by Tom Wood
“I’m making a fresh start,” was his answer.
It was a term he’d heard a lot. People often talked about making fresh starts. Victor knew this because he spent a lot of time listening to conversations—on trains, on buses, in cafés, on the street—and not much time talking himself. So he knew he was making one of his own. At least to the extent such a thing was possible for a man of his profession. He wasn’t changing careers, because he didn’t know how to do anything else. He wasn’t changing residence, because he lived nowhere in particular. He wasn’t changing his relationship status, because he had never had one. He was changing the nature of his profession, however. He had always been a freelance operator, working with different brokers, performing contracts for multiple clients, but the past few years had been different. His independent status had been eroded. The once-sacred difference between broker and client had blurred. He hadn’t understood just how trapped he had been until he had found freedom again.
There was a newfound exhilaration he hadn’t felt in a long time.
Poison checked the computer while Victor dressed. She didn’t bother to dress herself again except with her T-shirt. It was a halfhearted attempt to protect what little modesty remained. The snowflakes did go all the way down her spine.
“Your fresh start is almost ready.”
He buttoned up his white dress shirt, leaving the top button unfastened. He wore a tie only when it was unavoidable, and in those cases it would be a clip-on, if he could get away with it without drawing attention. He left his suit jacket hanging from the back of a chair and laced his shoes. He always felt a little guilty when wearing outdoor shoes inside a home. He couldn’t rid himself of the memory of a time when such an action would have significant repercussions. He spent almost as much effort not thinking about the past as he did on remaining unnoticed, but some things were harder to ignore than others.
Poison said, “Just so you know, I do have a boyfriend. It’s kinda serious. This was just a . . . whatever. Is that okay with you?”
He nodded.
The studio apartment was spacious, with bare brick walls, high ceilings, and lots of windows along one wall. The building had once been a textiles factory. Poison didn’t own a lot of furniture. Her personal sense of style didn’t translate to her living and working environment. It was clean and spartan, with nothing present that didn’t serve some function. He imagined even the potted plants had a job. Poison kept all her windows closed, despite the heat. To limit eavesdropping, he presumed. Hence the plants to help oxygenate the studio.
People like Poison were often difficult to locate, but Victor knew where to look and how to ask the right questions. He had identified a number of immigration lawyers of questionable conduct, and after a while observing those seeking the services of these lawyers, he identified an individual who some of them ended up meeting. This man offered several services, including providing bogus documentation. After a polite conversation and an exchange of money and threats, he revealed his supplier. The supplier was small-time. He faked work permits and arranged marriages of convenience. A few nights shadowing him, and Victor knew where those permits were forged. With further surveillance of that backstreet print shop he noticed a young woman who frequented it more than anyone could need.
Poison was a careful woman operating an illicit trade, but she was fearful of the authorities, not of someone like Victor, who slipped a note into a pocket of her jacket while she enjoyed a chai latte or two. She didn’t call the number he had supplied with the note, even when he left a second one while she watched a movie at the cinema. He approached her in the convenience store where she bought her groceries.
“I know you’ve been following me,” she had said.
Victor didn’t tell her that was only because he had made sure she did. “Then you know by now I’m not a cop.”
He had to prove he wasn’t wearing a wire when he had first been invited into her studio.
“Lit scars. Where’d you get that one across your abs?”
When Poison had finished, she presented the passport without fanfare. Victor examined it. He was no expert, but he was no layman either. He saw the excellence in the product and nodded his approval. He reached into his pocket for payment. He handed the envelope to her. She didn’t count the cash inside. She didn’t even open it.
“About this,” Poison said in a certain tone.
“Is there a problem?”
She said, “No problem, but a proposition.”
“Go on.”
“I usually do this for the cause,” she explained. “I do this to help the brothers and sisters fight the good fight against the governments, against the corporations.”
He saw where this was going.
“And here you are in your suit, looking like the living embodiment of everything we’re fighting against.”
“I’m not your enemy,” Victor said.
“But you’re part of the system that is.”
“Then why did you agree to work for me?”
“Principles aren’t cheap.”
“I have only as much money on me as we agreed.”
She nodded. “I figured as much, so how’s about the same time next month you pay me again, and the same the month after and every month after that, so the system doesn’t find out that you’re traveling through it with the wrong passport.”
“You want a sponsor,” Victor said.
“I know you can afford it, and revolutions are expensive.”
He thought for a moment. She was right: he had more than enough money to cover this expense. She thought she was overcharging, but he would have paid a lot more for work this good.
Poison watched him think. “You know I have hidden cameras in here, yeah?”
“Two covering the door, one in the northeast corner, one in the lightshade, and one in the smoke alarm.”
“How do you . . . ?” She stiffened a little, but held her ground. “In case you didn’t know, they’re all continuously recording and backed up.”
“To your computer.”
“Not just mine.”
