of those hot zones goes absolutely Christmas tree.

The scans show a dramatic increase in traffic from a tower associated with one of Nacho Esparza’s frequent hiding areas in Jalisco. Several of the calls, all made from different phones, go to a tower in Nayarit, in remote jungle mountains south of Sinaloa. Geographically, it makes sense. Nayarit is close, a short drive or flight from Durango.

The Esparza element makes sense, too. There have been rumors for months about possible tension between Barrera and Esparza—Nacho’s absence at the company Christmas party was noted—and that Esparza was concerned Barrera was still an American snitch. Nayarit lies between their respective bases in Sinaloa and Jalisco—could they be planning a summit meeting to clear the air?

Keller looks at a map of the area served by the cell phone tower and then coordinates it with Google Earth. There’s only one significant residence in the area, a finca of several buildings carved out of the rain forest on the top of a hill.

It’s a perfect place.

Aguilar keeps his SEIDO people in Mexico City working twenty-four/seven tracing the ownership of the property. They track it back through several individuals until they find out that it’s owned as a “hunting resort” by a investment firm in Guadalajara.

The firm is a holding company already under suspicion for laundering money for Nacho Esparza. Armed with that information, they get a tap on the phone coming from the finca.

INCOMING CALLER: You have guests arriving.

RECIPIENT: When?

INCOMING CALLER: Two tonight. One tomorrow morning.

(Pause)

RECIPIENT: Three men.

INCOMING CALLER: You know who. And their people. No one else comes in or out. You understand?

(Call terminates)

Keller understands. “Three men—Barrera, Tapia, and Esparza?”

“It’s possible,” Aguilar says.

Vera is ecstatic. “We have him now. We have him. Dios mío, we might get all three of them.”

That night, fifty heavily armed men, with Aguilar, Vera, and Keller, board a SEIDO plane, its flight plan logged for Jalisco. The men all passed polygraphs that afternoon, and Aguilar confiscates all their cell phones as they board.

When they’re ten minutes in the air, Aguilar orders a change of course, telling the pilots that they’re flying to Nayarit instead. He has personally located an airstrip in a defunct logging camp only eight kilometers from the finca.

The landing is rough but successful.

“Go radio silent,” Aguilar orders the pilots.

“We should report—”

“I said go radio silent,” Aguilar snaps. “Any transmissions you make will be monitored.”

The men deplane and begin the hike up to the finca in the dim light of predawn. Keller is reminded again of Mexico’s amazing diversity—from deserts to rain forests—as they head up the rough, wet terrain through thick green jungle.

Aguilar struggles in front of him. He’s not really an operational guy, Keller thinks, his tennis shoes more suitable to a walk in the park than a slog in the mud. But Aguilar keeps going and doesn’t complain.

The sun is fully up when they reach a plateau that has been cleared for grazing. A few curious cattle look at them as they deploy into a semicircle for the approach to the compound of houses that stand about three hundred yards away, through a low silver mist.

No lights glow from the windows. Is it possible, Keller wonders, that we’ve caught him sleeping?

“You will wait here,” Aguilar says to him. “I want Barrera alive.”

“I’ll bet you do.”

Men are getting ready, clicking clips into place, checking loads—one or two cross themselves and whisper prayers.

—

Adán steps out of the house and walks down to the broad, cleared grounds in front.

He and Diego arrived last night by car, having left Magda in the safe house in Sinaloa. He would have brought her with him, but he’s not sure how safe this meeting is going to be. And he’s annoyed that he had to arrive first—he knows that it’s Nacho showing that he’s not subservient.

Nacho arrives in a helicopter, and Adán has to wonder if it was a precaution or a deliberate act of noblesse oblige. Now Nacho emerges from the chopper flanked by bodyguards, like a president, looking cool and breezy in a linen suit. If Diego is the soldier of the Sinaloa cartel, Esparza is its diplomat. He strides over to Adán and his first words are, “We shouldn’t stay long.”

“I know you’re busy,” Adán answers.

The irony is apparently lost on Nacho, or he simply chooses to ignore it. “It’s good to see you, Adán.”

“Is it?” Adán asks.

Nacho smiles as if he doesn’t understand what Adán could possibly mean. “Of course.”

“Because I’ve been back for quite a while,” Adán says. “You could have had the pleasure of seeing me earlier.”

Unflustered, Nacho answers, “There’s a two-million-dollar reward on my head. I was concerned that if I walked into Puente Grande, I might never have left.”

“Funny, I had the same concern.”

“I delivered a million and a half reasons why you shouldn’t have had any concerns,” Nacho says.

“Then why all this pressure?” Adán asks. If Nacho delivered the right money to the right people, there shouldn’t be any.

“I could ask you the same question, Adanito,” Nacho answers. “Why all this pressure?”

Adán ignores the diminutive version of his name. “You’re worried that I’m a soplón? An informer?”

“I’m thinking that you did it before.”

“And you were the beneficiary,” Adán answers. “I didn’t hear any complaints then. Nacho, you were my uncle’s best friend and closest adviser, and then you were mine. There shouldn’t be tension or suspicion between us. I’ve given up nothing about you. We have to use the authorities as we can—no one is better at this than you—and any connections I have are your connections as well.”

“I hope you know that’s mutual, Adán.”

“I do,” Adán answers, “and I understand other concerns that you might have, so let me tell you what I’ve already told Diego. I have no ambition to be patrón. I understand that you have your own organization now. I only want to be, at most, the first among equals.”

Nacho opens his arms and they embrace.

“You know that I value you,” Adán says. “Your wisdom, your experience. I rely on you. Tell me what you want.”