Goodbye Mexico Read online

  Gearheardt sat on a bench beneath one of the mammoth trees and I dropped down beside him as he lit a cigarette.

  “Those are the Halls of Montezuma, Jack,” he said, pointing to the castle. “You know, the Shores of Tripoli and all that stuff.”

  “I know the Marine Corps hymn, Gearheardt.”

  “Don’t you kind of still miss the Marine Corps, Jack? This CIA stuff is fun but there’s no camaraderie or anything. Every man out for himself, know what I mean? If I’m going to try to take over a country or just kill some officials, I like to do it with a bunch of good guys. Have a few beers or something, you know? Blow something up and then run like hell. That’s my style, not all this sneaking around and using some local dick-head with a burr up his ass about his own politicians.”

  “You haven’t changed a bit, Gearheardt. A hand grenade looking for a place to explode.”

  Gearheardt and I had been young Marine pilots when we were asked by the president to go on a mission to Hanoi to stop the Vietnam War. We didn’t do a very good job, to say the least, and were traded to Air America and the CIA after we escaped from North Vietnam. Gearheardt resented our treatment, but I thought we received better than we deserved. Gearheardt screwing Uncle Ho’s girlfriend might have caused the 1968 Tet offensive. But that was behind us now.

  “Got a cigarette, Jack?” Gearheardt asked.

  “I gave it up. The air in Mexico City is enough to keep a good cough going.”

  Gearheardt waved to a young boy selling cigarettes and gum. He bought a package of each, borrowing the pesos from me and letting the boy keep the considerable change.

  “I gave it up too. But I’m starting again.” He lit another cigarette and blew smoke, tilting his head up and away from me. “My only hobby.”

  Gearheardt sat for a moment contemplating the almost carnival-like scene in what we could see of the park. When he spoke, he didn’t turn his head toward me.

  “This country is screwed, Jack. The new rich folks are stealing from the old rich folks. The politicians are crooked as a dog’s hind leg. The peasants don’t know enough to give a shit. And if they do get ahead, by some damn miracle, they just join the stealing crowd. Most of the Mexicans are just dicked.” He flipped his cigarette onto the sidewalk. “The situation is so pathetic it almost makes me feel bad to screw their women.”

  Gearheardt didn’t deal in irony and I knew that I was about to hear what he meant when he said he (the CIA? Gearheardt individually?) was taking over Mexico. So I kept my mouth shut.

  Now he turned toward me. “Cuba has it all together, Jack. The man has things under control.”

  I assumed he meant Castro.

  “You’ve never been to Cuba, Gearheardt. And have you forgotten the Cubans in Hanoi? The assholes torturing American pilots?”

  “In Angola they’re kicking ass and taking names, Jack. Toughest damn troops you ever saw. Disciplined and under control. In a fair fight, we would have a hard time knocking them on their butt. I’m not kidding you.”

  “What has this got to do with taking over Mexico?” I asked.

  Gearheardt lowered his voice and leaned toward me. “The Russians would piss their pants if we had troops in Mexico, Jack. God knows what the Chinese would do. I would imagine they couldn’t even find Mexico with a map. But you never know. France is still pissed the Mexicans executed Maximilian. Heaven knows what Germany is cooking up. Spain hates the Mexicans because they don’t want people to think Mexicans are Spanish. South America is jungle and dancing in bars. Sure, there are countries that don’t have their own screwed up political agendas and axes to grind. But can you see Iceland invading Mexico? Maybe if they teamed up with Greenland they could blast their way ashore at Acapulco, but then what? So Mexico just sits here, right on our border, festering and rotting in the sun.”

  “I have no idea what that rambling means, Gearheardt.” The concept of Icelandic troops storming Acapulco momentarily caused my mental gears to grind. “But let me explain a couple of things to you, my friend. First, there are more Russian spies in Mexico than there are Cubans in Havana. We assume they are trying to turn the country. And we’re not going to let them.”

