by Tom Wood
Arturo had to ask. He had to. “What about me? Are you going to kill me?”
“I should.”
“I can pay you. I told you. I’m rich.”
“If you’re so wealthy, why are you ripping off individuals buying small arms? Surely that’s not a profitable use of your time.”
The stalling was working. Arturo could see a chance out of this. He had the man’s interest, he had his attention. Arturo just had to close the deal.
He explained, “I don’t make any money from that. I don’t get paid. That’s not work for me in the traditional sense. It’s like a favor. My job is to help my clients—all sorts of different people—achieve what they want to achieve. That can be as small as making a parking violation go away, or it can be as big as getting an OD’d hooker out of a hotel room before the media find out the guy snorting blow off her tits just happens to be the chief justice.”
“I said no swearing.”
Arturo’s palms shot higher into the air. “Sorry. Bad habit. But, like I say, I do favors. I help my clients sleep better at night for my very reasonable hourly rate. Then, when they owe me, when they become useful to me, they help me in return. Or, to be more precise, they help me help another of my clients. The kind who donate large sums into my numbered accounts, no questions asked. In your case, for which I’m very sorry, I have a client in Honduras who would benefit from the kind of political unrest that a few Marxists with guns, running around the jungle, would create. They needed to raise funds that couldn’t be traced to him or anyone close to him.”
“Whose idea was it to steal from arms buyers?”
Should Arturo now lie after revealing so much truth? He wasn’t sure. And in that indecision he was silent, and the man understood.
“It was your idea.”
Arturo said, “Yes.”
The man said, “That’s exactly what I was hoping to hear.”
Arturo said, “I’m afraid I don’t follow,” because he didn’t.
“You’re good at what you do.”
“I am?”
“I get that it was merely business for you. It’s almost always business for me too. I have no grudge against you. I’m not here for revenge. If I were, I would now be drowning you in your pool, taking my time over it, letting your head up every so often to keep you alive longer, to extend the suffering. Drowning is a horrible way to die.”
Arturo couldn’t help but look at the distorted reflection staring up at him, and his mind flashed an image of hands holding him beneath the surface, of underwater thrashing, of a storm of bubbles and agony.
He looked back at the man in the suit, who said, “But I’m not, because it just so happens that our goals perfectly align.”
“They do?” Arturo asked.
“You don’t want me to kill you,” the man in the suit said, so casually, so simply, that it seemed to Arturo that delivering on the words would be no more effort for him than speaking them. “And I don’t want to have to kill you.”
“I’ll do anything.”
“You can start by finding out who crews the yacht Sipak. It’s moored in Guatemala. I want a manifest.”
Such a thing would be easy for Arturo, but he resisted saying so. Instead, he nodded. “That should be possible. Then we’re even, yes?”
The man shook his head. “No, that’s half of it. That’s to mitigate the loss of the rifle. That’s not going to stop me from killing you for trying to kill me.”
“I’ll do anything,” Arturo said again.
“That’s not good enough,” the man said. “If you say that, you’ll make a bad deal. You’ll agree to whatever it takes to save your life. That’s no good to me. That’s not going to help me when I need you at some later point.”
Arturo was starting to understand. The man in the suit wanted to establish a relationship. The same relationship Arturo had just described.
“You have to be happy with the deal,” the man continued.
“I will be,” Arturo was eager to assure.
“You have to convince me you’re happy.”
Arturo understood. If the man in the suit doubted his sincerity, if he even suspected that Arturo would not deliver his end of the deal at some later point, then only one of them was leaving the patio.
Arturo swallowed. He composed himself. “One favor. Five years. That’s the length of the deal. Anything after that, you have to pay for. And I won’t do anything that puts me in danger. I won’t do anything that I deem will put me at risk, either financially or to my freedom.”
“That’s more like it,” the man in the suit said. “Ten years.”
“Seven,” Arturo said.
“Fine.”
“Weapons, ammo, information, documents, friends—whatever I can do, whoever I can put you in touch with, I will.”
“I also want you to sever ties with your German contact. Nothing hostile. Nothing overt. You just don’t do any further business through her. You don’t put any work her way, and when she asks you for something, you can’t deliver.”
“Why?”
“My reasons are my own.”
“Then it’s back to five years.”
The man nodded. “We have a deal.”
He turned and headed back toward the patio door. Arturo watched him go, not quite believing what had happened, not quite understanding that he had survived.
“Hey,” he called to the man in the suit. “Just one question before you go: what kind of business are you in that you needed a high-powered rifle in the first place?”
“That’s not an answer you want rattling around your mind,” the man said without turning around. “Best remain ignorant, else maintain the illusion. It’ll help you sleep at night.”
• Chapter 54 •
Maybe it had been a restaurant. Maybe it had been a strip club. It was hard to tell from the weather-beaten exterior. Whatever the sign had read, it had been ripped away. Victor could see exposed bolt holes and slack tendrils of insulated wiring. Years of sun exposure had sucked the color from the paint work. Awnings had come away in places, and he imagined young delinquents hanging from them by their fingertips, swinging and fooling around, delighting when they gave way under their weight. It was the kind of thing he would have done—the kind of thing he had done. Those same kids or gangs had turned the walls into chaotic murals of competing graffiti. Tags overlapped or blended into one another. Victor couldn’t tell where some designs began or ended. There was no artistry on those walls, only anarchy.
