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“General Naylor told me that, sir,” she said. “I have no idea why Mr. D’Alessandro might be registered under another name. I was just trying to be helpful to Mr. Douglas.”
“I have General Naylor for you, Mr. President,” Douglas said, extending the handset of the red presidential circuit telephone to him.
“We finally heard from the goddamn Mexicans, General,” the President began the conversation. “Are you in contact with this man D’Alessandro?”
The telephone was not set on loudspeaker; only the Washington end of the conversation could be heard by others in the presidential study.
“Put him on, please.”
“This is the President, Mr. D’Alessandro,” Clendennen said. “Let me make this clear from the beginning. If you fuck this up, you’re not going back to Fort Bragg. If I can’t figure out some way to fire you, you’re going to find yourself counting envelopes in the Nome, Alaska, post office. You clear on that, Mr. D’Alessandro?”
“Okay. We’ve heard from the goddamn Mexicans. You’re to meet a deputy attorney general . . . what’s his name, Madam Secretary?”
Secretary Cohen furnished the information.
“By the name of Manuel José Guzmán,” the President went on. “In the Diamond hotel in Acapulco at one this afternoon—
“Yes, the Camino Real Acapulco Diamante,” the President confirmed impatiently. “He’s going to have this cop, Pena, with him. Can you make it down there
in time?
“Okay. By the time you get there, these people will have figured out that they didn’t make a fool of me at the Juárez airport this morning. So let them know I’m mad. Tell them we’re not going to produce this Mexican bandito Abrego until we have proof we’re about to get Ferris in exchange for him. Like that photograph they wanted of Abrego standing outside somewhere recognizable in El Paso. Tell them to take a picture of Ferris standing outside the Oaxaca State Prison holding a copy of that day’s newspaper—
“How the hell am I supposed to know what newspaper? Find out what it is, and tell them to use that. And tell them to give the photo to somebody from the embassy. Hold one.”
The President turned to Secretary Cohen.
“How do we do what I just said?” he asked.
“I suppose I could ask Ambassador McCann to send an embassy officer to Deputy Attorney General Guzmán’s office,” she said, after a moment’s thought.
“Ask him, hell,” the President said. “Tell him. D’Alessandro, the embassy’s going to send an officer to Guzmán just as soon as Secretary Cohen tells him to. Have Guzmán, or this cop, give him the picture. He’ll send it to me. When I see it, we’ll move Abrego down there. Got it?
“And as soon as you do this, you get back to El Paso and stand by. Got it?
“Don’t fuck this up, D’Alessandro,” the President said, and handed the handset to Agent Douglas.
“Give it to the secretary, Douglas,” the President ordered. “She’s going to call Ambassador McCann.”
[FOUR]
Camino Real Acapulco Diamante
Carretera Escenica Km 14
Acapulco, Mexico
1315 21 April 2007
Vic D’Alessandro walked out of the lobby with Juan Carlos Pena and two of Pena’s bodyguards following.
Immediately, two Policía Federal Suburbans pulled up under the portico to where they were standing.
“Why don’t you get in the back, Mr. D’Alessandro?” Pena suggested.
“You don’t have to do this, chief,” D’Alessandro said. “I can take a taxi.”
“You never heard of Mexican hospitality?” Pena asked. “Get in.”