  “Second, I don’t know what all this festering in the sun is about, but we’re making progress here. I mean the Agency is. And we are not actually hoping some wild ass renegade hit man recently from Angola might suggest backing the Cubans in a coup, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

  Gearheardt was maddeningly humming, his face turned away from me. I grabbed his arm. “Are you listening to me you damn wild man? No coups! If that—”

  “Ix-nay on the oo-cay stuff, Jack. This Toro I see before me might speak a little English.”

  I had not noticed two large Mexicans standing closely in front of us. Their black suits, tight in the shoulders, and sunglasses told me they were not lovers out for a stroll. Halcones, the Mexican Secret Police. I leaned back onto the bench and knew that I should say something before Gearheardt—as he did every damn time we faced any authority—pissed them off. I never could understand how anyone could see worth a damn through those sunglasses at night.

  “You boys big Ray Charles fans?” he asked, smiling the Gearheardt smile and spreading his arms across the back of the bench.

  The colored lights strung along the walkways twinkled in the sunglasses. The men behind the glasses didn’t seem to get the reference. In any event they were not amused.

  “Get up, gringo,” the closest Toro said, speaking to Gearheardt.

  I started to rise, pulling my diplomatic passport (black instead of civilian green) out of my inside breast pocket. “Se ores,” I began, “there might be some mistake. My friend and—”

  “Creo que no,” the smaller bull said. “No mistake. Your friend is coming along with us. This is no business of yours, Se or Armstrong. Go home.”

  “Jack,” Gearheardt said, now on his feet and facing down the first Halco e, “this is not unexpected. The man asked you politely to go home. You might want to do just that. These gentlemen want to buy me a beer. They didn’t invite you.” He smiled and stepped between the two policemen who turned and followed him without looking back at me.

  Who was standing on the sidewalk in Chapultepec Park worrying about a friend who had just been picked up by the meanest secret police in the world. I was pissed, knowing that I was now becoming part of something that Gearheardt had no doubt dreamed up and which would completely disrupt my life if it didn’t kill me.

  That damn Gearheardt, I thought.

  The Mexican boy selling cigarettes appeared beside me. He looked at the three figures disappearing into the dark street running behind the park.

  “That damn Gearheardt,” he said. Then he left while I was still speechless.

  CHAPTER TRES

  THE ROCKET SCIENTIST’S IDIOT BROTHER

  I was in my office the next morning, searching for the phone number of my contact at the Halcones, when I became ‘not the acting chief of station for the CIA in Mexico City.’ The announcement came in the form of my new boss sticking his head in my door and ordering me to follow him to his office. A much nicer office than mine, although harder to reach because it was hidden behind the lunch room and it was necessary to move the candy machine to open the door. Someone had penciled “Spooks Inside” on the panel beside the door and the erasing job was half-hearted.

  “Major Crenshaw, Armstrong,” the obviously not a major at the moment said, indicating a chair in front of his desk after we shook hands. “We’ll see about the entrance here, by the way. Someone’s idea of a joke, no doubt. When you leave, ask Juanita to come in and we’ll get some carpenters in posthaste.” He made a note to himself on his desk pad, then looked up at me and smiled. It wasn’t the yellow circle face kind of smile; more like a man with stomach cramps might have if he were putting on a brave face. “And who are you?”

  “Armstrong, sir. I’m the—”

  “I know who you are, Armstrong. I meant who are you.”


  That clears that up, I thought. This was not starting out good. Crenshaw had all of the surface nomenclature of what the Marine Corps called an asshole. Introducing himself as ‘Major’ (no doubt a rank he had achieved in the Army some years ago); ordering me into his office like a file clerk (and me ‘acting chief of station’). Before I could mellow and give Crenshaw a chance, he snatched it away.

  “I’ll go first, Armstrong, since you seem to be having trouble answering simple questions. My name is Major Randolph Crenshaw, not Randy and not Mr. Crenshaw, but Major Crenshaw. I have been with the Agency only eight years but have risen to the top because I run things right. (I might have debated whether the ‘top’ was COS in Mexico City, but he might have had a point). Just so we don’t get started off on the wrong foot (too late) let me just say that I don’t appreciate the fact that you obviously were not prepared for my arrival.”

