by Alexis Grant
“Okay,” she said softly, touching the side of his face. “I didn’t understand before, but I understand now. I’m sorry.”
“Bueno,” he murmured, and then took her mouth slowly.
* * *
Arturo Guzman made a tent with his fingers in front of his mouth and listened to the report his trusted inside man gave him. Sitting in the semidarkness of his expansive office, he allowed the brandy-tipped, hand-rolled cigar to burn down in the ashtray, enjoying the aroma as tendrils of smoke wafted past his senses.
Roberto Salazar blew up his own house, yacht, and cars? Not possible. Sniper fire had not only taken out some of his men, but also had hit some of Salazar’s men as well. And since when would a woman, a marrying kind of innocent, take out one of his hit men, jump into a Mercedes, and drive like a she-devil toward sure danger?
This stunk to high heaven, and he strained to understand the words coming across his desk in a thick Russian accent.
“Dimitri,” he finally said, and then took up his cigar to puff it a bit before inhaling a long drag from it. “We have done business now for how many decades?”
The elegant, silver-haired gentlemen stared at each other with knowing smiles.
“Too long to count, Arturo. At least since the end of the cold war.” Dimitri cut the end off his expensive cigar and lit it slowly with a gold-plated Zippo lighter from Guzman’s desk.
“Does this sound like a young punk who is prepared for battle … or a third party?”
“Al Qaeda doesn’t give a damn about Roberto’s business ambitions, they merely want weapons to fight the Americans … which we will supply them, as the more stressed the Americans are, the more their economy suffers, the more of your product they demand. Very simple. Very efficient. The balance of power is maintained in the world. So I do not think they are your third party, and as weapons dealers and mercenaries, we have no advantage in aiding Roberto against you. He could not do this alone, I do not believe.”
“You being involved never crossed my mind, Dimitri. That is not what I was signifying at all. And, I also agree. I cannot see Al Qaeda siding with a rogue drug dealer bent on profit alone and with no ideological link to their cause—not once they have extracted what they wanted from him—immediate cash for arms. But they are problematic, if they are now selling into my territories behind my back with very cheap product.”
Dimitri chuckled. “Do not worry yourself. This pipeline to the US is unsustainable and they do not want to engage the stable cartel families in war. This will correct itself shortly, I assure you. We will help them understand there are better markets in Europe … by giving up a few of their cells for this transgression.”
“Please encourage them quickly,” Guzman muttered.
“As always.” Dimitri released a long sigh and smiled at Guzman. “My friend, we old generals are familiar with the Afghans in a way that still eludes the young Americans. Remember how long Mother Russia was at war there before others came. The Taliban and Al Qaeda have absolutely no desire to pick a fight with you, and will fight for something intangible and worth more than money, according to their code—their version of honor.”
When Guzman nodded, Dimitri took a long drag on his cigar and rolled it between his fat thumb and forefinger.
“Whether we agree that their cause is insane or not is immaterial, Arturo. What is interesting to me always is that they cannot be negotiated with as individuals for mere capital. But their chain of command understands that order within chaos is mandatory. That is what our young Roberto does not yet understand any more than the young government that fights them. The rebel Afghans are fighting something within their own society that has gone on for centuries. Understanding this requires cultural maturity that Roberto doesn’t own.”
“Impatience is what has led Roberto to break my heart,” Guzman said, taking two quick angry puffs. “But you have a point. The people he did his deals with gain nothing by going to war with us here.”
“No. That is why I would not think they set these explosives. Their only aim in this relationship with Roberto is that they are very desperate for arms and have very disjointed infrastructure, which is what allowed them to actually patronize their competitor’s arms business … yours, without knowing it. They knew they could not bring you excess product. Why would you give them cash for what you already produce? This makes no sense. So they look around and look around until they find someone who will buy what they have to sell in the large quantity they need to move.”
“No one else would touch it. Anyone with that much cash is a competitor already linked into very old and very solid networks, Dimitri.”