Victor nodded. “Yes, that’s right. Your boyfriend’s computer receives the same information over the Internet. Encrypted, but then stored on his hard drive.”
She didn’t respond.
“Marco,” Victor said. “He likes to call himself Nemphese when he’s not running around as mobile tech support. You met online. On a hacker forum.”
He saw her glance at one of her phones. One that had been buzzing the most throughout the past hour.
“He’s pretty annoyed, right? After driving all that way out of town to see a new client that never showed. Long way back home to his apartment with the leaky ceiling. Just round the corner, isn’t it? Above the Indian restaurant. He’s not as security conscious as you. He’s too trusting. He didn’t have the same rough upbringing as you did.”
Poison was silent for a long time.
Victor rose from the stool. “We were talking about sponsorship.”
Poison couldn’t shake her head fast enough. “Forget it. I was just kidding around. I wasn’t serious.”
Victor said, “I’m always serious.”
“Okay,” she replied, backing away. “I made a bad call, but I’ve got the cash and you have the passport. We’re done. The deal’s still good.”
“I’m afraid we need to renegotiate the terms.”
He walked toward her. No longer in character. No longer unthreatening.
“Please don’t . . .”
• Chapter 10 •
Lavandier had not become consul to the matriarch of one of the most powerful cartels in Guatemala by being stupid, but he knew he was weak. Which, to his mind, was a kind of stupidity. He knew of his weakness, but he couldn’t resist it. His weakness was nothing unique, nothing original. He had a taste for young women of the
professional variety. His means of employment and his location meant there was a near-limitless supply to keep him entertained. He was a rich man, but he could have retired long ago if his tastes weren’t for only the best and most expensive. Even a rich man could become poor that way.
Lavandier was paid to advise and to manage. Heloise Salvatierra was the boss, but true bosses did little actual work. That was the point of becoming boss. All the money, but none of the sweat. Lavandier sweated for his money. He dealt with traffickers and sicarios, cops and accountants. He kept the day-to-day operations running as smoothly as he could. Busts, killings, and missing product were all common. Too common, even, but that was how the drug trade worked. Losses had to be factored in. They had to be expected and planned for, and that was the true skill of Lavandier. That was where his value lay. He made sure that any setback was not an actual setback. No shipment was ever too big, no trafficker too important, no sicario too valuable, to fear losing.
Heloise let him do his job his way, which was rare. Bosses may not want to work hard, but they wanted the work to be done their own way. The way they had done it to become boss in the first place. Heloise might be a different case because she had inherited her title, but no one respected her any less for that. She had been Lavandier for her father before Lavandier. She knew how the business worked and had the respect of those beneath her before she stepped into her father’s shoes. Everyone respected her because those who hadn’t were no longer in the cartel. Instead, they were buried in the jungle. She had been just as ruthless as her father had been. More so, maybe, because she was a woman and wanted to prove herself. She had done that and more. She had been one of those to wield the chain saws.
Lavandier had no such ruthlessness. He kept his distance from the messy side of the trade. He didn’t even like it when he cut himself shaving. Heloise found his squeamishness amusing. She liked to belittle him. She liked to show him photographs he didn’t need to see. She forced him to watch videos that made him retch, while she laughed the whole time.
Heloise and Lavandier greeted one another with air kisses.
“You’re looking good, Luis,” Heloise told him. “I like your jacket.”
Lavandier wore slacks and a blazer over a polo shirt. All new, all the best money could buy. He liked to be smart casual. He didn’t end up working for a cartel only to wear a suit. He hated suits. He hated what they represented: working hard only to die tired. No, thanks. If Lavandier died tired, he would make sure it would be after a marathon session with the city’s best escorts.
Heloise continued with a wicked little grin. “And your hair is particularly glorious today. You look positively radiant in your youthfulness.”
Lavandier had embraced the silver in his hair a long time ago, but he refused to be gray. His stylist would add some touches of color every time he went for a trim, just to top up the silver-gold look that gave him both vigor and wisdom. Heloise teased him about his dyed hair with intermittent cruel taunts. Her humor, like the rest of her personality, was merciless.
He smiled through it. “And you’re delectable, as always. Maybe more so.”
“You flatter me.”
“My dear, I love you with all my soul.”
Heloise laughed. “I think you mean with all your loins.”
Lavandier bowed his head. “They share the same space.”
They met in the casino, in the Goddess Suite that Heloise called home. It was a horrific space to Lavandier’s eye. So gaudy and ostentatious. All gold paint and excess, designed to appeal to those with plenty of money but no taste.
She led him to the living area and they took seats on armchairs so uncomfortable they could only be outrageously expensive.
“Who have you found?” she asked him.
He said, “I have two candidates for your consideration. Both men. Both foreigners. At least as far as I can tell.”
“Tell me more.”
“The first I located through our friend in Moscow, so I will refer to him as the Russian. He has an extensive résumé and many notable hits. Long-range rifle kills being something of a specialty, but many achieved by other means also. He comes highly recommended.”
