Requiem for the Assassin - 06

by Russell Blake

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying this,” the other man grumbled.

  “When God gives you lemons…” He eyed the cup. “But perhaps you’re right. Let’s get to it. Give me an update.”

  “The assassin’s in play. You saw the news about the archbishop’s regrettable accident. I’m confident that the other two names will be dispatched shortly.”

  “Yes, we were amused by the creativity of the hit. Several of the smaller papers carried a few of the more lurid details before they were throttled by the archdiocese. Well done on that one.”

  A pained smile. “I told you he was the best.”

  “Let’s hope he continues to live up to your description of his skills. You’ve managed to keep the entire affair compartmentalized so far?”

  “Of course. I’m the only one that knows this isn’t an official op. But as I said before, no secret remains hidden indefinitely, and the more time that goes on, the harder it will be to keep it quiet.”

  The fair-haired man took another sip of his drink. “Given the paranoid nature of your organization, I’d think that this little adventure would stay confidential in perpetuity. Silent as the confessional, as it were.” He cleared his throat. “There’s no easy way to say this. While we’re happy with your performance so far, I’m afraid I have some less than good news.”

  “What now?”

  “There’s another name we’ll need help with.”

  A long pause. “Absolutely not. We had a deal.”

  The fair-haired man waited a few beats. “Yes, we did. But may I remind you that deals can change, just as this one now has. Don’t worry. We’ll compensate you for it.”

  “You know I’m not doing this for the money. Don’t insult me.”

  “Still, a quarter million dollars per sanction takes the sting out of it.”

  “That money will do me no good if I get caught.”

  “Then don’t get caught.” The fair-haired man studied his companion, taking in the stress showing around his mouth and the tightness of the skin below his eyes. “It’s regrettable, but you’re a victim of your own success.”

  “Who is it?”

  The fair-haired man whispered a name and title. The other sat back, an expression of shock on his face. “You’re insane. I know this man. He’s one of the most protected in the city. It’s impossible.”

  “Seems your fellow specializes in the impossible. Before you get too upset, I’d remind you that it’s not I who has such a regrettable liking for…the little ones.” The fair-haired man sat back, his face impassive. They’d discovered that their CISEN contact had a large collection of child pornography on his home computer, which even in Mexico would land him in prison for a long time, given that much of it was homemade over a period spanning years and featured his unmistakable features in the lion’s share of the shots.

  “You miserable shit.”

  “Yes, well, that’s hardly news. And remember that your family’s lives hang in the balance.” He’d been instructed to increase their leverage by not only threatening to expose his perversions, but if he took his own life, as was a distinct possibility to avoid the fallout, that his nine-year-old daughter and his wife would be killed.

  “How could I forget? You bastards have ruined me.”

  “Hardly, with a cool million in an account in the Caymans.” He finished his coffee and settled back in his chair. “Relax. You look a little green. I’ll get you the details on the new target once your man’s finished up his little errands. Any idea on timing for the remaining two?”

  “He indicated that it should be done by the end of the week, if all goes well.”

  The fair-haired man stood and flipped a two-hundred-peso note onto the table. After looking around the small café a final time, he fixed the other with a cold stare. “Then you’d better hope it all goes well.”

  He moved to the door and disappeared onto the darkening street, leaving his reluctant companion staring at the bitter dregs of his coffee, now cold, the hand holding the cup trembling slightly as he watched the younger man depart.

  Madness. The entire thing was madness.

  And at the rate things were going, he’d be lucky to get out intact.

  Why had he kept the photographs? Why had he taken them in the first place? To memorialize his compulsions? All the children had been prostitutes, slaves to the underworld predators that preyed on society and catered to the most deplorable perversions, but nobody would care about their backgrounds if the photos were made public. It had been a stupid oversight – one that had placed him in an impossible position with his new master. The phone call had come out of the blue, on an afternoon like any other, the whispered words demanding a meeting like a knife to the heart.

