Requiem for the Assassin - 06

by Russell Blake

  His team. A misnomer, because each member was entirely dependent upon his own strength and stamina, albeit within the context of working together – a prudent concession to very real risks like injury, hypothermia, equipment failure, and flooding. Their lifeline was the support personnel at the base camp, three of Aguilar’s students who were hopeful to become part of the subterranean group once they’d put in their time on the surface.

  The men settled in for a brief rest before moving deeper into the cave, each lost in his thoughts. A jarring ringing shattered the silence, echoing off the walls in a series of reverberations that seemed to go on forever. Aguilar peered down at the telephone that was one of the many safeguards he insisted upon for his well-equipped excursions and raised it to his ear.

  “What is it?” he demanded.

  “There are some men here to see Ramón. They say it’s important.” The voice of the youngest of the base camp workers sounded tinny and distant over the tiny speaker.

  Aguilar looked at El Rey. “What? Who are they?”

  “Government. Is he there?”

  “Of course. Where do you think he is?”

  “They want to talk to him. Can you put him on?”

  Aguilar sighed and handed the handset to El Rey. “It’s for you.”

  El Rey reached out, his face a blank, and took the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Your uncle has had an accident. You’re needed immediately.” The voice was flat and mechanical, but the code words had the intended effect.

  “An accident?”

  “Yes. We were sent to escort you to the hospital.”

  El Rey checked his watch. “I can be back at the surface in four hours. I trust you can find a way to keep occupied until then?”

  “See you when you get here.”

  El Rey thumbed the phone off and shook his head. “My uncle has been in an accident. His friends say it’s bad. I need to get back to the camp immediately.”

  Aguilar’s eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He studied the rest of the group. “Well, gang, looks like that’s it for today. By the time we make it back, it’s over.”

  “You don’t have to all come with me.”

  “That’s not how this works. The whole point to going in as a group is for safety – not that I don’t enjoy your company. But if you were to slip halfway up, you could be dead by the time we returned, and worse, blocking one of the shafts at the narrowest point. Believe me, Ramón, it’s purely self-interest in play here.”

  “I can make it. Really. So far nothing’s been that tricky.”

  “Afraid not, my friend. Those are the rules. And I’m not going to let you destroy my perfect record of no catastrophes.” He paused. “Sorry about your uncle. It must be serious to drag you back, not to mention warrant sending someone to fetch you.”

  “He’s got a lot of clout. Let’s hope for the best. You know as much as I do at this point.”

  The sky was darkening when the group emerged from the cave, high streaks of russet and mauve backlit by the sun dropping behind the hills like a dying red ember. Two men waited for El Rey beside a black Humvee, and he made short work of packing his few belongings and saying his good-byes before joining them at the big vehicle. The taller of the two shook his hand as the other climbed behind the wheel.

  “Nice of you to join us,” the man said, his voice soft, aware the others were watching.

  “I’ve had a long day. What can you tell me?”

  “Nothing, other than that we’ve got a plane waiting in Oaxaca. But we’ve got to get moving, because on these roads it will be the longest eighty kilometers you’ve ever seen.”

  The man wordlessly got into the passenger seat, leaving the rear for El Rey. The assassin slung his packs onto the floor and slid in, and soon they were bouncing along the dirt track, little more than two ruts in the lush grass that rose from the dirt road at the bottom of the hill. Fog was creeping into the valleys between the mountain peaks, and the sun’s dying rays lit the white blanket that stretched below them like a fresh snowfall. Once over the nearby pass, the big vehicle had to slow. Visibility had diminished to twenty feet, and the driver was obviously keenly aware of the steep drop should he misjudge one of the curves in the thick haze.

  The men exhaled a collective sigh of relief when they arrived at the Xoxocotlán airport, where a Lear 35 waited by the terminal, ready for takeoff. Five minutes later the jet was climbing on a parabolic trajectory into the night sky, the G-forces pushing El Rey back into his seat as the pilots urged the plane to its limits.

