mind was right now: he was ready to negotiate with some of the Sinaloa Cartel’s most powerful money brokers. This became the typical pattern for our first night in any foreign country: we’d tear it up until nearly dawn, taking in the nightlife like the locals and getting a firsthand understanding of the streets, which would prove invaluable when we entered UC meetings.
When I was on the verge of sleep, I caught a flash of an infamous face on my hotel room TV. In Spanish I heard that, for the first time, Forbes had listed Joaquín “El Chapo” Guzmán as a billionaire, one of the richest and most powerful “businessmen” in the world.
WE HAD SELECTED a popular high-end steakhouse called La Rosita—located just inside the front door of a luxury shopping mall—for the next day’s undercover meet with Mercedes Chávez Villalobos.
The plan was this: Diego and Mercedes would sit at an outdoor table so I could keep my eyes on my partner throughout the meeting from inside the cab of a Toyota Hilux pickup, the G-ride that belonged to one of the DEA agents permanently stationed in Panama.
Neither Diego nor I could carry: Panamanian law wouldn’t allow us to bring our handguns into the country. But Diego was armed with one high-tech gadget: a secret key-fob camera that looked like an ordinary car key remote but was capable of discreetly recording hours of audio and video.
Diego was dressed in a well-tailored three-button dark gray suit, a white shirt, and a solid maroon tie pulled so tight it made the bottom of his neck puff out against his collar.
“Kill it, baby,” I said, leaning over, hugging him. Diego nodded, mouth drawn tight as if he were already running scenarios in his head.
I set up the G-ride in the busy parking lot as close as I could to watch Diego enter the restaurant, discreetly parked, but with a perfect line of sight to the terrace tables.
But after two minutes, there was still no sign of Diego.
Three minutes passed. Then five. Then seven. I still couldn’t see him on the terrace. I thumb-typed a text in our prearranged code, in case they checked his phone: innocuous Mexican slang for “What’s happening, dude?”
“K onda, güey?”
No reply from Diego.
“K onda?”
My leg began twitching nervously.
I kept hitting resend on the BlackBerry.
Nothing.
I felt sweat drenching the front of my shirt.
This was the worst scenario for an undercover meet: we had no backup agents inside the restaurant with eyes on the UC, and no armed Panamanian counterparts watching our backs.
I couldn’t sit for another second. I bolted from the Toyota and headed straight for the entrance of La Rosita.
What if Mercedes had switched up locations at the last minute?
What if her people had snatched Diego to pat him down, make sure he wasn’t a cop?
In the restaurant, the hostess smiled and, in heavily accented English, said, “You have a reservation, sir?”
I was so focused, scanning for Diego’s gray suit at the restaurant tables, that I barely heard myself answer.
“No, I’m meeting a friend,” I said. “He’s already seated.”
I scanned every table hard but didn’t see him anywhere.
Fuck! Had they grabbed him already?
I started to feel everyone’s eyes locking on me as I frantically walked through the tables.
I hope to hell we’re not compromised.
Where is he, for fuck’s sake?
I had nowhere to go. I spun in a circle in the center of the restaurant, the walls becoming a blur. I quickly grabbed a busboy by the shoulder.
“El baño?” I asked, and no sooner had the kid gestured to the left than I saw that I was standing right next to Diego—in fact, I was literally looking down on the crown of my partner’s head.
Diego was in an intense but muted conversation with Mercedes. And not only Mercedes, but two older Mexican-looking males. They were heavy hitters, I could tell. One appeared to be wearing a pistol, bulging behind the flap of his tan blazer.
Three targets? The meet was only supposed to be with Mercedes. I knew that Diego would be trying to hold his own, with no backup for his story, but even at a quick glance, I sensed that the sit-down had turned tense. Mercedes and the two henchmen had hard gazes; they weren’t buying Diego’s story.
Before anyone noticed me looking, I darted for the bathroom. A single trickle of sweat ran from my chest down to my navel. I could hear myself breathing loudly. Right before I reached the bathroom, I noticed a steak knife on a table ready to be cleared.
Could I grab it without being seen? There was no other option. I needed a weapon and had to take the chance.
As quickly as I could, I snatched up the knife, placed it flush against my wrist, and slipped it into my pocket.
In the bathroom, I turned on the sink and splashed cold water on my face, attempting to calm my nerves, hoping one of the bad guys wouldn’t stroll in suddenly to take a piss.
What the hell can I do if they plan on kidnapping Diego? What if this meet is all a setup to take him as human collateral?
The door suddenly swung open—I straightened up, my face still dripping with cold water, but it was just a regular restaurant patron. I knew one thing: it was crucial to get photographs of Mercedes and the two heavies so I could identify them if they took Diego by gunpoint. It would also be critical for future indictments, and I couldn’t rely on the key fob Diego was carrying.
I had the steak knife ready in one pocket; in the other, I had a small Canon digital camera, which I flipped on, to video mode.
Keep the camera steady in your hand. Don’t make eye contact. They won’t see it’s on—just stroll by naturally...
I walked slowly past Diego, unable to aim the Canon’s lens, just hoping I’d capture the faces of everyone at the table as I walked toward the door. I knew I couldn’t hang out in the restaurant alone, so I found a discreet place outside where I could watch Diego through the windows of the front door. I sat there, my hands trembling as I waited for Diego to exit.
AFTER ANOTHER HOUR, Diego got up from the table, shook everyone’s hands, and gave the half-hug—Mexican style—to all three, then walked out of the restaurant.
I followed him on foot as he walked on into the mall, staying thirty yards behind, making sure we weren’t being followed by any of Mercedes’s people.
Finally, I looked back over my shoulder three times and met up with him in a back parking lot. We were clean. We jumped in the cab of the Hilux and sped off.
Diego was silent for a long time, staring out the window and trying to make sense of what had just happened. His expression was trancelike.
“You all right, brother?” I reached over and grabbed him by the shoulder, attempting to shake him back to reality.
“What?”
“Bro, you cool?”
“That was so fuckin’ intense,” Diego said at last. “A straight-up interrogation. She kept hitting me with question after question. ‘Who’s your company? Who do you work with?’ ”
“How’d you play it?”
“Just started making up shit, story after story—how we’re moving millions in tractor-trailers, our fleet of private aircraft. Ships. Told them we transport coke—by the tons.”
“And?”
Diego