“Correct. This is how they wind up stealing a young, cocky customer of yours, Roberto, and then pay you back by purchasing your weapons—while young Roberto has no idea that you and I, as old friends, have long been in business together. It is a shame, actually. He has been in America too long … where a house divided cannot stand.”
“What did you sell this Assad?” Arturo Guzman temporarily set down his cigar again and considered his old friend.
“It has been over a year since the American Nuclear Arms Treaty lapsed. A new spirit of dissention has fallen over the US. The new president has tried to get this trust and verify treaty ratified so that there can be inspections and enforcement … ahhh … but jealous opponents have become so factious that they think of only themselves and not their country as a whole. So, during this time of great debate and contentious behavior within the American government, the UN was secretly moving eleven tons of enriched uranium and three tons of plutonium, by rail in reinforced stainless steel casks, across eighteen hundred miles of open land in Kazakhstan—from the Aqtau nuclear site, very close to Chechnya across the Caspian Sea. That is enough to make eight hundred nuclear bombs … and all we needed was thirty-nine pounds of material to make one.”
Guzman chuckled. “The old Americans were like us once, unified. Parties came together to fight a common cause. I have watched these debates. Obstructionists are more concerned with being individually right than ensuring the good of the whole. They throw the baby out with the bathwater. There is no compromise, but in a family, there must be compromises. This is what Roberto has done. He is thinking of himself, not the whole, and has won short-term gains … but this will not last.”
“And we must embrace change. Not all change is bad.” Dimitri chuckled. “We can now vote with our dollars in American elections. Ironic that their so-called Citizens United Supreme Court case allows us to donate as foreigners … so now, we can have their officials in our hip pockets to sway treaties as we like. We are virtually untouchable as power coalesces, my friend. Stay positive.”
“Sí,” Guzman said, dragging on his cigar again. He stared into the air pensively. “I feel that Roberto has been infiltrated by another source.”
Dimitri nodded. “This is high probability because he is young and impulsive and wants too much too fast. This allows for miscalculation. Whoever set those charges knew how to do it to eviscerate everything on that property.”
“Military?”
“Possibly US military … since they are chasing Assad, I am sure. Or drug enforcement, perhaps CIA.”
“Can your forces on the ground sweep the car the woman was driving? Roberto was like a son to me … I taught him much of what I know, and if he has fought so hard to have this woman returned to him, then I am pretty sure I know what he has done.”
Dimitri laughed and poured himself more vodka from the crystal decanter that rested on the small oval table beside his leather chair. “Should I call Hector and allow him to be the hero?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“Aw … Arturo … throw the poor boy a bone for his troubles. He so wants to finally best his big brother.”
“Hector is weak,” Guzman said, crushing out his cigar. “Traitorous and weak, even if it did alert us to his brother’s deal. I would have respected him more if he had either left Roberto and come to stay her
e with us, or gone with his brother and never tipped us off. But he took the coward’s way out … being sneaky behind his own brother’s back for a guarantee of safety, not even enough money to make the difference. So why should I reward that, my friend?”
“In Russia, we have an old saying … the enemy of my enemy is my friend.” Dimitri took a long, thoughtful drag from his cigar and then studied the embers. “Wouldn’t it be better to allow Hector this small victory of delivering very bad news to his brother … and as punishment for Roberto’s betrayal, and to torture Roberto’s soul for ever daring to betray you … you can then let Roberto know about his brother. Let each betrayer fall to their knees before Roberto’s eyes and let him judge them harshly—as we know he will … and then remind him of his judgments when he must kneel before you and die. Yes?”
A slow, sinister smile took up the edge of Guzman’s mouth as he lifted a brandy snifter to Dimitri in salute. “The Russian way is not so very different from the Colombian way. We understand honor.”
“Yes…” Dimitri murmured. “This is why we have been friends without incident for so long.”