  Chapter 5

  Mexico City, Mexico

  A delivery van wended its way through traffic on the Calle Miami near the World Trade Center building in Mexico City, ignoring the dissonant symphony of car horns that greeted its aggressive moves. A smattering of pedestrians ambled down the dimly lit sidewalks, most of the illumination coming from retail outlets open late to cater to an evening crowd.

  Captain Romero Cruz sat at a curbside table outside a small restaurant, enjoying the pleasant cooling breeze. He took a bite of his torta and gazed across the table at his wife, Dinah, who was eating her tacos al pastor with considerably greater finesse. He wiped traces of cheese and mayonnaise from his mustache and smiled. “I’m hoping things ease up in the next couple of weeks and we can get away for a few days.”

  Dinah smiled, and the light on the sidewalk seemed to brighten. “Maybe someplace with a beach.”

  Cruz nodded with a serious expression. “And cold beer.”

  “Although tequila’s been known to do in a pinch,” Dinah agreed.

  Cruz raised his bottle of Bohemia beer in silent toast. Dinah matched the gesture with her water, her eyes dancing with playful happiness.

  “Seriously, though, we need a vacation,” Cruz said. “I’ve been going nonstop for months. And I know it’s been hard on you, with me gone all the time, working.”

  “The pool boy hasn’t been complaining.”

  “Is that why he’s looking so tired?”

  She nodded. “I was worried you’d figure out our building doesn’t even have a pool.”

  “Ah. It’s the little things. Always the little things.” He stifled a yawn. “I’m sorry they were able to drag me back into this sewer. If it had been anyone but the president, I would have said no.” Cruz had quit his job after tracking and stopping a German assassin who’d been trying to execute the visiting Chinese premier, but fate had intervened, and the President of Mexico had made a personal appeal to him, imploring him to continue with his duties. Cruz had agreed provided one condition was met, and within forty-eight hours he no longer reported to his nemesis Godoy, a pompous bureaucratic ass he despised.

  “The pay raise and getting even with Godoy didn’t have anything to do with it?”

  Cruz smiled, took another large bite of his sandwich, and sighed contentedly, allowing her question to go unanswered. “It’s been eight weeks since we last moved. You know what that means.”

  “Time to find another pool boy.”

  “Correct. We’ll have a new condo next week.”

  She finished her taco and sat back. “Do you think we’ll ever have a normal life?”

  Cruz had been relocating every few months for so long he’d grown inured to being in a new neighborhood, a new building, six to eight times every year. It was all part of the toll he paid as the head of the Federal Police anti-cartel task force, which made him enemy number one to the powerful narco-traffickers – and which was a constant source of stress on his relationship with Dinah, who, while accommodating, had also tired of the impermanence of their living situation.

  “You didn’t marry a normal man,” Cruz said softly, pushing his plate aside and reaching across the table for her hand.

  “No, I suppose not. Still, a girl can dream, can’t she?”

  “Maybe a long weekend on the Mexican Riviera. Someplace quiet, but high-end. Like Tulum. That area has gorgeous beaches.”

  She nodd
ed. “And beautiful water. Oh, how about Cozumel? Alone on our own tropical island…”

  “Well, hardly alone if it’s Cozumel, but still, I get your point.”

  The traffic light blinked red down the block, and the stream of vehicles ground to a stop. Cruz was considering the wisdom of a second beer when he saw two young men running toward a gleaming ebony BMW near the light. He glimpsed a flash of metal in the hand of one of the men, and was already reaching for the shoulder-holstered Glock under his windbreaker as he pushed back his chair.

  “Romero–”

  “Dinah, stay here,” he said, freeing his weapon.

  The pair was at the vehicle, and he could clearly see the one by the driver’s window wielding a nickel- or chrome-plated revolver, pointing it at the driver and yelling. Carjackings were a common occurrence that plagued Mexico City as the global financial situation continued to erode, a by-product of living in one of the most populated cities in the world, with many millions at or below the poverty line – which in Mexico was a hundred and fifty dollars a month.

