Requiem for the Assassin - 06

by Russell Blake

  “Then what?”

  “I need you to die and then help me figure out why CISEN wants you killed.”

  “Back up, and let’s cover the part where I die again. It all sounded good until that bit.”

  “Not literally die. But you need to appear to die, or I won’t get my booster shot, and that would put me in a very cranky mood. So you need to go to your reward sooner than later, and it has to appear to be accidental or of natural causes.”

  “Accidental.”

  “Right, but the problem there is the corpus delicti. If there’s a body, you can be identified or, rather, whoever died will be identified as not you. So it’ll be a little tricky. Fortunately, I have some ideas.”

  Cruz sighed. “I want that water now.”

  El Rey stood. “Sure you don’t want something stronger? You look a little green.”

  “Just water.”

  “You aren’t thinking about running out on me, are you?”

  “And do what? Get hit by a train? Have a piano fall on me? Just hurry up. My wife thinks I’m at the market.”

  El Rey returned in sixty seconds with two plastic bottles. He placed one in front of Cruz, cracked his own open and took a sip. Cruz twisted the top off and drank half the bottle and then paused. “You could have put poison in this, couldn’t you?”

  “Don’t be paranoid.”

  “Says the man who’s here to kill me.”

  “Final time. I’m not here to kill you; I’m here to help you stay alive.”

  “By killing me. Faking my death.”

  “Now you’ve got it. If we can do it tonight or tomorrow, so much the better. They won’t give me my shot until you’re dead. And I need to get it next week.”

  “This is the antidote you told me about?”

  “No, it’s a flu vaccine. What do you think it is?”

  Cruz exhaled noisily. “Okay, let’s say I play along. Start at the beginning, and tell me what’s going on. You mentioned CISEN and killing me…”

  El Rey stood and paced while he spoke. “Correct. But I have no idea why. Or why they had me kill the others.”

  “The others? Killed, as in past tense?” Cruz asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  El Rey told him the whole story. When he was finished, Cruz closed his eyes.

  “How likely do you think it is that all of them were somehow involved in a drug operation?” he asked.

  “Slightly less likely than that CISEN decided to terminate people for no reason.”

  “We’re missing a connection. I mean, we know I’m not involved in smuggling meth to the U.S. So that doesn’t wash.”

  “It gets worse. There are two other names on the list that I have to terminate. One of them is Carla Vega.”

  “The TV star?”

  “She’d probably prefer ‘television journalist.’”

  “Right. Because there’s so much journalism involved.” Cruz paused. “What’s the other name?”

  “Indalecio Arellano.”

  Cruz grunted. “Never heard of him.”

  “He’s a farmer in Sinaloa.”

  “And all this doesn’t sound crazy?”

  “Of course it does. That’s why I’m here. But first things first. We need to get you out of the crosshairs while we can.”

  Cruz shook his head. “I’ll go to the president.”

  “And tell him that his intelligence service is committing mass murder of random dignitaries and foreign citizens? Oh, and pig farmers.”

  “He’ll take it seriously from me.”

  “Maybe. I mean, you’ll have proof that those were all murders, right?”

  “I’ll have you to back me up.”

  “Here’s the problem. We don’t really know what this is all about. So we don’t know who’s involved or what the real objective is. What I do know is that if I go live with the fact that I terminated these people, I’m dead meat. There’s no way I walk away from that – either my injection mysteriously fails to work this time, or someone takes me out while I’m walking down the street. In the meantime, CISEN simply shrugs its shoulders and says that one of the side effects of the agent I was injected with is vivid hallucinations, that I invented the entire story because I’m delusional, that of course they had nothing to do with it and there’s nothing to support my contention those were executions…and then it’s my word against theirs. Who do you think they’re going to believe? The national intelligence agency or a former hit man?”

  “You have no reason to lie.”