  How could they have known? How did they find out? It had to be the pimps, he’d realized too late. He was too well known in certain seedy circles, too regular in his urgency. He’d handed his enemies the weapon with which to destroy him through his own carelessness, and the irony was not lost on him. He stood, his legs shaky, and squared his shoulders. He was a tenured member of the intelligence community, a veteran with an impeccable record. There was a good chance that if he continued to do as directed, the whole sordid affair would pass with nobody the wiser. The fair-haired man was right about the tight control of information within the agency – there was every likelihood that neither his nor El Rey’s role in the mess would ever come to light.

  But this new name changed everything, worsening those odds considerably.

  His footsteps echoed off the colonial façades as he strode toward the larger street, lost in thought, brain churning furiously to find a way out of the trap his desires had placed him in. He didn’t even register the woman who took up after him, maintaining a discreet distance from the far curb, just another shadow as the last of the sun’s glow faded and the busy metropolis was overtaken by night.

  Chapter 20

  Sedona, Arizona

  El Rey helped Sam with the stones he’d heated in the fire and carted them into the sweat lodge, taking care to place them in the central pit exactly as Sam indicated. He and the old man had bonded again at the bar the prior evening. Sam had regaled him with stories, many likely invented or heavily embellished, all the while knocking back drinks, and tonight he was still hungover – not surprising given his age or the amount he’d put away. Today’s nature hike had been a Bataan death march for the Indian, and El Rey had been hard-pressed not to smile as he’d watched the man sweat eighty proof as he directed the tourists along trails and told tall tales about the eagle’s watchful eye and the power of the wild creature’s spirit.

  Upon their return, El Rey had done a run to the market and returned with a pint bottle of whiskey to help Sam fend off the worst of the shakes as the sweat lodge ceremony approached. The bottle’s level had steadily dropped as the afternoon stretched on, and a second had been deemed necessary for the proper ceremonial spirit to flow.

  El Rey returned with the half pint as Sam settled onto one of the logs that had been carved into benches by the fire and, after taking a seat nearby, had told him about their night’s guest.

  “He’s some hot-shit actor. We’ve done this deal together a half dozen times over the years. Big tipper, so be nice.”

  “He’s the only one tonight?”

  Sam nodded. “He likes his privacy. I had no idea who he was, which I think was part of the appeal – he told me once that he couldn’t go anywhere without being recognized, and he liked that I wasn’t impressed. Which is pretty easy considering I don’t own a TV and haven’t been to a movie since John Wayne was alive.”

  “You haven’t missed anything.”

  “Have you got that second bottle?”

  “Yeah. Hey, is that our boy?” El Rey asked, nodding in the direction of an approaching figure swaddled in a white cotton terry-cloth robe.

  “Yup. You have everything ready?”

  “Just like you showed me last night. The peace pipe’s a nice touch.”

/>   Sam smirked. “Powerful wampum in these hills.”

  They chuckled, and Sam struggled to his feet. The embroidered figures on his ornate cloak danced in the darkness as the fire crackled and flickered. El Rey glanced down at the robe he was wearing, one of Sam’s extras, and hoped he looked convincing.

  The actor drew near and smiled. “Well, you ready to do this? I need some purging and cleansing, Sam. I’ve been a very bad boy since you last saw me.”

  Sam could have been carved from wood. “Your magic is strong. A young buck needs room to roam.”

  “Damn if we don’t agree on that.” Perry sniffed. “You guys been sharing a cocktail while you waited for me?”

  Sam ignored the question. “Come. The moon will be up soon. It is a good night for this. A powerful night.”

  Sam led the actor into the sweat lodge, El Rey trailing them with the long wooden pipe in hand and a satchel with shrubs Sam had selected for the occasion. Perry took a seat on the wooden bench that ringed the interior of the lodge and fidgeted with his robe. Sam chanted for a half minute, reciting what could have been his recipe for a Bloody Mary for all either the assassin or Perry could tell, and then bowed slightly from the waist and motioned for El Rey to draw near. He removed a handful of vegetation from the bag and tossed it onto the stones while humming an atonal dirge, and the small chamber filled with the pungent scent of smoldering leaves. Sam then poured water onto the stones from an earthenware pitcher by the door, and steam filled the space.

