“Palacios could have been planted on you,” Carling says to Keller, “for the exact purpose of scuttling the Mérida Initiative.”

“Which the cartels have to be extremely concerned about,” the White house rep says.

“Yeah, they’re quaking,” Taylor says.

The director turns to McDonough. “What do you need to bring Palacios over?”

“Have him wear a wire,” McDonough says. “Get me Vera on tape, incriminating himself on a record that we control, and then maybe we have something to talk about.”

“Can you get Palacios to wear a wire?” Taylor asks.

“I don’t know,” Keller says. “Vera is smart, he’s already freaked out…”

“We’re talking a one-time event here,” the director says, “not an ongoing operation.”

“Give it a shot,” McDonough says. “You get us a tape of Vera, we’ll get you the visa.”

He looks to Carling, who nods.

“What about Aguilar?” Keller asks. “Protection for him and his family.”

“The head of SEIDO,” McDonough says, “has ample reasons to confer with his counterparts here. If for some reason he were to decide not to return to Mexico, I’m sure something could be worked out.”

“We can’t have a Mexican intelligence officer shouting accusations across the border,” Carling says, “and give him citizenship.”

“But something could be worked out, couldn’t it, Susan?” McDonough asks tiredly.

“The alternative being,” Keller says, “that I personally drive Luis Aguilar across the border from Juárez and deposit him at the front door of The Washington Post, which would be happy to run an over-the-fold story about how this administration wouldn’t lift a finger to protect an honest prosecutor and his family. And I’ll be sure to spell your names correctly.”

McDonough looks at Taylor. “You’re right—he’s an asshole.”

Taylor shrugs.

Carling says, “I’m sure none of us wants to conduct foreign policy in the media. I didn’t mean to suggest that we wouldn’t welcome Mr. Aguilar into the country, only that we would want him to be discreet.”

“Good,” the director says. “Only question remaining—do we inform our Mexican counterparts of this operation now?”

“If we launch an operation on Mexican soil,” Carling says, “against a high-ranking Mexican official without informing them—indeed, getting their permission—there’s going to be diplomatic hell to pay.”

“What?” McDonough asks. “They’re going to turn the money down?”

“Possibly,” Carling answers. “It would insult their pride and they’d think that we don’t trust them.”

“We don’t,” Taylor says.

“That is exactly the kind of attitude—”

Keller cuts her off. “If we inform them now, the operation could be compromised.”

“A risk we have to take.”

“It’s not you taking the risk,” Keller says. “It’s Palacios and Aguilar. They and their families could be killed.”

“Aren’t you being a little dramatic?” the White House rep asks.

“No,” Keller says. “I will not—repeat, not—send Palacios in with a wire if you give prior notice to the Mexicans, much less ask their permission.”

McDonough looks at the director. “Do you run your organization or does Keller?”

“As the agent in the field,” the director says, “Keller has the best knowledge of the situation and the people involved, and I trust his judgment and discretion.”

“Send in a different agent,” Carling says.

“Palacios would never cooperate with him,” Taylor says. “Anyway, we’re arguing over nothing—the Mexicans do know. The head of SEIDO is conducting the investigation, and we are merely cooperating as good neighbors. The burden of communicating with his superiors is on him, not us. There’s your out. If the Mexicans scream, point at Aguilar and look innocent.”

The quiet in the room indicates that a compromise has been reached. McDonough looks at his watch, then to Keller, and says, “You have your marching orders—get Palacios in a room with a wire.”

“But not for three days,” the White House rep says.

Keller gets it—in three days the Mérida Initiative becomes law.

State will be happy.

The White House will be happy.

DEA will be happy.

The Mexicans will be happy.

The arms manufacturers will be happy.

Adán Barrera will be happy, because he’ll have new weapons in his war against…well…just about everybody now.

Keller stands up. “Thank you for your time.”

He leaves the room.

“When this is over,” McDonough says, “fire that guy.”

“Go fuck yourself, Ed,” the director answers.

—

Keller takes a red-eye back to Mexico City.

He’s as grateful as he is surprised by the support that Taylor and the director gave him. But I shouldn’t be surprised, he thinks—both men are true believers in what they do, both care about the safety of their people. And both are going to stick up for their organization in a bureaucratic border skirmish.

It didn’t stop them from giving him holy hell after the meeting, but now they’re fully invested in the operation, making logistical plans to bring Palacios across the border, working with Immigration on the paperwork, setting up a satellite run to photograph Vera’s presence at the meeting with Palacios.

“We’ll start a forensic analysis on Vera’s finances,” the director said.

“Justice will shit,” Keller said. It will involve hacking computers, bank accounts, money transfers, real estate records.

“Let them shit,” the director said. “I’ll run it through NSA.”

They plan to take preventative measures as well—call undercovers back in, sanitize any intelligence packages ready to go to AFI, suspend or at least slow down any operations against the Sinaloa cartel.

“Do you need more agents on the ground there?” Taylor asked Keller. “Surveillance, backup, communications?”

“Communications, maybe,” Keller answered. “Otherwise, no. I don’t want any extraordinary activity that might tip Vera off.”

“Be careful,” Taylor reminded him, dropping him off at Departures at National. “Remember, there’s that five-million bounty on your head.”

“I thought it was two million,” Keller said.

“Barrera upped it,” Taylor answered. “However much we put on him, he matches it for you. Stay in touch.”

Keller had a rare late-night scotch to help him sleep, but it didn’t do much good. He dozed a little, but was wide awake well before the plane started its descent, as they say, into Mexico City.

It feels more like home now than D.C., even though he knows that the airport cops have probably noted his coming and going for the Tapias or Nacho Esparza, depending which side they’ve taken.

Aguilar is at the airport, seeing his family off.

“I’ll be there in a week,” he tells his daughters, who look sad and a little dubious about the trip. “Maybe less.”

“Why can’t you come now?”

“I have just a little work to wrap up,” Aguilar says. “Then I’ll be there. What do you think I’ll look like in a cowboy hat?”

“Why do we have to go to a ranch?”

“It’s more of a spa,” Lucinda says. “They have hot tubs, massages, yoga—you’re going to enjoy it.”

Her tone being more of a command than a prediction, the girls stop their objections and hug their father goodbye.

“A few days,” he tells Lucinda quietly. “A week at the most.”

“Be careful.”

“Of course.” He kisses her lightly on the lips and then watches his family go through security.

Keller stands off to the side and waits. On the drive back into the city, he says, “My bosses want Palacios to wire up.”

“On Gerardo?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s risky.”

Yes, it is, Keller thinks.

—

Palacios goes ballistic.

Yells, throws things at the wall, sits down, gets up, threatens to leave.

Aguilar remains perfectly calm. “You tell Gerardo you want to meet him. You express concern for your safety and ask him what he’s doing about it.”