“If you like.”

“Keep your eyes open, alright, John? What you did back there, that’s like poking a stick in a termite’s nest. People round here, they learned a long time ago that it’s best not to fight back when the sicarios come around. It’s better to let them get on with their business and pray to whatever God it is you pray to that it’s not your name they got on their list.”

“Let them kill?”

“Most people couldn’t make the kind of difference you made.”

“I couldn’t just stand aside and do nothing, Lieutenant.”

“I know. I’m just saying — be careful.”

“Thanks. I’ll bear that in mind.” He drew down on the cigarette, the tobacco crackling. “Who were they after?”

“We’re not sure yet.”

“But you think it was the kids on the table?”

“Most likely. They missed one of them. Probably thanks to you.”

“The girl.”

“Yes.”

“Was she hit?”

“In the shoulder. She’ll live.”

“But she’s not safe, is she?”

“No.”

“What’s her name?”

“You know I can’t tell you that.”

“Where is she?”

“I can’t tell you that, either. It’s confidential. I’ve already said more than I should’ve.”

He leant forwards. “You won’t be able to keep her safe, will you?”

“Probably not.”

“I can, Lieutenant.”

“I doubt that.”

“I can.”

“How long have you been in Juárez?”

“Just got into town today.”

“You know what it’s like here? You know anything about La Frontera?”

“This isn’t my first dance.” He rested both forearms on the table and looked right into Plato’s eyes. “I can help. I know what they’ve done to the police. I know about the messages they hang off the bridges when they leave their bodies, I know about the threats they make on police radio and I know they’ve got a list with your names on it. I saw what that means tonight. There were three of you. Only you and one of your colleagues did anything at all. The other one was hiding behind the bar.”

“This might not be your first dance, John, but if you haven’t been to Juárez before I can guarantee you that you haven’t seen anything like the cartels.” As he spoke, he took out a notebook from his breast pocket and turned to a page near the back. He wrote quickly, then turned it upside down and left it on the table between them. “You sure you don’t want that drink of water? I know I do. Dying of thirst here.”

“That’s not such a bad idea. I would. Thanks.”

“Alright, then. I’ll be right back.”

Plato went out. Milton took the notebook and turned it over.

There were two lines of writing in Plato’s untidy scrawl.

Caterina Moreno.

Hospital San Jose.

16

El Patrón made it a habit to dress well and, this morning, his tailor had presented him with a fine new suit. It was cut from the most luxurious fabric — slate grey with the faintest pinstripe running through it — and it had been fitted expertly, measured to fit his barrel-like frame. His snakeskin boots disturbed small clouds of dust as he disembarked from the armour-plated Bentley, nodding to his chauffeur and setting off for the restaurant. Six of his bodyguards had already fanned out around the street, armed with a variety of automatic weapons. They would wait here while he ate. No-one else would be allowed to go inside.

The place had been open for six months and was already the finest in Juárez. That was, perhaps, not the most impressive of accolades since local restaurants did not tend to last very long before they were shot up or firebombed or the management was murdered but that was all beside the point; it had a fine reputation for its cuisine, Felipe considered himself something of a gourmet and it was his habit to try all of the best new places. Now, with business to attend to in the city, he had the perfect excuse. He did not often venture down from the sixty thousand square miles of land he owned in the Sierra, not least because the vast space, the battery of gunmen and the fealty of the locals made it an almost impregnable redoubt. But this business was important and it needed his attention.

The other members of his retinue had already been inside to inform the proprietor that El Patrón would be dining with them tonight. They had collected the cell phones of the other customers and staff and told them — politely but firmly — that no-one would be allowed to leave until El Patrón had finished his meal. Of course, no-one had protested. As compensation for their inconvenience, their meals would all be paid for. A couple celebrating their marriage had reserved the best table in the house but they had needed little persuasion that it was in their best interests to move. The room was silent save for the muffled noise of the busy kitchen and the crisp retorts of Felipe’s raised heels as they struck the polished wooden floorboards. He went from table to table, beaming his high voltage smile at each of his fellow diners, clasping the hands of the men and kissing the women on both cheeks. He introduced himself to them and apologised for their inconvenience. They looked at him with fear or admiration or both; the power of his reputation gave him enormous pleasure. El Patrón was almost a mythical figure in Mexico, his exploits the subject of countless ballads and stories. He had outlived enemies and accomplices alike, defying the accepted bargain of a life in the drug trade: your career might be glittering but it would be brief and it would always end in prison or the grave.

Not for him.

He left the newlyweds until last. He stood beside their table and treated them to a wide, white-toothed smile.

“Do you know who I am?”

“Yes,” the man said. His fear was evident, although he was trying to hide it. “You are El Patrón.”

“That is right. I am. And I understand that you are celebrating your marriage?”

“Yes.”

“Congratulations. May I ask, when was the happy day?”

“Yesterday.”

“And you are not on honeymoon?”

“Money is difficult,” the woman said.

Felipe took out the bankroll that he kept in the inside pocket. He had heard that one of his lieutenants had joked that the roll was thick enough to choke a pig, and it probably was. He removed the money clip, started to count notes from the roll — each was a $100 bill — got to twenty and then stopped. Smiling widely, knowing that everyone in the restaurant was watching his display of munificence, he put the roll on the table. He did not know precisely how much money there was — ten thousand, at least — but it didn’t matter. Felipe González was responsible for over half of the illegal narcotics imported into the United States every year. He had appeared in Forbes’ annual billionaires list. Ten thousand dollars was nothing to him. Chump change.

“Congratulations,” he said. “You must take a holiday. You are only married one time, after all.”

The woman looked ready to refuse his offer. “Thank you,” her husband said quickly before she could speak. He did not want to displease him with ingratitude. He glared at her and, his message understood, her frown became an uneasy smile.

“You are very welcome.”

His son, Adolfo González, was waiting for him at the table.

He rose. “Padre.”

“Adolfo.” Felipe hugged him. He was impetuous, and prone to dangerous predilections, but he was still his son and he loved him. There were other children — other brothers, even — but Adolfo was his oldest still alive and the only one who was born of his first wife. The boy reminded him of her often: she had been impetuous and wild, too, a seventeen-year-old beauty from a village near to his in the heart of the Sierra. She had been the most beautiful girl he had ever laid eyes upon and his wedding day had been the happiest of his life. That it did not last did not sour the affection he felt for her whenever he recalled her memory. She had eventually become a little too wild, a little too free with her affections and too loose with her tongue, and he had been left with no other option than to do away with her. They had dissolved her body in a vat of hydrochloric acid and poured her into the river.