“I see.” Vera looks at the bottle of champagne. “May I?”

He pours himself a glass and then takes a long swallow. “It’s good. Very good. I won’t beg for my life.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

“You know I have men just outside.”

“Actually, they just left.”

“We’ve come a long way, you and me,” Vera says. “You were a little shit selling blue jeans off the back of a truck in Tijuana, I was a cop walking a beat in a slum. We’ve done all right for ourselves.”

“We have.”

“So why stop now?”

“You just had your oldest friend killed,” Adán says, “and colluded in the death of your closest colleague. To be perfectly honest with you, Gerardo, I just can’t trust you.”

Magda stands up.

“Indulge me in one thing?” Vera asks. He leans over and puts his face close to her neck. “That’s a lovely scent. Men debate about the prettiest part of a woman. I say it’s the neck. Where it curves into the shoulder. Right here. Thank you.”

She nods and walks out the door.

Vera reaches for the pistol in his shoulder holster.

The guard blows the back of his head off.

Adán gets up to leave.

It’s all cleaned up now—there will be no “smoking gun,” as it were, to tarnish PAN in the last administration or this one.

Only one thing troubles him.

He still hasn’t received the phone call telling him that Keller is dead.

—

Keller comes to in the back of a black Suburban with tinted windows.

A medic in civilian clothes, but clearly military from his haircut and bearing, works efficiently and silently to clean and bandage his wounds.

“Who are you?” Keller asks.

The medic doesn’t answer his question, just makes small talk as he tries to keep Keller awake. Desperate for sleep, Keller realizes that he must have a concussion, so they’re keeping him conscious. This goes on all the way into Mexico City, where the car turns onto Paseo de la Reforma. Keller thinks that they’re headed for the embassy but the car pulls off earlier, in a neighborhood of banks and corporate buildings, and at number 265 goes down a driveway to a steel door. The driver shows some identification to a guard, the door slides open, and the car goes into the parking structure.

They load Keller onto a stretcher, take him to a room that looks like a small infirmary, where an American medic, just as military-looking, takes over, does a preliminary examination, and then takes X-rays.

“Where am I?” Keller asks.

“A concussion, broken nose, dislocated shoulder, two cracked ribs, and a few scattered shotgun pellets,” the medic says. “You’re a hard man to kill, sir.”

“Where am I?”

“Internal pain? Anything you haven’t told me about, sir?”

“Where the hell am I?”

“Someone will be in to see you soon.”

It’s Tim Taylor.

“Aguilar called us,” Taylor said, “when he couldn’t get hold of you. We sent people out looking for you. What the hell were you doing in Cuernavaca?”

“Luis is okay, then,” Keller says. “In El Paso.”

“He’s dead,” Taylor says. He tells Keller about the plane crash and then says, “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I’m not going to,” Keller says. “Vera had that plane brought down.”

“Vera was found murdered,” Taylor says. “Same MO as the other cops. He was having an assignation. Like Aguilar, his demise is being attributed to the Tapias.”

“They didn’t do either,” Keller says. “Barrera did.”

“We know that.”

So it’s over, Keller thinks.

Aguilar is dead, the tapes destroyed in the crash.

Palacios is dead.

So is Vera.

Barrera cleaned up his mess.

“So you’re here to take me home?” Keller asks.

“Can you walk?”

“I think so.”

Keller eases himself off the gurney, the effort setting his ribs on fire. His legs are wobbly from the shock and the meds, but he manages to follow Taylor down the hall and into an elevator that they take to the sixth floor. When they get out, Keller sees more military types, although in civilian clothes, and people who look like computer geeks and accountants.

None of the offices are marked.

All of the doors are closed.

“What you see here doesn’t exist,” Taylor says, “except officially as an accounting office to make sure that the taxpayers’ Mérida money is being used properly. In reality, the hat racks in this building are pretty full—FBI, CIA, us, Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, Treasury, Homeland Security, the National Reconnaissance Office, NSA, Defense Intelligence Agency…you get the idea.”

He opens the door to a room where a dozen technicians sit at desks in front of computers.

“Everything here is state-of-the-art,” Taylor says. “Encryption equipment, counterencryption equipment, satellite surveillance, wiretapping, secure communications. Come on.”

They go to a locked door at the end of the hall. Taylor looks into a retina scanner and the door slides open to what seems to be some kind of lounge, with comfortable furniture, a coffee machine, and a bar.

A man who looks a little younger than Keller sits on one of the sofas and sips a beer. His hair is black and cut short. A little under six feet tall, broad-chested, ramrod posture. He gets up when they walk in and extends his hand to Keller. “Arturo Keller—Roberto Orduña.”

“Admiral Orduña,” Taylor says, “is the commander of the Mexican marines’ FES—special forces—roughly analogous to our SEALs.”

“Let me first say how sorry I am about Luis Aguilar,” Orduña says. “He was a good man. Would you like a drink? A coffee? This is your building but my country, so I feel that I should be a good host.”

You made your point, Keller thinks. What do you want?

They all sit down.

“We’re losing the war,” Orduña says without preamble. “Drugs are more plentiful, more potent, and cheaper than ever. The cartels have more influence than at any time, have co-opted the major instruments of power, and threaten to become a shadow government. The war between them increases the violence to horrific levels. What we have been doing isn’t working.”

Keller knows this.

The strategy of drug interdiction is a broom sweeping back the ocean. The strategy of arresting traffickers at any level only creates a job opportunity that any number of candidates are eager to fill.

“We have to do something different,” Orduña says. “The law enforcement model isn’t working. We have to switch to a military model.”

“With all respect,” Keller says, “your president has already militarized antitrafficking. It’s only made things worse.”

“Because he’s pursuing the wrong model,” Orduña answers. “Are you conversant with the debate between counterinsurgency and antiterrorism doctrines?”

“Only vaguely.”

Orduña nods. “Counterinsurgency—the model for fighting terrorism for the past thirty years—focused on defense, preventing attacks while politically building relationships with the local people so that they would not support the terrorists. That is roughly analogous to what we—and you—have been doing in regards to drug trafficking, if you can say that drug traffickers are analogous to terrorists.”

“More and more they are terrorists,” Keller says.

“Al Qaeda killed three thousand Americans,” Taylor says. “This is going to sound callous, but that’s a fraction of the harm that drugs cause every year. And we spend tens of billions on interdiction and incarceration.”

“Exactly,” Orduña says. “Counterinsurgency is expensive, time-consuming, and ultimately unsuccessful, which is why your military has recently evolved toward antiterrorist doctrine, which emphasizes the offensive—narrow, specific attacks on prime targets.

“As it exists now, we arrest a cartel leader—Contreras, for instance—another takes his place. There is great motivation to take the job, but little disincentive.”

Taylor adds, “What we’re finding is that fewer jihadists are stepping up for the top positions, because we’ve made it a death sentence instead of a promotion. You take the big chair, we drop a drone missile on your head, or special forces take you out.”