“See you later.”
“Sí.”
They climbed in, fired up the engines and hurried out of the lot.
As he drove to Cuchillo’s compound, Alejo Díaz could not help but think of the bus.
The people tomorrow, the tourists, who would be trapped and burned to death by this butcher. He recalled P.Z. Evans’s words yesterday and reflected that these people were also—to Cuchillo—acceptable sacrifices.
Díaz was suddenly swept with fury at what people like this were doing to his country. Yes, the place was hot and dusty and the economy staggered and it dwelt forever in the shadow of that behemoth to the north—the country that Mexicans both loved and hated.
But this land is our home, he thought. And home, however flawed, deserves respect.
People like Alonso María Cuchillo treated Mexico with nothing but contempt.
Of course, Díaz would have to keep his revulsion deeply hidden when he met Cuchillo. He was just a shopkeeper’s assistant; the drug lord was just another rich businessman with a love of books.
If he screwed that up, then many people—himself included—were going to die.
Then he was at the compound. He was admitted through a gate that swung open slowly and he parked near the modest front door. A swarthy, squat man who clearly was carrying a pistol greeted him pleasantly and asked him to step to a table in the entryway. Another guard gently but thoroughly frisked him.
Then the briefcase was searched.
Díaz regarded the operation with surprising detachment, he decided, considering he might be one minute away from being shot.
The detachment vanished and his heart thudded fiercely when the man frowned and dug into the case.
Jesus …
The man gazed at Díaz with wide eyes. Then he grinned. “Is this the new iPad?” He pulled it out and displayed it to the other guard.
His breathing stuttering in and out, Díaz nodded and wondered if his question had burst Evans’s eardrum.
“Four-G?”
“If there’s a server.”
“How many gig?”
“Thirty-two,” the Mexican agent managed to say.
“My son has that, too. His is nearly filled. Music videos.” He man replaced it and handed the briefcase back. The Schiller novel remained undiscovered.
Struggling to control his breathing, Díaz said, “I don’t have many videos. I use it mostly for work.”
A few minutes later he was led into the living room. He declined water or any other beverage. Alone, the Mexican agent sat with the briefcase on his lap. He opened it again and smoothly freed the Schiller and slipped it into his waistband, absently thinking about the explosive two inches from his penis. The open lid obscured prying eyes or cameras if there were any. He extracted the Dickens and closed the case.
A moment later a shadow spread on the floor and Díaz looked up to see Cuchillo walking steadily forward on quiet feet.
The Knife. The slaughterer of hundreds, perhaps thousands.
The stocky man strode forward, smiling. He seemed pleasant enough, if a bit distracted.
“Señor Abrossa,” he said—the cover name Davila had given when he’d called yesterday. Díaz now presented a business card they’d had printed yesterday. “Good day. Delighted to meet you.”
“And I’m pleased to meet such an illustrious client of Señor Davila.”
“And how is he? I thought he might come himself.”
“He sends his regards. He’s getting ready for the auction of eighteenth century Bibles.”
“Yes, yes, that’s right. One of the few books I don’t collect. Which is a shame. I understand that the plot is very compelling.”
Díaz laughed. “The characters, too.”
“Ah, the Dickens.”
Taking it reverently, the man unwrapped the bubble plastic and examined the volume and flipped through it. “It is thrilling to know that Dickens himself held this very book.”
Cuchillo was lost in the book, a gaze of admiration and respect. Not lust or possessiveness.
And in the silence, Díaz looked around and noted that this house was filled with much art and sculpture. All tasteful and subdued. This was not the house of a gaudy drug lord. He had been inside those. Filled with excess—and usually brimming with beautiful and marginally clad women.
It was then that a sudden and difficult thought came to Díaz. Was it at all possible that they’d made a mistake? Was this subdued, cultured man not the vicious dog they’d been led to believe? After all, there’d never been any hard proof that Cuchillo was the drug lord many believed him to be. Just because one was rich and tough didn’t mean he was a criminal.
Where exactly had the intelligence assigning guilt come from? How reliable was it?
He realized Cuchillo was looking at him with curiosity. “Now, Señor Abrossa, are you sure you’re the book dealer I’ve been led to believe?”
Using all his willpower, Díaz kept a smile on his face and dipped a brow in curiosity.
The man laughed hard. “You’ve forgotten to ask for the money.”
“Ah, sometimes I get so caught up in the books themselves that, you’re right, I do forget it’s a business. I personally would give books away to people who appreciate them.”
“I most certainly won’t tell your employer you said that.” He reached into his pocket and extracted a thick envelop. “There is the fiftyfive thousand. U.S. “Díaz handed him the receipt on Davila’s letterhead and signed “V. Abrossa.”
“Thank you …?” Cuchillo asked, lifting an eyebrow.
“Victor.” Díaz put the money in the attaché case and closed it. He looked around. “Your home, it is very lovely. I’ve always wondered about the houses in this neighborhood.”
“Thank you. Would you like to see the place?”
“Please. And your collection, too, if possible.”
“Of course.”