  Cruz wasn’t in uniform – he’d changed into civilian clothes before going for dinner – and for a split second he considered the wisdom of getting involved in a street crime without backup. But by then he was already halfway to the car, his pistol trained on the thug, and was fumbling for his shield wallet as he closed the distance.

  Cruz could hear the carjacker screaming at the driver, threatening to shoot him if he didn’t get out of the car. The driver was opening the door when Cruz’s commanding voice boomed down the street.

  “Drop the gun. Federal Police.”

  The thug’s head swung around, searching for the source of the warning. He was younger than Cruz had initially thought, no more than a teenager, and the look of menace on his face transitioned into one of fear as he spotted Cruz bearing down on him, weapon steady in his hand. Time seemed to slow as a series of expressions played across the youth’s face, and then he sprinted away, ducking low as he dodged between cars. His companion darted to the far sidewalk and bolted, and as quickly as the street had become a war zone, it returned to normal, crisis averted.

  Cruz arrived at the car, where the driver was still sitting with the door open, in shock. Cruz’s gaze followed the running gunman as he rounded the corner and disappeared, and then he turned his attention to the driver.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  The driver was nervous, his expression frightened, and when he answered, his voice was shaky. “Yes. Thank goodness.”

  Cruz glanced at the man in the passenger seat – a clergyman – and shook his head. Nobody was safe anymore, even God’s anointed ones. He followed the driver’s eyes to his gun and quickly holstered it, aware that a man standing in the middle of the street at night in Mexico City clutching a Glock might not be the most comforting sight, even under the circumstances.

  “That was a close one,” Cruz commented, shaking his head.

  “Unbelievable. We were just minding our own business…”

  “I know. I saw the whole thing.” Cruz paused. “Do you want to file a police report?”

  The driver’s eyes widened. “No. It wouldn’t do any good, would it? I mean, they didn’t steal anything, and they’re already long gone.”

  Cruz sighed. “It’s true. Sad, but true.” He felt in his pocket and found a business card. “Here. If you change your mind, call me. I can sign it as a witness.”

  The driver took the card. “No, I don’t want any trouble. I’ll just chock it up to experience.”

  “Driving an expensive car at night can be a dangerous proposition these days. It shouldn’t be that way, but there it is.” Cruz gave a parting look to the passenger. “You’re lucky. I hope your night calms down from here.”

  The driver nodded. “Thank you, officer” – he peered at the card and then corrected himself, his tone respectful – “I mean, Capitan Cruz. It was our good fortune you were nearby.”

  A car several back honked its horn, and then more of the cars joined in, unaware of what the holdup was but annoyed to be stalled, kept from important destinations. Cruz waved at the honkers and turned back to the driver.

  “Are you okay to drive?”

  “What? Oh. Of course. I’m just a little shaken up. That’s all.”

  “Well, I’d tell you to pull over and relax for a few minutes, but after what happened, I’d suggest you get out of this area of town. Just be careful on the road.”

  “Yes, Capitan. Good thinking. Thank you again.”

  The driver closed his door, and Cruz stepped back. The BMW surged forward, and Cruz returned to his table, ignoring the black stares of the other motorists as they passed him. When he sat down, Dinah’s eyes were wide.

  “I suppose that’s all in a day’s work for you, isn’t it? Chasing down gunmen…” she said.

  Cruz smiled. “Hardly. The biggest danger I’m in most days is of overeating. Or getting a paper cut. I’m pretty sure it’s impossible to get much safer than behind my desk at headquarters.”

  She eyed him skeptically. “You remind me of that American movie star. What’s his name? The one with the big gun? You know, ‘Make my day’?”

  “Clint Eastwood? Hardly. Although I have been told I resemble him.”

  Dinah held his gaze and then leaned forward and wiped an errant crumb from his mustache with her napkin. She raised an eyebrow and considered him gravely. “It’s uncanny. You could be twins.”