  “Right. Except I’m nuts. Which will be their story. And they’ll smear you with the same brush – how could you buy into my paranoid ramblings? You can see how that plays. And then one day, maybe soon, you die, either in one of your tactical operations or choking on a bone or from an unexpected heart attack.” El Rey let his words sink in. “Or maybe it’s both you and your wife in a car crash. Those happen all the time. The point is, you’ll still be in jeopardy, I’ll be exposed, and we’ll have done nothing to stop whatever this is and find whoever’s accountable.”

  “What about Rodriguez? We can go to him.”

  “Which assumes he didn’t order it. He’s the second highest-ranking man in CISEN – the director’s an appointed figurehead. There are very few people in the organization that could order the termination of high-ranking Mexican officials and not risk having their subordinates go over their heads. He’s one of the few. If I were him, I’d deny everything, express sadness that my ‘treatment’ has taken this delusional turn for the worse, and that would be it. Again, with no proof, it’s my word against his.”

  “What if it’s one of his subordinates?”

  “Then we discover who. That’s not my biggest worry – have you stopped to think about the alternative? That this is an official op that’ll be denied at every level the instant it comes out, and then we’ll be dealt with at their own speed?” El Rey took another drink of water. “The history of intelligence agencies is doing really ugly things and then denying everything when they’re caught. You think the Americans invented that?”

  “I’m not going to debate the honesty of governments with you.”

  “That’s probably wise. We’re wasting time we don’t have. We need to figure out how to kill you and make it look like an accident but leave no body.”

  A thought occurred to Cruz. “What about Dinah?”

  “She won’t be in danger. You’ll be dead.”

  “Wait. I’m not supposed to tell her I’m alive?”

  “So if she’s drugged and interrogated, she’ll be able to blow it for you, and kill both of us in the process as well as herself?” El Rey studied Cruz. “Are you usually this slow on the uptake? No wonder the cartels run the country.”

  “That’s uncalled for.”

  “Then stop asking stupid questions, and start figuring out how we can get rid of you.”

  They considered a car crash and discarded it – no matter how bad, there would be a body to check dental records against. Ditto for an operation gone wrong or a cartel hit. As they went through their options, it became readily apparent that faking a death in a convincing way that left no traces was nearly impossible. Cruz was getting increasingly anxious as they discussed possibilities, and after twenty minutes, they hadn’t come up with anything that would work, and his head was buzzing like a beehive.

  Cruz slid his chair back and rose. “I have to get to the market. Let me think about this some. How do I get ahold of you?”

  El Rey handed him a burner cell phone. “I programmed my number into speed dial. It’s the only one.”

  Cruz took the phone and slid it into his breast pocket. “You’re sure I can’t just disappear until we figure this out?”

  “Only if I want you to sign my death warrant. You go missing without being dead, the game’s over. These are not stupid people. So forget that. It’s not an option.”

  “I’ll call later.”

  “Do that. Leave t
he phone on. In the meantime I’ll keep thinking.”

  Cruz finished his water and tossed the bottle into a trash bin. “And I thought my day couldn’t get any worse.”

  “It could have. I could have decided to fulfill the sanction.”

  Cruz took in the assassin’s emotionless stare. “Why didn’t you?”

  “If I kill you, how do I collect on the debt of gratitude you owe me? It’s bad business.”

  Cruz tried to tell whether the younger man was kidding or not, but gave up. The assassin was unreadable, and there were some things Cruz would never know. He left the room and made his way back down the stairs, where the host was nowhere in evidence. As Cruz stepped out onto the sidewalk, a chill ran up his spine, and he had to choke down a spurt of stomach acid that accompanied his thought.

  Maybe the assassin was playing him in some way, and getting him to fake his death was part of a larger design.

  The idea roiled in his guts like a twisted knife, and his entire body broke out into a sweat. He looked around and saw the approaching roof light of a vacant taxi. With a final glance at his watch, he hailed the car, unwilling to try to find his way to the market from where he was and unsure that he was thinking clearly enough to do so if he wanted to.