  “Sir, I was told that you would be taking over. But no time was given. As far as I know.” Defensive, but not too obsequious.

  “Was my file not sent to you?”

  “Yes, sir. A background file. Not knowing when you were coming or if you were coming, I put it in the safe and intended to read it later.”

  “This file?” He held up the sealed folder with his name on top. The bastard had already been in my safe. What else did I keep in there?

  “The reason you didn’t know I was coming now, Mr. Armstrong, was that I don’t do things the ordinary way. I do them the Crenshaw way.”

  “The Major Crenshaw way, sir?”

  He paused, probably not knowing if he should believe I was actually being insubordinate as it had most likely not happened often in his career. I had just reached my bullshit limit for early mornings. I needed to have coffee and needed to see if Ms. Sanchez was wearing the see-through blouse with the black lace bra.

  Major Crenshaw continued. “I had the Agency drop me near San Luis Potoci last Thursday night (I was pretty sure he meant he had actually parachuted into the middle of Mexico) and then made my way down here on my own. I rode a burro over the mountains so that no one could check me at the airport.”

  “You rode a burro, sir?”

  I probably shouldn’t have done what I did next. I laughed. Maybe there was still a chance this was a joke. But Major Crenshaw somehow didn’t seem the comic type, at least not in that sense of joking.

  I was not feeling good about my career. First Gearheardt shows up. And now my new boss is insane. I wondered if he knew that I had flown first class on Eastern Airlines and taken a limo into the embassy when I came down for my assignment. The thought occurred to me that if no one knew he was here, I could kill him, secure the candy machine in front of the door and then I would only have Gearheardt to deal with.

  “Yes, Armstrong, I rode a burro. Too many in the Company think we can run things from the ivory tower of the embassy or from some desk in Washington. (This sounded like a speech he had made many times before.) If we are to help these people, we need to know them. To experience them (like I wanted to experience Ms. Sanchez?) and become their friends and mentors.” He paused and for some reason I knew he would have a pipe in his satchel. He pulled it out and went through the elaborate ministrations of the obsessed. When it was exuding industrial strength ‘good old boy smell,’ he looked back at me. “You can laugh if you want, Armstrong. But don’t ever laugh at anything I tell you again. Do you read me?”

  If I had been Gearheardt, I would have said “I thought you just said I could laugh if I want.”

  I smiled and tried to make it an obsequious smile. I wasn’t Gearheardt and I did like my job in the embassy so I said, “Sorry, Major Crenshaw. I just wasn’t prepared for the image of the new Chief of Station riding into town on a burro.”

  “It was good enough for Jesus,” Major Crenshaw said. He didn’t smile and for the second time in twenty-four hours my heart sank. He was serious.

  We spent the next few minutes going over my mission at the embassy. Also my motivation and my commitment. This was what he had evidently meant by who I was. I reluctantly revealed the primary assets that I ran. My most reliable contacts. And what I felt like were the most pressing issues concerning the agency’s mission in Mexico. An agent rarely disclosed everything in the first meeting, even with his boss. Secrets were currency if you got in trouble. And you were bound to get in trouble with someone sooner or later.

  “That about it?” the Major finally asked. He closed the notebook that he made notes in. When he took a phone call, I was able to see that it was mostly doodles. I was happy he hadn’t copied down any of the names I’d given him.

  “I have a photographic memory,” he said, reading my mind. “Whatever I hear, I remember. Period.”

  “Wouldn’t that be an audiographic memory, Major?” I asked. I was still hoping he had a sense of humor. Plus I had run with Gearheardt too long not to have picked up a natural wise ass way to deal with authority. But I couldn’t seem to make it work for me like Gearheardt.

  “Armstrong, I’m here on a mission so secret that even the staff, including you, won’t know about it,” he said suddenly. He had lowered his voice and swirled his finger around the room. “Safe?”

  “Yes, sir. What is the mission, sir?”

  “Aren’t you listening? You don’t have a need to know. I have a need to know, because it’s my mission. Is that clear?”

