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It is not he who necessitated weeks of clandestine planning.

Espinoza and I have traveled many roads together, but none as unpredictable as the one we are now approaching. Whether he's standing in the midst of a slum, a jungle or a battlefield, his idiosyncratic elegance, mischievous smile and self-effacing charm have a way of defusing threat. Finally a respite from the cyber technology that's been sizzling my brain and soul.

Pope Francis blazed a trail and left town two days before. Regis Hotel with my colleague and brother in arms, Espinoza.

He says he would aspire to the energy sector, but that his funds, being illicit, restrict his investment opportunities. " Smiling, he shakes his head and says an unequivocal "None." There is no politician who could answer the same question so clearly or successfully, but then again, the challenges are quite different for a global power broker who simply removes any obstacle to "difficulties."Having explained my intention, I ask if he would grant two days for a formal interview. As Espinoza returns from his slumber, Kate, succumbing to the exhausting day's journey and the solace of a few tequilas, accepts the escort of El Chapo to her sleeping quarters. He walks us back toward the same bungalow where he had earlier escorted Kate.

He cites (but asks me not to name in print) a host of corrupt major corporations, both within Mexico and abroad. My colleagues would be leaving in the morning but I offer to stay behind to record our conversations. As he walks her alone toward the dimly lit bungalow, I can't help but have a primal moment of concern. We ask lighthearted questions, though the environment has gotten far less lighthearted. In a narrow, dark passage between ours and an adjacent bungalow, Chapo puts his arm over my shoulder and renews his request that I see him in eight days. At this moment, I expel a minor traveler's flatulence (sorry), and with it, I experience the same chivalry he'd offered when putting Kate to bed, as he pretends not to notice.

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My head is swimming, labeling Trac Phones (burners), one per contact, one per day, destroy, burn, buy, balancing levels of encryption, mirroring through Blackphones, anonymous e-mail addresses, unsent messages accessed in draft form. Paradoxical indeed, as one among his detail asks if I will take a selfie with him.

It's a clandestine horror show for the single most technologically illiterate man left standing. Flash frame: myself and a six-foot, ear-pieced Mexican security operator. It's paradoxical because today's Mexico has, in effect, two presidents.

Unlike the gangsters we're used to, the John Gotti's who claimed to be simple businessmen hiding behind numerous international front companies, El Chapo sticks to an illicit game, proudly volunteering, "I supply more heroin, methamphetamine, cocaine and marijuana than anybody else in the world. The battle-ready army of jungle guerrillas who had been standing down earlier in the night on her behalf are now returning to what I assume is a more typical posture. Following this Clark Kent-into-Superman extravaganza, Chapo returns to the table. Espinoza returns to the bed he'd claimed upon our arrival. We can talk and cuddle." With this prospect, I win the negotiation. " The dirt tracks of the jungle are difficult to navigate when monsoon rains saturate them.

I have a fleet of submarines, airplanes, trucks and boats."He is entirely unapologetic. " His unguarded will to speak freely, his comfort with his station in life and ownership of extraordinary justifications, conjure Tony Montana in Oliver Stone's . So you can point your fucking fingers and say, ' That's the bad guy.' So what's that make you? Now it is down to El Alto and I looking at each other. In his grace and discretion, El Alto makes his choice: "I'll go with the couch." As I collapse onto the bed, I hear El Chapo's convoy drive away into the night jungle. We'd have to beat the rain to the tarmac road.

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