Cuchillo then lead him on a tour of the house, which was, like the living room, filled with understated elegance. Pictures of youngsters—his nieces and nephews who lived in Mexico City and Chihuahua, he explained. He seemed proud of them.
Díaz couldn’t help wondering again: Was this a mistake?
“Now, come to my library. As a booklover, I hope you will be impressed.”
They walked through the kitchen, where Cuchillo paused and asked the housekeeper how her ailing mother was doing. He nodded as she answered. He told her to take any time off she needed. His eyes were narrow with genuine sympathy.
A mistake …?
They walked out the back door and through the shade of twin brick walls, the ones protecting him from sniper shots, and then into the library.
Even as a non-book lover, Díaz was impressed. More than impressed.
The place astonished him. He knew the size from the drone images, but he hadn’t imagined it would be filled as completely as it was. Everywhere, books. It seemed the walls were made of them, like rich tiles in all different sizes and colors and textures.
“I don’t know what to say, sir.”
They walked slowly through the cool room and Cuchillo talked about some of the highlights in the collection. “My superstars,” he said. He pointed out some as they walked.
The Hound of the Baskervilles by Conan Doyle, Seven Pillars of Wisdom by T.E. Lawrence, The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Tale of Peter Rabbit by Beatrix Potter, Brighton Rock by Graham Greene, The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammett, Night and Day by Virginia Woolf, The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien, The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce, A La Recherche Du Temps Perdu by Marcel Proust, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz by Frank Baum, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone by J.K. Rowling, The Bridge by Hart Crane, The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger, The Thirty-Nine Steps by John Buchan, The Murder on the Links by Agatha Christie, Casino Royale by Ian Fleming.
“And our nation’s writers too, of course—that whole wall there. I love all
books, but it’s important for us in Mexico to be aware of our people’s voice.” He strode forward and displayed a few. “Salvador Novo, Jos Gorostiza, Xavier Villaurrutia, and the incomparable Octavio Paz. Whom you’ve read, of course.”
“Of course,” Díaz said, praying that Cuchillo would not ask for the name of one of Paz’s books, much less a plot or protagonist.
Díaz noted a book near the man’s plush armchair. It was in a display case, James Joyce’s Ulysses. He happened to have read about the title last night on a rare book website. “Is that the original 1922 edition?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“It’s worth about $150,000.”
Cuchillo smiled. “No. It’s worth nothing.”
“Nothing?”
His arm swept in a slow circle, indicating the room. “This entire collection is worth nothing.”
“How do you mean, sir?”
“Something has value only to the extent the owner is willing to sell. I would never sell a single volume. Most book collectors feel this way, more so than about paintings or cars or sculpture.”
The businessman picked up The Maltese Falcon. “You are perhaps surprised I have in my collection spy and detective stories?”
The agent recited a fact he’d read. “Of course, popular commercial fiction is usually more valuable than literature.” He hoped he’d got this straight.
He must have. Cuchillo was nodding. “But I enjoy them for their substance as well as their collectability.”
This was interesting. The agent said, “I suppose crime is an art form in a way.”
Cuchillo’s head cocked and he seemed confused. Díaz’s heart beat faster.
The collector said, “I don’t mean that. I mean that crime and popular novelists are often better craftspeople than so-called literary writers. The readers know this; they appreciate good storytelling over pretentious artifice. Take that book I just bought, The Old Curiosity Shop. When it first came out, serialized in weekly parts, people in New York and Boston would wait on the docks when the latest installment was due to arrive from England. They’d shout to the sailors, ‘Tell us, is Little Nell dead?’” He glanced at the display case. “I suspect not so many people did that for Ulysses. Don’t you agree?”
“I do, sir, yes.” Then he frowned. “But wasn’t Curiosity Shop serialized in monthly parts?”
After a moment Cuchillo smiled. “Ah, right you are. I don’t collect periodicals, so I’m always getting that confused.”
Was this a test, or a legitimate error?
Díaz could not tell.
He glanced past Cuchillo and pointed to a shelf. “Is that a Mark Twain?”
When the man turned Díaz quickly withdrew the doctored Schiller and slipped it onto a shelf just above Ulysses, near the drug baron’s armchair.
He lowered his arm just as Cuchillo turned back. “No, not there. But I have several. You’ve read Huckleberry Finn?”
“No. I just know it as a collector’s item.”
“Some people consider it the greatest American novel. I consider it perhaps the greatest novel of the New World. It has lessons for us as well.” A shake of the head. “And the Lord knows we need some lessons in this poor country of ours.”
They returned to the living room and Díaz dug the iPad from the case. “Let me show you some new titles that Señor Davila has just gotten in.” He supposed P.Z. Evans was relieved to hear his voice and learn that he had not been discovered and spirited off to a grave in the graceless Sonora desert.
He called up Safari and went to the website. “Now, we have—”
But his phony sales pitch was interrupted when a huge bang startled them all. A bullet had struck and spattered against the resistant glass of a window nearby.
“My God! What’s that?” Díaz called.
“Get out of the room, away from the windows! Now!” José, the security man, gestured them toward the doorways leading out of the living room.
“They’re bulletproof,” Cuchillo protested.