She considered this information for a while, which the Frenchman exploited by gazing upon her without judgment. She was a beautiful woman, with black hair and flawless skin. She dressed like a movie star attending a premiere. Always squeezed into something that showed off every curve. She liked to tease him as much as she liked to belittle him. He spent much of his time in her presence adjusting how he sat.
“The second?” she asked after a while.
Lavandier snapped out of his trance. “This one was offered by a broker known as Phoenix, who you will remember was used on occasion by your father.”
Heloise nodded.
Lavandier added, “But I know very little about the man she recommends. Hence, I shall call him the Wraith.”
“How intriguing.”
Heloise thought for a moment. Lavandier stared at her lips. They had been turned to a permanent pout and always smeared with a bright color. She was in her late forties but looked ten years younger. If Lavandier’s weakness was for escorts, then Heloise’s was for cosmetic surgeons. Although it wasn’t for vanity, he learned, but for competition. Heloise’s sister, Maria, younger, prettier, had been their father’s obvious favorite. Heloise no longer had the chance to win her father’s approval, but she could still fight her sister’s beauty. Lavandier was far too wise to ever comment, but it was a battle Heloise could never win. Partaking only ensured eventual humiliation.
If sibling rivalry was her flaw, it was her only one. Heloise didn’t drink and she didn’t take drugs, following the example presented by the most effective bosses, such as her father. With near-limitless funds and access to product, excess was common and almost always led to self-destruction. Heloise was too smart to give her enemies an easy advantage over her. Lavandier was glad about that, because if Heloise was usurped, he would be too. He thrived—and survived—as long as she did, so he did everything he could to ensure this. He paid close attention to grumblings and those with too much ambition.
“If Phoenix is suggesting him, then there must be a reason,” she said. “He must be capable. He has to be good.”
“This is my thinking too. The only thing more important to her than discretion is her reputation.”
Lavandier waited for Heloise to consider the information and come to a course of action. His role was to provide advice, but he knew when it was unnecessary, and also when it could be misconstrued as condescension. Lavandier was French, from rural Normandy. He was a foreigner, an outsider, and this both hindered and helped him in his career. His nationality, his Europeanism, gave him an exotic air and afforded him an instant respect he did not deserve. But conversely he had to work harder to gain trust.
He was in no rush. He watched her think. He enjoyed watching her think.
After almost a minute of silence, Heloise said, “I like the sound of the Wraith more. But I want to meet him first. I’m not hiring someone I have no measure of.”
Lavandier nodded. The Wraith was his own preferred choice. “I’ll arrange a face-to-face.”
• Chapter 11 •
The second forger Victor dealt with proved far more respectful of their agreement. There was far less personal interaction too. The second passport and accompanying documents provided Victor with an Australian identity, which would be used as a backup. He would keep it in motion, using automated courier services to send it across international borders in sync with his own movements, arranging for delivery and collecting it only when it was needed.
With a second clean identity, Victor burned his old passport. It was a fake, but an exceptional one, and though he had never before used it while working, he had owned it for a few years, and now more than ever it was essential to rid himself of any connections to his pr
evious employers. A fresh start, as he had told Poison.
Everyone who mattered thought he was dead. Or couldn’t be certain he was alive. Only one woman knew for sure, but he didn’t envision their paths would ever cross again. His true vulnerability came via his broker, but they had a good arrangement. Phoenix knew there would be a heavy price for betrayal and much to be gained through cooperation.
If he wanted to work, if he wanted money, then there was always vulnerability. He couldn’t operate without drawing attention to himself. He couldn’t work without putting himself at risk. It was the nature of the profession.
A profession that presented a new opportunity. It was the first job arranged by his new broker, and it came with a proviso. The client wanted to meet him first.
The meeting took some effort to arrange. The client had many stipulations and nonnegotiable conditions, and Victor had plenty of his own. Meeting a client in person was a cardinal sin. Or, at least, it had been before he had been forced to change his protocols to keep powerful enemies on the side. Now that he was freelance again, now that he was making his fresh start, he didn’t want to start breaking rules from the outset. But to his surprise the client was willing to come to him, to meet at a time and place of his choosing.
He had selected a suite in Madrid’s Ritz-Carlton hotel for the face-to-face and a time of six fifty-five p.m. If the client was a minute early or a minute late, the meeting would not take place.
The client insisted on being accompanied by an adviser, which Victor accepted, but only if the client’s security detail waited in the hotel lobby. Both the client and he agreed no weapons would be present at the meeting, but he would not be honoring the agreement. He had a small arsenal of guns in the suite’s master bedroom that would be taken out only if needed. He would have no weapons on his person, which he felt kept to the spirit of the rule. He meant the client no harm, unless he was given no other choice.
It took fifty seconds for the private elevator to ascend from the lobby to the suite, which meant Victor had plenty of time to witness the client’s arrival at the hotel himself and still return to the suite.