  An hour later he was back at the condo, lost in thought as he watched Dinah put away the groceries. She eyed him as she did so and then cracked a Modelo beer, poured it into a mug along with some tomato juice, half a lime and some Worcestershire sauce, and then brought it to him.

  “All right, caballero. You’ve done enough penance. Drink that and go take a siesta. You’ll feel better in no time.”

  He sniffed at the drink, caution playing across his face, and drained the glass without pausing. When he set it back down on the table, he took a deep breath, his eyes watering, and offered a pained smile.

  “Gracias.”

  “Go on. Get some sleep. The world will still be here when you get up.”

  She was right. He returned to the bedroom and shed his clothes, pausing to set the burner phone on the nightstand next to the bed, alongside his Glock. He was just drifting off to sleep when the little phone trilled.

  “Hello?”

  El Rey’s voice was barely a whisper. “I have an idea.”

  Chapter 28

  A tangerine moon drifted from behind high clouds as a black Cadillac Escalade pulled up to the valet parking area of the Four Seasons hotel in Mexico City. The driver waited as a young woman teetering on impossibly high heels, wearing a white one-piece miniskirt that melded to her body like a second skin, hugged another similarly clad young woman near the palatial entrance, their voices loud, martini glasses in their hands. Four suited men with short haircuts and chiseled features waited nearby; their square shoulders and military bearings identified them as bodyguards.

  The shorter of the two ferreted in her purse, withdrew a cigarette case, and offered her companion a smoke. She lit both with a Dunhill lighter and blew a cloud at the glimmering stars, the overcast clearing now that the front had blown through the valley. She continued telling her story in a loud bray and glared at her purse when her iPhone warbled. Emptying her glass with a single swig, she retrieved the phone with a shrugged apology to her friend and, after answering, erupted in laughter, her momentary irritation at the interruption forgotten.

  The taller woman busied herself with her own phone, checking her Facebook page for responses to the photos she’d taken that evening and posted from the hotel nightclub where her cousin was having her eighteenth birthday celebration. Both women stood scant inches apart, discussing the party they’d left only moments before with their online friends, now on their way to an exclusive disco in the penthouse of one of Mexico City’s high-rises.

  The first woman hung up with a final titter and returned her attention to her companion, who held up a finger and continued inputting her message before swaying toward the guards and handing the nearest one her empty glass.

  “You want to ride with me or take two cars?” the first woman asked.

  Her friend rolled her eyes. “You know how my parents would freak if I didn’t take the dynamic duo over there with me, Isabel. Can we all fit in your car?”

  Isabel eyed the Escalade, trying to calculate, and shook her head. “Not comfortably. When will yours be here?”

  “Maybe three more minutes. I’ll tell you what, I’ll just hook up with you at the club, okay? Wait for me at the bar.”

  “What a pain. All right, then. See you in a few.”

  Isabel approached the gleaming SUV and waited while two of the bodyguards moved to the vehicle. The closest one held the rear door open for her as the other climbed into the passenger seat. She appeared to take no notice of them and was already reading something on her phone screen, back in her cyber-world as she slid her long legs into the vehicle.

  The second bodyguard closed the door for her and then trotted around the rear of the SUV and got in beside her. The driver slipped the attendant a hundred-peso note and put the transmission in gear. The modified exhaust burbled as he inched to the end of the drive and signaled to pull into traffic. A sedan slowed and gave him an opening, and he gunned the gas, rear tires chirping as the big truck accelerated into the stream of cars.

  Fifty yards behind, a van pulled into traffic, leaving six car lengths between it and the SUV. Late night traffic was sparse on a Sunday night, and the van varied its speed so as not to arouse suspicion. A second vehicle, a dark blue Chevrolet four-door with tinted windows, edged ahead of the Cadillac and settled in one car length ahead of it.