CHAPTER 12
Judging from the expression on Rico’s face, he hadn’t taken Roberto’s decision to fill Bruno’s post with a new man—Anthony—very well. Listening to Rico’s detailed description of what happened at the compound, and how he’d saved Camille, apparently hadn’t moved Roberto to change his mind.
By rights it should have been Rico’s promotion, and Anthony said nothing as a house doctor on the payroll stitched up Rico’s arm in the kitchen while Rico sent an angry glare out the window. After all, Rico had brought Roberto his prized possession, Camille. Then again, as far as the boss was concerned, a guy named Juan had just saved his life. Sad reality was, it was all a lie, all a game, and by morning there was a 90 percent chance they’d all be dead.
Anthony stood when Roberto entered the kitchen, but the old doctor never stopped sewing. Roberto’s immediate return relieved any fears he had about Sage being backed into a corner alone with him.
Meanwhile, Rico used the doctor’s unceasing ministrations as an obvious excuse not to stand or look at his boss, and risk being shot again, fatally this time, for insubordination. Rico remained mute and just grimaced from the pain and only glanced at his injury. It was clear that he was pissed, but he was smart enough not to voice that fact. Only Hector seemed to silently acknowledge the slight, catching Rico’s eye before looking away helplessly.
“Take her to the casino while I make new arrangements for our meeting tonight. What happened today changes many things. I have a lot to do … and she’s shaken. Make her life normal. Comprende? There are plenty of upscale shops at Harrah’s and we have men there, too, along with Assad’s forces. I’ve informed them you will be there soon. With the crowds, it will be harder to target her at a twenty-six-floor, four-hundred-and-fifty-room hotel that also has its own security, than at a small boutique in the French Market. One RPG shell fired from a rooftop could take out a tiny, street-level store with only one way in and one way out, whereas a huge casino has multiple escape routes. Just like Jackson Square is wide open like the little shops around it; a sniper could be anywhere. You understand my point. I do not believe my enemy knows about my holdings here or about this particular property, but one can never be too sure.”
Nodding, Anthony met Roberto’s troubled gaze. “I understand. On my life, nothing will happen to her while she’s under my guard.”
“Good man,” Roberto said, ignoring Rico’s unspoken fury. He then looked at his brother. “Vámanos.”
* * *
Although dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, she felt naked without a gun. No purse, no lipstick, no sunglasses, no ID, she had nothing to help her create the façade of being Camille Rodriguez—Roberto Salazar’s woman, now fiancée. It was the first time since she’d taken on the assignment that she felt so completely vulnerable. The affected airhead persona, the oblivious shopaholic, the vain beauty, all of it was an act carried off by makeup and high-end stage props.
But now, she was wearing what she normally wore in her real life. Her face was scrubbed clean of expensive makeup and she was about to go out into the world with the real man she wanted to be with. The terror of that acute exposure made her hands shake. And the moment she hit the bottom step of Roberto’s French Quarter mansion, the wall between her real self and her undercover self came tumbling down.
“Ms. Rodriguez,” Anthony said carefully, and then glanced at Roberto across the grand marble foyer for confirmation. “I’ll be your security detail. My car is in the courtyard, and I can take you over to Harrah’s to shop and then bring you home.”
Roberto nodded and went to her when she stopped and hugged herself at the bottom of the curved staircase. He cupped her cheek and spoke to her as though one would speak to a frightened child.
“Juan is all right, Corazón. As good as Bruno, if not better. Go get something nice to wear … some makeup and a beautiful dress for the Mardi Gras parties. Maybe we’ll stay in New Orleans for a while or go on a little vacation and stay somewhere exotic while the house in Miami is rebuilt. When you come back, I’ll have the doctor give you some Xanax to relax … and Maritsa can bring you a tray to your room, if you’re hungry. Just tell her what you’d like to eat. In a day or so, we’ll put all this behind us.”
It was clear that he wanted to get her out of the house and away from him for a while. The tension in his face was unmistakable, just as his tight, jerky motions gave away the stress that was roiling beneath the false calm he presented.
