SEAL Team Six Hunt the Falcon(69)

Randal didn’t know what the number meant, but said the name belonged to a smuggler associated with the drug cartels who ran a silver and curio stall in the Mercado Juárez, on Avenida 16 de Septiembre in the center of town.

“Let’s go talk to him.”

They piled back into the taxi and slowly nosed through rush hour traffic to the city center.

“What’s the significance of the sixteenth of September?” Crocker asked.

“It’s the day Mexico celebrates its independence from Spain,” Randal answered.

Mancini, who seemed knowledgeable about practically anything having to do with history, geography, weapons, foreign cultures, and technology, added, “It’s actually the day Father Miguel Hidalgo rallied people to march on Mexico City. Kind of like our Fourth of July, which was the day the Declaration of Independence was signed, even though United States sovereignty wasn’t formally recognized until the Treaty of Paris, ratified after the Revolutionary War.”

“Then what’s up with Cinco de Mayo, May fifth?” Tré asked.

“Cinco de Mayo commemorates the day in 1862 when Mexico defeated the French Army in the Battle of Pueblo,” Mancini answered.

“What were the French doing here in the first place?” Tré wanted to know.

“Ostensibly to collect on debts owed to France, but really they used that as an excuse to try to establish a pro-French government that would extend France’s interests through Central America.”

They parked in a lot across from a large two-story cement structure with a big red Coca-Cola sign on top. Randal handed a beggar kid a twenty-peso note to watch the car. Then he led the way into the building and a phantasmagoria of colors and smells—wildly colored blankets, wrestlers’ masks, ceramic dolls, saints, red chilies, cheeses, silver trays. Rag-clad kids and cripples crowded around them and pleaded for dollars.

Randal shooed the beggars away and pushed through narrow aisles jammed with tourists and Mexicans. Crocker and his men followed.

“You want beautiful earrings for your señorita?” a young woman asked.

“You want the best Mexican sombrero decorated with real silver for good luck?” asked a boy with two missing front teeth.

“No, gracias.”

“You want a statue of Quetzalcoatl to put in your house?” asked an old lady with long gray braids.

“What would I want that for?” Tré asked back.

“To keep out evil spirits.”

Randal turned left into a stall that offered ponchos, jackets, and sweaters out front. A teenage girl with a large mole above her lip asked in English how she could be of help.

“We’re looking for Cucho Valdez,” Randal said.

“Cucho is inside eating lunch.”

They had to lower their heads to get past vividly colored papier-mâché gourds, piñatas, and leather saddles. The walls were lined with display cases filled with silver coffee services, cups, trays, and jewelry. Cucho sat behind a glass counter that held carved silver lighters and antique pistols, chewing on a chicken leg.

He was a man of about thirty with dark skin, high cheekbones, and black hair that hung to his shoulders. Almost pretty in a rough-hewn way with sad, hangdog eyes. Seeing the four strangers, he said, “I love doing business with Americans.”

Randal asked, “Is there somewhere we can talk to you in private?”

“Why? You guys looking for something special?”

Crocker leaned forward and said, “We’re real estate investors from Canada hoping to do a deal with three Venezuelans. They told us that you could tell us where to find them.”

Cucho didn’t even blink. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and asked, “You dudes with the DEA?”

“No. Not at all,” Randal answered.

“Sorry. I don’t know any Venezuelans. Valdez is a common name here, and a lot of people are called Cucho. People call me that because they think I look depressed. But I’m not depressed, it’s just the way my eyes are formed. I can’t help it. I’m actually a very happy person. You’ve probably got me confused with someone else.” He wiped his hands on a piece of newspaper, picked up a lime-colored cell phone from the glass counter, and punched some numbers.

Randal said, “We’re friends of the governor.”

Cucho didn’t seem to care.

“Who are you calling?” Crocker asked.

“Randy Simmons. He works with the DEA,” Cucho answered.

“Why?”

“Maybe he can help you.”

Tré, without any prompting, removed a Glock from his waistband, pressed the barrel against Cucho’s forehead, and said, “Put the phone away.”