Security mesh had been fixed over the windows back when the owner had still cared about the property. Like the walls, the mesh and the glass they protected were covered in graffiti. Weeds grew out of cracks in what had once been smooth asphalt, now a warped and cratered moonscape surrounding the building. A lone vehicle occupied the vastness of the otherwise empty lot.
Victor approached the building. There was only so much caution he could take when crossing a wide expanse of coverless ground. He glanced to where an old water tower overlooked the lot and the building. The tower was a couple of hundred meters away and would make the perfect spot for a waiting sniper. He had been back in Guatemala City for only a few hours, but there had been plenty of time to organize an ambush. There was no sniper on the water tower, because Victor was still alive.
Inside, Victor passed an empty cloakroom and a crooked hostess station before he entered the main space. Round tables and oval-backed chairs were spread across it and around a T-shaped stage. A bar was set along the opposite wall. Once a cabaret club, he saw, from a sign. Each table had its own electric lamp in the center, to provide the diners with a soft, flattering light. Semiprivate booths lined the far wall.
“It was beautiful,” a voice said from the darkness. “But it never opened.”
Victor faced the sound.
“A passion project,” the v
oice continued. “But the hard realities of life always get in the way of passion, do they not?”
Victor remained silent.
“We were going for a vintage feel. Something sophisticated. A little different. We wanted to own something we could feel proud of, if that makes sense.”
Victor didn’t care.
Lavandier stepped closer. “Thank you for meeting me.”
“Why am I here?”
“Because Heloise has forgotten this place even exists. I couldn’t bring myself to sell it back then, and over time it slipped out of my thoughts too as more pressing matters took precedence. Now no one wants it.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Lavandier came closer but he kept his distance. He stood on the far side of the stage, with plenty of tables and chairs between Victor and himself. He would be armed, of course, but the gun would be in a pocket of his coat. He was the kind of man who cared too much about his appearance to ruin the overall aesthetic with an underarm holster and rig. He also wasn’t the kind of man who could draw that weapon with any kind of speed. He wouldn’t be much of a shot either. A side step, a dash, some lateral movement would be the extent of Victor’s effort. Men like Lavandier let their guns be taken from them.
Lavandier said, “Miguel Diaz was murdered.”
“You told me you didn’t know who drove the yellow Lamborghini.”
The Frenchman said, “I didn’t know. I only know now because he’s dead.”
“What does it matter that he’s dead when he was an enemy?”
“Because you were hired to end a war, not fight it.”
“I’m not going to charge you for Diaz. Consider him a freebie.”
“That’s not what I meant. We’re trying to keep a low profile. Killing Diaz doesn’t help us do that.”
Victor said, “You’ve emptied your reserves of my goodwill just by the nature of this meeting. Don’t test my patience too. You didn’t ask me here to scold me over collateral damage.”
“I took you as the kind of man who never loses his temper.”
Victor said, “I’m human.”
Lavandier smirked. “Humanity is a construct. Life is a delusion. It isn’t real. It’s only real because we want it to be.”
“If I break your arm, it’ll hurt whether you want it to or not.”
“You miss my point. There is a limitation to human understanding. Our ability to comprehend is finite because our brains are physical organs. We do not expect our skin to be fire resistant or our lungs to breathe seawater, so why do we expect our brains to possess all knowledge, to unravel all mysteries? Whatever our faults, arrogance is perhaps our greatest.”
“No, I understand it all too clearly,” Victor said. “And I’m walking out right now if you don’t get to the point.”
Victor knew what Lavandier was going to say before he said it, but he wanted him to say it anyway. Lavandier would have practiced every point, every line. Each word would have been chosen with precision. This was the most important sales pitch of his life and it needed to be his best. Besides, even if he knew what Lavandier wanted to say, Victor didn’t know how he was going to say it. How the words were delivered was just as important as the words themselves.
Lavandier took his time. He was as much a showman as he was an orator. He wanted to present himself in a stately manner. He knew he warranted no respect from Victor, so he acted as if he deserved it. Appearances were everything for men like Lavandier. They had to fool themselves first to be able to fool others.
Victor let the Frenchman do whatever he needed to do to feel as if they were meeting as equals, when in fact there was no parity in the room. Lavandier was oblivious to this, of course, else he wouldn’t be here.
“I want you to kill Heloise,” he said.
Victor listened.
“You’re shocked by this, naturally, but hear me out. This is not a cartel war we are fighting, but a clash of civilizations. On one side we have the future, and on the other we have the past. Maria Salvatierra represents youth and vigor and a new world of opportunities. Heloise does not.”
Victor let Lavandier continue with his sales pitch.