  They both laughed like schoolchildren, and Cruz ordered another beer. Dinah picked at her final taco as he devoured the remainder of his torta and then paid the bill. They walked arm in arm back to where his car and driver were waiting around the corner, and he sighed contentedly. “I’m the luckiest guy in the world, you know that?”

  Dinah pulled him closer. “I’m glad you feel that way. Me too.”

  Chapter 6

  El Rey was greeted at the air charter terminal at Benito Juárez International Airport by Jorge Tovar, his CISEN handler, a field intelligence analyst who’d been assigned to run him following his earlier mission. The agency had left him alone for the last six months, only interrupting his solitude with his scheduled injection of the antidote for the neurotoxin with which they’d inoculated him in order to guarantee his performance. With any luck he only had one or two more of the semiannual injections to go, and then he’d be free – assuming the CISEN spooks had told him the truth about the agent.

  The little man had reminded El Rey of a weasel when he’d first met him, and the impression was reinforced in this, their second meeting. Tovar led him to a waiting limousine, its opaque privacy glass raised so whatever was discussed wasn’t overheard by the driver. Tovar had a brief discussion with the chauffeur and then got in after El Rey, who sat facing him, awaiting whatever bad news Tovar was bearing.

  “So. You made it. Water? Something stronger?” Tovar offered, taking in the assassin’s muddy, disheveled appearance without comment.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Very well. We have an assignment for you.”

  “I gathered that. We’re still a few weeks off from my next injection.”

  “It’s right up your alley.”

  El Rey nodded, his expression stony.

  Tovar opened a slim ostrich-skin briefcase and removed a file. He handed it to El Rey and flipped on the interior dome light so he could read.

  Inside were three photographs, each with a dossier attached. El Rey eyed the images and read each report carefully before closing the folder and handing it back to Tovar. The assassin sat back, thinking, and when he spoke, his voice was soft as velvet.

  “Why?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Tovar looked honestly surprised at the question.

  El Rey repeated it. “Why?”

  “What do you care?” Tovar snapped, obviously irritated.

  “Didn’t Rodriguez explain our arrangement? I think it would be best if I spoke with him.”

  “I’m your control officer, not Rodrig
uez. You work for us. You’ll do what I say.”

  El Rey shook his head. “Not exactly. I reserve the right to ask questions, and if you leave anything out or I don’t approve of the sanction, I can decline. Perhaps you should make a call and get clear on this, to either Rodriguez or Bernardo.” Rodriguez was the assistant director of CISEN, Bernardo the head of section who’d taken over managing the assassin after the last operation. El Rey’s eyes darkened as he held Tovar’s stare. “And I’d caution you about your tone. You seem to have forgotten who you’re talking to. I’d advise you not to. I don’t tolerate insolence, no matter what the source.”

  Tovar swallowed hard and lowered his gaze. The temperature seemed to have dropped twenty degrees while El Rey was speaking, and Tovar’s arrogant confidence had suddenly abandoned him. He cleared his throat and shifted.

  “It wasn’t my intention to offend. Here’s what I can tell you. These men are part of a drug trafficking and distribution network that needs to be shut down. Obviously, based on the players, it’s much different than the typical cartel situation. These are untouchable players because of their prominence. It will require a delicate approach.”

  “Drugs? That makes no sense. What could these three possibly have to do with drugs?”

  “Admiral Torreon oversees the ports. He’s in charge of importation into Mexico. The archbishop is getting it across the border. And the American is coordinating the U.S. distribution.”

  “Why not just take them out using your people? Or here’s an idea: build a case and prosecute them.”

  “Due to their positions, they’d never see the inside of a jail cell. So that leaves us with no alternative. However, there is an important caveat: the sanctions must appear to be accidents or natural causes. And I don’t mean the sort of Wall Street ‘accidents’ we’ve seen where bankers shoot themselves in the head multiple times or throw themselves through unbreakable windows to commit suicide. There can be no hint of foul play.”