“Someone in need of information.”
“Just a second.” There’s a long pause on the other end. I think I hear a door closing, before she comes back onto the line. “El Chulo charge you through the nose for my number?”
I grin. “A small fortune. Is it worth it?”
“Depends on the question,” she smoothly replies. Quick. Smart. I like this woman.
“Two questions.”
I raise my eyebrow at the sound of her sigh. “Two questions answered if I can ask two myself.”
“Deal. Does Fahder know about the uranium shipment?”
“No.”
I frown. “So Mendoza is running this operation?”
“Wrong.”
“Dios mío. Then who is?”
“That’s three questions.”
“Mierda.”
“Are you CIA?” she asks, as curious about me as I am about her.
“I’m no one,” I reply, repeating one of TORC’s mantras.
“And I’m Kate Middleton. Never mind. I was simply wondering if you worked with that fine piece of beef.”
I release a long mental sigh. McDuff is up to his old tricks again, I see. “Piece of beef?” I ask, playing dumb. Clearly, he told her he works for the CIA.
“Yeah. Corned beef. Hate the stuff.”
She is talking about McDuff. When did they meet? I wonder. “Can’t really say. Sounds nasty, though,” I smoothly reply. As much as I hate a pint of stale Guinness, no way would I sell him out.
“Tell him when you see him that he’s an asshole.”
I snort.With pleasure.She’s definitely has had an up-close and personal encounter with my colleague. Interesting . . .
“The uranium is shipping out of Acapulco on Saturday. Did you find out where it’s headed?” I asks.
“Still three questions.”
“Fine. I hate corned beef. Can’t stand the stuff. Now a fine steak . . .”
“Cork.”
“Cork?” I repeat. “Ireland.”
“I know. Ironic. Is there any other?”
“Fucking Irish.”
“Goddamn Irishmen,” she adds, clearly exasperated by McDuff. Good, a little good-cop bad-cop in play.
“Did Mendoza organize the shipment?”