“If she wins, the fighting will never stop. She commands no respect, only fear. Those loyal to Maria would never accept her as patron. Whereas Heloise’s men adore Maria because everyone does. They only fight for Heloise because they are scared of her. They would fight for Maria. They would fight harder for Maria. Business would boom.”
Victor cared nothing for cartel politics, loyalty, or for anyone involved.
“Heloise will be an easier target too,” the Frenchman continued. “You have a man on the inside.” He smiled at his own perceived value. “And when it is done, you will not only be paid for your services, but you will have gained a powerful friend. One that would no doubt wish to procure your future services from time to time.”
“You want to be patron,” Victor said. “You’ve had your fill of being an adviser. You want advisers of your own.”
Lavandier took his time finding his words. He had a self-deprecating expression. “You give my ambitions too much weight and my cunning too much credit. I only want peace, and with it prosperity.”
“So,” Victor began, “in this peaceful and prosperous future, you’re telling me that you can’t foresee a time when you will decide that there could be even more peace, even more prosperity, with you calling the shots and not Maria?”
“I don’t think we do ourselves any favors with such speculative presumptions.”
“You didn’t say no.”
Lavandier stepped forward. “Let’s sit, shall we? And talk. Like men.”
“We are men. We are talking.”
“Perhaps my English is not all it could be.”
Victor said, “It’s better than mine.”
Lavandier approached a table, equidistant between them. He took the back of a chair in his hands and gestured with his chin at the one opposite. “Shall we?”
Victor kept to the carpet. He avoided the areas of slick hardwood. Lavandier didn’t pay attention to where he stood or where he walked. Victor could not comprehend how such an existence would work. What did people think about when they didn’t need to consider their every step?
“I’m not tired,” Victor said.
Lavandier forced a laugh. “Well, I am. And I prefer to save what little energy exists in his shell of flesh for more fruitful expenditures.” He sat down. “You’re considering my proposal, because you are still here.”
“The rain still falls without considering snow.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
Victor said, “No deal.”
Lavandier said, “I’m very disappointed to hear that.”
“I’ll do the job I’ve been hired to do and no other. After I’m done, you want to hire me for another contract, you approach my broker with an offer.”
“You’re making a mistake.”
“If you knew enough about me to know that, you’d have known that this conversation would be pointless.”
Lavandier said, “I can make your life very difficult, Mr. Wraith. You would do well to remember that.”
“And I could end yours in a second without so much as raising my heart rate.”
Lavandier had nothing to say to that.
Victor continued: “I’ve been told that everyone deserves a second chance, so this is yours. Consider this my good nature getting the best of me. But the single most important thing to know about me is that I’m not a very nice person.”
Lavandier couldn’t speak even if he wanted.
“Heloise will not hear about this conversation,” Victor said as he approached the exit. “But only because this job is difficult enough without adding more complications. Be thankful I want an easy life, Mr. Lavandier.” He paused, and turned around. “Go
to your restaurant and have a crème brûlée. A spike in blood sugar will put some color back into your face.”
Lavandier managed to utter, “How do you know about my brasserie?”
“The same way I know the name of your favorite escort and how much you pay her to make you squeal on your hands and knees.”
Lavandier paled.
Victor said, “This city might be your house, but you’re a hen, and I’m the fox you invited inside it.”
• Chapter 55 •
Lavandier climbed into his car and engaged the lock so he could sit for a moment in the quiet and darkness with a little less fear. He hadn’t expected meeting the Wraith would be so different from the previous time with Heloise. Maybe that was why it hadn’t gone as well as he had expected. Perhaps Lavandier needed his patron at his side to feel powerful, to feel safe. No matter: it was over now, and he would not be seeking another face-to-face. He would stick to keeping outside of the line of fire. He would leave such dangers to those better designed for it.
The Wraith’s refusal to consider his proposal was a problem, but not an immediate one. He had told Lavandier that Heloise would not hear of it, but it wouldn’t make a difference if she was told. She would never believe it. Lavandier’s portrayed loyalty was perfect and the Wraith meant nothing to her besides a useful tool to use. His word meant nothing. Lavandier suspected the Wraith knew this and that was the reason why he wouldn’t reveal the Frenchman’s treachery.
Still, all was fluid. Heloise’s affections were fickle. She had torn the tongue out of a loyal man just to appear strong to her sicarios. Lavandier was forever a mouse in her claws. He already knew his existence was temporary in the trade. He had no intention of letting the Wraith walk around with the ability to shorten it. What if the Wraith killed Maria as planned, and Heloise’s delight and gratitude were such that she had further jobs for him, and with each success he was drawn deeper into her confidence? She was used to Lavandier’s counsel, already expectant of his skills at keeping the product flowing north and the money coming south. His novelty had long gone. His value had become routine. His talent was unappreciated. The Wraith, however, was new. New was always better, always shinier, or always more exciting. Worse still, anything Lavandier did, had done, could not compete with the singular glory of slaying the hated sister and ending the war. Heloise’s gratitude would be endless. She would want the Wraith as much as Lavandier wanted Heloise.