  I immediately wondered if his mission had anything to do with Gearheardt. That would be good news.

  “There are a number of Cuban operatives,” I ventured, watching his eyes.

  “I’m not surprised,” he said, with no recognizable hints.

  “They were very effective in Angola.” Again I watched.

  “I’m not here to talk about Africa, Armstrong. Anything else?”

  “I guess not.” I had made the decision not to discuss Gearheardt until I knew more about Major Crenshaw. And about what the hell Gearheardt was up to.

  “Langley wants action, Armstrong.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What are we going to give them?”

  “Action, sir?”

  “You’re damned right.” He stood and didn’t offer his hand, which I didn’t want to shake.

  At the door I had a wild thought about sticking my head back in and saying, “By the way, Major, should I buy a burro?” But I didn’t.

  Ms. Sanchez was wearing the see-through blouse with the black lace bra.

  Back in my office I found the number of my contact at the Headquarters of the Mexican Secret Police. Eduardo was my neighbor in the apartment building where I lived. He didn’t particularly like gringos, but he liked American women and when I had invited him to a few of the parties I threw for the embassy secretaries, he put aside his dislike of gringos. The best thing about Eduardo was that he sometimes had a sense of humor.

  “Buenos dias.”

  “Eduardo, its Armstrong.”

  “Qual?”

  “Eduardo, I know you speak English. I need to ask you something.”

  “El gato bebe leche.”

  “Knock it off, Eduardo. This is important. My Spanish isn’t good enough to use.”

  “Entonces go eengage in eentercourse weeth your self.”

  I waited, breathing into the phone so he would know I hadn’t hung up.

  “Señor Armstrong. Jack. Is theese you?”

  “Yes, Eduardo. You knew all along. I need to ask you a favor.”

  “Ms. Sanchez is a Catholic, Jack. She will not sleep with you unless you marry her.”

  “Forget that. Eduardo, can you find out if someone brought in a gringo last night. His name was …” I realized that Gearheardt wouldn’t be using his real name. “His name was Woozely,” I guessed.

  A pause.

  “Who would this Mr. Woozely be, Jack?”

  “A friend. A social friend.” He would know I meant not an official friend, I hoped.

  “I don’t theenk so, Jack. If I found out, I will call you.” He hung up.

 
; I checked the contents of my safe but as far as I could tell only the file on Major Crenshaw was missing. I assumed that Crenshaw had read everything else so I moved the files to my desk and began to review them. I needed to know what he knew and what he knew I had not told him.

  I was running two ops that seemed to have possibilities. A contact at the University was reporting on Colombian students who had an unhealthy interest in firearms and explosive devices. Their names, the name of my contact, a student, and a copy of the inquiry sent to the COS in Bogotá made up the file. I wanted to know if the Colombians were actually students, what their background was in Colombia, and if the Agency could get a leather jacket made for me and send it up with the diplomatic pouch before next winter. Colombia had great leather goods.

  I also had a file that outlined my efforts to infiltrate the intelligence service of the Mexican army. Somehow I knew that we weren’t getting the kind of cooperation we should expect from the Mexican military. I wanted to know if it was sloppiness or deliberate.

  The last files had profiles on various employees of the French, British, and Italian embassies in Mexico City. You never knew when you might need a favor, and the contents of these files would almost guarantee you could get a favor when you needed one. I had profiles on employees of the known anti-American agents in the city, but that was just so I could keep track of their whereabouts and contacts. Mostly Mexican whores so far.

  I had to assume that Major Crenshaw had seen these files. But he wouldn’t bring them up since they were marked secret and he wasn’t supposed to be in my safe. So I could act like he didn’t know. His ego had made him show me his file. But it was a slip and he wouldn’t mention it again.

  Thinking about it, I realized that it was maybe my disappointment at only being the Acting Chief of Station for less than a week that had caused me to take an instant dislike to Major Crenshaw. Maybe a number of high-ranking agents rode burros into cities all over the world. Maybe I should take burro riding lessons. Try to get along until I found out what Crenshaw was really like.