Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [142]
A thought came to Fall’s eyes: “Why, this envoy Torres, he may have been playing me for a fool. I believe I was a fool. They blow us to pieces, and I get the President of the United States to make peace with them—after they’ve seized our mines. Maybe they are planning to go for the oil next. Damn my eyes for a blind man.”
“We don’t have any proof, Mr. Fall. Not yet. And the missing link is still the gold.”
“That’s right—what about the gold?” Fall eyes moved back and forth. “It can’t be, Littlemore. You’re telling me that by coincidence our gold was being moved on Mexican Independence Day?”
“I don’t think it was coincidence, Senator. Like you said, maybe the Mexicans paid off somebody in our government—somebody in a position to arrange when the gold would be moved. I’m going to the Mexican Embassy, Mr. Fall. I’m going to talk to this Torres. And Pesqueira.”
“By God, son, if you get to the bottom of this, I’ll get you an embassy of your own. Where’d you like to be ambassador?”
“Not my line, Mr. Fall.”
“Then how does Chief of the federal Bureau of Investigation sound?”
The Mexican Embassy, a substantial four-story house on I Street, had a damp and insalubrious odor in its foyer. Discoloration streaked its walls.
“You got mold in here, ma’am,” said Littlemore to the receptionist.
“I know,” she replied. “Everyone says. Can I help you?”
The detective learned that Elias Torres, the new envoy, had not yet presented his credentials at the embassy, but was expected tomorrow. Señor Pesqueira, however, was upstairs.
Roberto Pesqueira was a small man with well-oiled black hair, fair skin, an ink-thin mustache and small but perfectly white teeth. He showed no signs of unease when Littlemore introduced himself as an agent of the United States Treasury. If anything, he looked as if he might have been expecting the visit.
“I have reason to think you threatened a man in New York City two months ago, Mr. Pesqueira,” said Littlemore.
“What man?”
“Thomas Lamont. Two weeks before the Wall Street bombing.”
Neatly folded white handkerchiefs were piled on one corner of Pesqueira’s desk. He removed one of these and applied it to his teeth. “Your emperor,” said Pesqueira.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Señor Lamont is the king on your throne. Everyone else is his lackey. Wilson, your so-called President, is his lackey.”
“You don’t deny the threat?”
“The Morgan Bank strangled my people for six years,” said Pesqueira. “Your government propped up a corrupt dictator in my country for twenty years. You occupy my country. You steal California from us. You warn us you will make another war if we do not change our constitutional laws. And you accuse me of threatening?”
“I’m just doing my job, Mr. Pesqueira.”
“Really? You must have forgotten the first two words of the law of nations.”
“What would those be?”
“Diplomatic immunity. Your law doesn’t apply to me. You cannot arrest me. You cannot search my home. You cannot even question me.”
“Nope. You’re a consular agent, just like Juan Burns was,” said Littlemore, referring to a Mexican consul jailed in New York City for illegal weapons purchases in 1917. “You don’t have diplomatic immunity.”
“Forgive me, you are not as ignorant as I assumed; one gets so used to it with Americans. But I am not a consular agent anymore. My office is here now, as you can see, in the embassy—and all embassy officials, I’m sure you know, enjoy the immunity of the diplomat. Technically, you are on Mexican soil right now. You cannot even be here without my consent. Shall I call the police, Agent Littlemore?”
Littlemore hurried back to Senator Fall’s chambers and, notwithstanding the protest of one of the Senator’s assistants, knocked on Fall’s door and strode through.
“Don’t you come busting in here, boy,” said Fall, seated at his desk, white handlebar mustache contrasting sharply with a florid countenance.
“Sorry, Mr. Senator,” said Littlemore. “I need to know where I can find the Mexican envoy you were telling me about—Torres. Right away.”
“Why?”
“He’s not on staff at