  El Rey’s final act was to light the pipe, filled with a special blend Sam had provided, and hand it to Perry, who took long drags, held the smoke in his lungs as long as he could, and then exhaled noisily. When the pipe had gone out, Sam led the assassin to the wood plank door and peered in the dim light at the actor.

  “Enjoy. I’ll be right outside if you need anything,” Sam assured him.

  Perry waved at him with a limp hand and leaned his head back against the clay wall.

  Sam closed the door behind him and moved to the fire. “That’s three hundred of the easiest bucks this place will ever see. He usually tips me a hundred, so tonight I’m buying.” Sam coughed and spit on the dirt. “Now where’s that damned bottle you’ve been holding out on me?”

  Five minutes later Sam was slumbering by the fire, the zolpidem El Rey had dissolved in the whiskey having done its job. He’d wake up still drowsy within a few hours and be out of it for a while, but El Rey suspected that wasn’t an altogether new feeling for him.

  The pipe had been filled with Sam’s special blend – and the addition of a liberal dosing of liquid PCP the assassin had brought with him across the border. In higher doses it would knock a bull elephant out, enabling El Rey to carry out the business end of his plan – suffocating Perry with heat.

  El Rey darted to the nearby building where the electrical panel was housed, and after slipping on a pair of surgical gloves, pulled the fuse for the ventilation fan and sensor that ensured the temperature didn’t rise to dangerous levels, and then returned to the lodge. Perry was already comatose from the fast action of the PCP. El Rey removed the actor’s room key from where it was hanging from a rubber lanyard around his wrist and poured an extra measure of water on the stones to ensure the steam continued to build. Satisfied by the stifling cloud filling the chamber, he retreated, closed the door, and checked his watch. By his calculations, Perry would be dead inside of an hour, possibly sooner; and now all he had to do was attend to one last chore.

  He slipped into the actor’s room and removed several cigarettes from a pack he’d bought at the bar the prior night, which he’d partially soaked in PCP. Anyone investigating the incident would draw the obvious conclusion: another spoiled Hollywood brat with everything to live for had overestimated his tolerance for his drug of choice and taken his last hallucinogenic trip to the cosmic plane.

  El Rey returned to the fire and sat beside Sam’s slumped form, listening to the night creatures in the trees. It really was beautiful, he thought – he could see why the wealthy would enjoy the seclusion. He felt somewhat bad for Sam, but the old man would weather the storm – the PCP would show up on a blood scan but would be accounted for as self-administered, and after a period of heightened concern over the safety of sweat lodges and hysteria at how drugs were ruining America, things would return to normal, with business quite possibly better than ever as curiosity seekers came to visit the lodge to tread the same ground as one of the fallen greats.

  He checked his watch, and after forty-five minutes returned to the sweat lodge. The heat hit him in the face when he moved through the door, and a quick pulse check confirmed that the actor was no longer alive. He wound the key back around Perry’s wrist, taking care to wipe it off on the robe, and repeated the wipe-down on the door handle as he exited the lodge.

  Replacing the fuse took longer than he’d hoped in the darkness, the moon having yet to have risen above the mountains. As he was leaving the building, he spotted a flash of color at the pool bar in the distance. He squinted and saw what had caught his eye – a stunning woman in a bright red miniskirt, long auburn hair cascading down her back. She looked familiar to him, but he couldn’t place her, and after another glance at the time, he returned his attention to his task.

  He elbowed Sam awake after the fan had cleared most of the heat from the lodge. Sam was predictably disoriented but came to quickly enough and groped for the bottle El Rey had replaced the drugged one with.

  “I don’t know if that’s a great idea, Sam. Your client’s been in there for an hour. Didn’t you say that was about the limit?”

  “What? Damn. I must have dozed off.”

  “Not a problem. Nothing happened – nobody came by.”

  “Yeah, but it’s a good idea to pour some more water on the stones after about half an hour. The lodge is really a sauna, and you don’t want it to get too dry or it loses its effect.” Sam rose unsteadily to his feet. “I’ll get him. Might want to hide that bottle for later.”