“But they could try armor piercing when they realize! Move, sir!”
Everyone scattered.
P.Z. Evans didn’t get a chance to shoot his gun very often.
Although he and Díaz had earlier commented about Cuchillo meeting with an “accident” in a euphemistic way, in fact staging natural deaths was the preferred way to eliminate people. While the police would often suspect that the death of a terrorist or a criminal was not happenstance, a good craftsman could create a credible scenario that was satisfactory to avoid further investigation. A fall down stairs, a car crash, a pool drowning.
But nothing was as much fun as pulling out your long-barreled Italian pistol and blasting away.
He was about fifty yards from the compound, standing on a Dumpster behind a luxury apartment complex. There wasn’t a support for the gun, but he was strong—shooters have to have good muscles—and he easily hit the window he was aiming for. He had a decent view through the glass and for his first shot aimed where nobody was standing—just in case this window happened not to be bullet proof. But the slugs smacked harmlessly into the strong glass. He emptied one mag, reloaded and leapt off the Dumpster, sprinting to the car, just as the side gate opened and Cuchillo’s security people carefully looked out. Evans fired once into the wall to keep them down and then drove around the block to the other side of the compound.
No Dumpsters here, but he climbed on top of the roof of the car and fired three rounds into the window of Cuchillo’s bedroom.
Then he hopped down and climbed into the driver’s seat. A moment later he was skidding away.
Windows up, A.C. on full. If there was mold in car’s vents he’d just take his chances. He was sweating like he’d spent an hour in the sauna.
Inside the house, after the shooter had vanished and calm—relative calm—was restored, Cuchillo did something that astonished Alejo Díaz.
He ordered his security chief to call the police.
This hardly seemed like the sort of thing that a drug baron would do. You’d think he’d want as little attention—and as little contact with the authorities—as possible.
But when a Hermosillo police captain, along with four uniformed officers, arrived twenty minutes later, Cuchillo was grim and angry. “Once again, I’ve been targeted! People can’t accept that I’m just a businessman. They assume because I’m successful that I’m a criminal and therefore I deserve to be shot. It’s unfair! You work hard, you’re responsible, you give back to your country and your city … and still people believe the worst of you!”
The police conducted a brief investigation, but the shooter was, of course, long gone. And no one had seen anything—everyone inside had fled to the den, bedroom or bathroom, as the security chief had instructed. Díaz’s response: “I’m afraid I didn’t see much, anything really. I was on the floor, hiding.” He shrugged, as if faintly embarrassed by his cowardice.
The officer nodded and jotted his words down. He didn’t believe him, but nor did he challenge Díaz to be more thorough; in Mexico one was used to witnesses who “didn’t see much, anything really.”
The police left and Cuchillo, no longer angry but once more distracted, said goodbye to Díaz.
“I’m not much in the mood to consider Señor Davila’s books now,” he said, with a nod to the iPad. He would check the website later.
“Of course. And thank you, sir.”
“It’s nothing.”
Díaz left, feeling even more conflicted than ever.
You work hard, you’re responsible, you give back to your country and your city … and still people believe the worst of you …
My God, was he a murderous drug baron or a generous businessman?
And whether Cuchillo was guilty or innocent, Díaz realized he was stabbed by guilt at the thought that he’d just planted a bomb that would take the life of a man at his most vulnerable, doing something he loved and found comfort in: reading a book.
An hour later Cuchillo
was sitting in his den, blinds closed over the bulletproof windows. And despite the attack, he was feeling relieved.
Actually, because of the attack, he was feeling relieved.
He had thought that the rumors they’d heard for the past few days, the snippets of intelligence, were referring to some kind of brilliant, insidious plan to murder him, a plan that he couldn’t anticipate. But it had turned out to be a simple shooting, which had been foiled by the bullet proof glass; the assassin was surely headed out of the area.
Jos knocked and entered. “Sir, I think we have a lead about the attack. I heard from Carmella at Ruby’s. She spent much of last evening with an American, a businessman, he claimed. He got drunk and said some things that seemed odd to her. She heard of the shooting and called me.”
“Carmella,” Cuchillo said, grinning. She was a beautiful if slightly unbalanced young woman who could get by on her looks for the time being, but if she didn’t hook a husband soon she’d be in trouble.
Not that Cuchillo was in any hurry for that to happen; he’d slept with her occasionally. She was very, very talented.
“And what about this American?”
“He was asking her about this neighborhood. The houses in it. If there were any hotels nearby, even though earlier he’d said he was staying near the bar.”
While there were sights to see in the sprawling city of Hermosillo, Cuchillo’s compound was in a nondescript residential area. Nothing here would draw either businessmen or tourists.
“Hotel,” Cuchillo mused. “For a vantage point for shooting?”
“That’s what I wondered. Now, I’ve gotten his credit card information from the bar and data-mined it. I’m waiting for more information but we know for a fact it’s an assumed identity.”
“So he’s an operative. But who’s he working for? A drug cartel from north of the border? A hit man from Texas hired by the Sinaloans? … The American government?”
“I hope to know more soon, sir.”
Acceptable Sacrifice Page 3