Sage nodded and kissed him quickly, slipping out of Roberto’s loose hold to go stand next to Anthony. “Okay … I won’t be long.” She hated this, every last bit of it.
“Bueno…” Roberto replied, then turned away from her to head toward the library where his brother was waiting, and closed the huge pocket doors.
Two house guards who were packing heat followed them outside into the gated courtyard, casing it and Anthony’s car before giving Anthony the signal that it was all right to bring her out and clear to enter his BMW. Sounds of New Orleans street jazz and hubbub filled her ears while she waited on their security check, wafting over the top of the iron gates in a humid cloud. The city had a daytime, happy persona that hid its dark side; her life mirrored the same duality.
Finally the guards slowly opened the gates so their car could pass. Her gaze roving, she noticed another man was on the roof surveying the ground below, which was teeming with tourist pedestrians.
Blocking both human and vehicle traffic so they could enter the narrow street, the guards gave them safe passage into the flow of humanity and then quietly disappeared inside the small citadel again. A block away and around the corner, Anthony broke the oppressive silence.
“This is an impound vehicle, we can talk.”
“Has it been out of your sight?”
Anthony shook his head. “Visible from the dining room window out into the courtyard at all times. I kept the keys on me.”
Sage released her breath. “Oh … man.”
“Were you hurt?”
“No. Rico told you what happened?”
“I got it from three sources. Once when Alvarez called in the report, then from my DELTA unit, but it wasn’t until Rico walked in the door with you that I knew you were alive and all right.” He gripped the steering wheel tighter as they crept along in gridlocked traffic. “I can’t tell you…”
She knew there was a part of the conversation they’d never be able to have, a part that he could never say—the part about how much he hated seeing Roberto physically claim her with hugs, kisses, and caresses.
“Yeah, well, you’re a sight for sore eyes too, Captain,” she said quietly, trying to lighten things between them with a snarky comment that fell flat due to her sad tone. Having failed her objective, she then wrapped her arms around herself and looked out the window.
“Back to Captain, after all of this?”
His
dry comment made her smile, despite the insanity that was looming around them. “I need it for professional distance.” She didn’t dare look at him right away; he made her want to laugh and cry all at the same time.
“Roger that. Same reason I jammed my hands in my pockets when I saw that you were alive and had walked in under your own steam, instead of being bodily carried in.”
She let out a long breath and finally looked at him. Running to him and hugging him hard was exactly what she’d wanted to do, too. But that would have been a death sentence for them both.
“Yeah,” she murmured, wanting so badly to reach across the small space between them now and hold his hand but not daring to. No telling where eyes were. “So if you see me looking at the floor a lot…”
“Ditto,” Anthony said as he navigated the car onto Canal Street. “But my hope is that dude is going to make his move soon. This bullshit needs to be over. Fucking mission accomplished already. The Colombians put added pressure on the situation and my worry is that Assad might just cut and run, now that he’s been paid.”
“True, but he’s still at the casino,” she said with emphasis. “What better place is there to wash money or do wire transfers or stash your excessive amounts of cash safely, if you have a man on the inside there?”
“Right.”
“And … let’s calm down and think about this thoroughly,” she added, glancing at him and then back at the traffic. “If Assad is sticking around and has his own retinue of men still at the casino, it has to be to insure his weapons shipment. Not that I’ve met him, but he doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who would hand over cash based on a cell phone call coming out of Canada … unless…”
“Unless someone higher than him gives the okay.” Anthony glanced at her and then back at the traffic. “An ironclad source.”
“Exactly,” Sage said and then placed a finger on her lips, thinking for a moment. “This could go right to the nerve center of a terror cell or a network of cells. If Assad did get such a call, then he could divvy up the cash and give it to physical couriers to travel in different directions. That way there isn’t one big very obvious shipment, but several smaller ones. Also, his cash isn’t in the same place as his weapons, in case anything went wrong … and if temporarily stopped, guys coming out of the casino with a large stash might not raise suspicions, if their phony paperwork looked legit.”