  “You bet,” El Rey said, slipping it into his pocket beneath the robe.

  Sam’s cry sounded muffled inside the lodge, and El Rey waited a few seconds before going to him.

  “What is it, Sam?”

  The older man’s face was ashen as he looked up at the assassin. “He’s…he’s dead.”

  “Dead? You’re kidding.”

  Sam shook his head. “No. There’s no pulse.”

  El Rey straightened, concern written across his face. “Sam…what do we do?”

  “I…I’ve got to go tell the manager. Shit. His heart must have stopped or something. Poor bastard.”

  El Rey glanced around. “Sam, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’d just as soon not be here when the police show up. I…well, I’ve had some brushes with the law I’d rather not revisit.”

  Sam didn’t appear to hear him and then hunched his shoulders. “I kind of figured you might be in some kinda trouble. Don’t worry, kid. Your being here or not isn’t going to bring him back.”

  “You sure? I mean, I’ll stay if you need me to.”

  “No. Go on. Get outta here. I’ll see you at the bar tonight. If not, tomorrow.”

  “I’ll definitely be buying the first round.”

  Sam stared at the fire, his look as bleak as a prisoner going to death row, and grunted. “No point delaying this. He isn’t going to get any fresher. See you around, Slim.”

  “You too, Sam. Good luck.”

  Chapter 21

  Tepotzotlán, Mexico

  “Can you believe this? It’s insane. There must be five thousand people here already,” Briones said to Cruz, watching more cars arrive and park in one of the three fields being used for the rave. They’d been in position for two hours in a surveillance van set up as the field headquarters for the operation. A loose cordon of Federales was stationed along the perimeter of the warehouse district.

  “If we’re lucky, the police presence will scare any kidnappers off,” Cruz said as a sedan with six
scantily clad young women emptied out across the street from their position. The new arrivals laughed as they passed a bottle back and forth while making their way to the warehouse. “You ready to get going?”

  “Sure. Everyone’s in place. I’ll stay in constant communication,” Briones said, seating his earbud more snugly. He was wearing a pair of loose jeans and a vertically striped polo jersey that covered the compact automatic pistol at the small of his back. A reversed baseball cap completed his disguise, and to Cruz’s eye he looked more like a twenty-something slacker than a hardened veteran of the cartel wars.

  “Let’s hope we dodge a bullet tonight,” Cruz said. “This is twice the crowd we anticipated, and I’m not convinced we have it locked down.”

  “All right. I’m going in.” Briones opened the rear door of the van and stepped out, his civilian clothes no different from those of countless other young males heading to the warehouse. The dull thump of a hypnotic beat boomed from the building, and the distinctive smell of marijuana drifted on the light breeze. Laughter sounded from his right, and he peered into the darkness where three youths stood in the moonlight drinking beer and puffing on a joint. Briones wondered how they would react if he pulled his badge, but decided to forego the theatrics in favor of getting into the rave.

  He knew from the first undercover agent who’d gone into the cavernous space that there was no security check at the door, so he wasn’t worried about his gun. He stood in line with at least a hundred of Mexico City’s most beautiful people, the women wearing miniskirts and five-inch heels in spite of the brisk night air, the men with the smug sense of entitlement fostered by being young and wealthy and sure you were going to live forever. Four girls in front of him flirted as they shuffled forward, and by the time he was at the entry handing over his money, he was convinced that the chances of stopping a determined kidnapping were slim given the number of people.

  Inside the building the music was loud enough to strip the enamel off his teeth. A girl with streaks of phosphorescent paint on her face materialized from the crowd and handed him a glow stick before moving to the next person. Half the females in attendance had their faces painted, some with sunflowers or the Mexican flag, others with a few stripes in a psychedelic homage to their Indian forefathers, all glowing neon when they moved within range of one of the plentiful black lights. At least seventy percent of the mammoth building was a dance floor, with the throng bouncing and grinding to the trance beat, purple and pink and lime green lamps blinking in time with the bass as mini-spotlights strobed over the dancers’ heads.