  The seven blocks to the club went by in a blur as Isabel tweeted her impressions of the party to her coterie of followers. The Chevrolet made a right on the smaller street that fronted the destination building, and the SUV followed suit, its custom suspension smoothing the rough pavement.

  Isabel’s driver glanced in the rearview mirror at the van’s headlights as it also made the turn, but thought nothing of it as he rolled to a stop at the curb. The two bodyguards got out, and one moved to the door of the high-rise where a uniformed doorman stood. Far above the street, neon red and blue lights flickered in the penthouse windows, where an elite crowd was dancing into the wee hours as the rest of the city slept.

  None of this registered on Isabel as she dropped her phone into her gold clutch purse and emerged from the rear of the Escalade. She tossed her mane of thick hair, her two-hundred-dollar highlights catching the reflection of the van’s headlights, and then the night exploded with gunfire as three masked shooters piled out of the Chevrolet and opened fire on the bodyguards.

  Isabel froze as rounds thumped into the man who had only a second before been holding her door open. She gasped as he went down, and the driver’s scream sounded like it was coming from a mile away.

  “Jump in. Hurry,” he yelled and then the top of his head blew against the windshield in a spray of blood and brains as a row of armor-piercing rounds punched through the bullet-resistant rear window.

  Isabel screamed and tried to make it to the building, but her second bodyguard took two slugs to the chest and collapsed in the doorway. The doorman ducked into the shelter of the lobby, leaving her gasping near the dead guard as two masked assailants sprinted toward her from the van, brandishing pistols.

  “Come on,” the brawnier of the pair growled as he grabbed her arm. She resisted, and he slammed the butt of his pistol into her head, dazing her. The other man caught her other arm as her legs buckled, and together they dragged her to the van.

  Less than thirty seconds had passed from the first gunshot to when the two vehicles roared off, leaving three dead men and one three-hundred-dollar pump perched like a trophy on the sidewalk, its tiny buckles twinkling in the faint moonlight.

  Chapter 29

  Tres Marías, Mexico

  Cruz coasted to a stop at the end of the gravel drive and got out of the unmarked Dodge Charger he’d signed out of the Federales pool, wondering what the hell he was doing. He’d picked
a fight with Dinah as El Rey had suggested, and had told her that he intended to take a day or two away from everything to clear his head at the rustic cabin he owned on the road to Cuernavaca in the hills just outside of the small town of Tres Marías. The hurt and lack of comprehension in her eyes had been like a dagger to his heart, but he hadn’t faltered, even though his self-loathing had blossomed with every step toward the condo door.

  El Rey had been adamant that he couldn’t even hint at what was to come, and that any foreshadowing would be a death warrant if she were questioned. It had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done, and he’d slipped at the last minute, hugging her and sobbing as he held her in his arms, which he hoped would be viewed, in retrospect, as evidence of his precarious mental state – distracted and unbalanced.

  He retrieved a flashlight from the glove compartment and moved around the exterior of the house to the thousand-liter propane tank, which he’d filled the last time he’d been there with Dinah seven weeks earlier. It would play a critical role in the night’s ugly work, and he felt a tug of nostalgia as he eyed the humble little cabin, which soon enough would be vaporized by the explosion when the propane ignited.

  The interior of the dwelling was as simple as the exterior – one large room at ground level and a loft above up a rickety set of wooden stairs with a bed that featured in many happy memories. The cabin, like most in the area, had been built from local timber and brick, and was perfect for long weekend getaways of stargazing and hiking.

  Cruz flipped a light switch, and the lamp over the dining room table illuminated. He set the bottle of tequila down and removed his jacket and then his Glock. The assassin had been clear – everything would have to point to a man drunk out of his mind, who had passed out with the gas stove on, perhaps intending to commit suicide, perhaps just incoherent. Whatever the explanation, what happened next would be self-evident. The flame had gone out on the stove, either intentionally or from a gust of wind, and then a spark ignited the gas that had flooded the cabin. Boom. No more Cruz.