by Layton Green
Except for Lana, sitting alone at a table by a gurgling fountain, the courtyard was empty. Lana ordered a cappuccino from a waiter, Grey a double espresso, Fred a cup of ice water.
Fred mopped his brow. “How do you drink coffee in the jungle?”
“We’re in the shade,” Lana said. “It’s lovely.”
“Shade doesn’t help with thousand percent humidity.”
Grey poured a sugar into his espresso. He didn’t mind the heat.
Lana stirred her cappuccino. She was wearing white linen slacks and a sleeveless black top that revealed toned arms. “Before we begin,” she said, “you should know that what I’m about to tell you is a matter of national security. That makes disclosure of this conversation a very serious crime.”
“Which makes me wonder why you chose a public venue,” Grey said, “and leads me to assume you’re avoiding government offices. Someone tipped off the cartel about Agent Turner, and you don’t know who to trust. Though as public venues go, this was a good choice. Empty, surrounded by a wall, and the fountain is loud enough to discourage listening devices.”
She nodded approvingly, then cocked a grin. “That, and my cousin owns the café.”
“That helps,” Grey said drily.
“I understand avoiding the DEA,” Fred said, “but the CIA? I doubt you broadcasted our presence at Hector Fortuna’s last night.”
“There must have been a leak at the CIA before,” Grey guessed. “With whatever’s going on.”
Lana gave her assent by leaning back and regarding them with eyes as cool as the fountain.
“So why trust us?” Fred asked. “Besides the fact that we could have died last night, and that I’m too poor to be on the take. And this guy being a mole for the Alianza,” he jerked his thumb at Grey, “well, that would be a stretch. Unless he’s not who he says he is.”
Grey didn’t reply. He barely knew Fred, didn’t trust Lana, and didn’t care if either one of them trusted him.
“You’re right,” Lana said, “it would have been colossally stupid of either of you to walk into that situation as a mole. Unless, of course, everyone in that room knew who you were and purposefully avoided shooting you.”
“We took out the whole room,” Fred said flatly.
Lana spread her hands. “Which is why I’m here. And,” she turned towards Fred, her smile slow and sure, “as we discussed before, I’ve seen your record and made my inquiries. Loyalty to the cause does not appear to be an issue.”
“Goddamn right,” Fred said, though Grey detected a note of irony.
“And you and Professor Radek,” Lana said, turning to Grey, “have worked with numerous governmental agencies before, and have impeccable reputations.” She placed her elbows on the table and interlaced her fingers. “What sunk you on your CIA application, you know, wasn’t your background or skill set. It was your ethical profiling.”
“I’m as distraught as the first time you brought this up,” Grey said. “Really, I’ve never recovered.”
“Your profile claims you suffer from a narcissistic and delusional sense of altruism—”
“Lady, if I’m a narcissist, then you’re the Queen of England. I’m many things, but a narcissist isn’t one of them.”
“—also known as instinctive cooperative behavior complex, also known as hero syndrome. The hallmarks of which are someone who will never be comfortable accepting partisan dictates, or have the capability to put aside principle and do what is necessary for the greater good.”
Fred laughed.
Lana crossed her legs and returned to her cappuccino. “A state of mind that’s the polar opposite of that required of a successful government agent, especially of the clandestine variety. Fortunately, the condition is favorable for situations requiring trust.”
Grey snorted. “Since when are my psych evaluations public record? You’ve obviously broken the law and disclosed it for a reason—don’t worry, I couldn’t care less—and I’m guessing that reason is so Fred can trust me as well.”
Lana leaned forward. “I know who you are, Dominic. We’re all on the same side. We all want the same thing. If you really want to do something for Sekai and Nya, if you really want to make a difference, then help us catch the man we’re after.”
“Don’t manipulate me,” Grey muttered, though he knew she just had. “Call me Grey, get to the point, and tell me what this is all about.”
She told him everything: about El General, his proclivity for using a blue-painted Indian woman as a personal assassin, the CIA’s fears of terrorists penetrating an uncontrolled border, her excitement at the recent appearance of the General’s mysterious assassin on U.S. soil.
“That’s quite a story,” Grey said.
“I can vouch for some of it,” Fred said grudgingly. “Or at least the legend. My informants get all weak-kneed at the mention of this guy.”
Grey folded his arms. “I might be less inclined towards belief if a blue Indian woman hadn’t fired a slingshot at my head last night.”
“Speaking of that,” Fred said, “did your guy ever come up with anything?”
“Yeah, he did.” Grey told them about the legend of Mama Huaco that Viktor had found.
Fred’s eyebrows lifted, and Lana’s lips curled. “Moving right along,” she said, and Grey shrugged. He didn’t blame her.
She paused to consider her next words, and Grey’s eyes flicked to the side again, to the empty courtyard. He hated not having his back against the wall, but Lana had claimed that chair.
“Fred mentioned you might have learned something from your outing today?” she said to Grey.
Grey eyed the two of them, wondering what else Lana wasn’t telling him. Her claim of an insecure border seemed lacking. “Judging by your reaction the first time we met,” he said to Lana, “I’m guessing your investigation has reached an impasse.”
She clasped her hands on the table and said, “You would not be incorrect.”
“Obviously someone in the power base in Cancun knows something,” Fred said, “but we don’t have anyone that deep inside. All we know is that this Palo Mayombe cult might be involved in some way, and we just lost that lead. Unless,” he turned to Grey, “you think finding this priest in Mexico might help?”
“According to Professor Radek, every palero—a Palo priest—is trained individually by another palero.”
“I don’t doubt the scholarship,” Lana said, “though I fail to see the connection to the case. Not that the Alianza Cartel members aren’t involved with Palo Mayombe—they obviously are—but how will that help us locate our principal?”
“You’ve said you can’t find a connection through the cartels,” Grey said, “but what if we could backdoor our way in? Who knows how deep the connection to Palo Mayombe runs? Maybe the General himself is involved—maybe he was the original palero, or knew him, and everyone links back to him.”
Lana leaned back, the doubt on her face morphing to curiosity. “You actually think you might be able to trace this cult to the General? Or somewhere close?”
“I think we can try.”
She finished her cappuccino, drumming her fingers on the table as she thought. “It’s worth a shot, and I’ve already cleared you both.” She cupped her empty mug in her palms. “What if I were to engage you to go to Mexico to find this priest? Both of you.”
Fred muttered something under his breath. “I’ll need to clear it on my end.”
“You’d do nothing of the sort,” Lana said. “Remember the leak?”
Grey frowned. “You want us to go dark?”
“Just anonymous. You don’t need to penetrate the cartel, just look into the cult angle.”
“Which is closely tied to the cartel,” Grey said.
“It’s a dangerous assignment,” Lana said. “We’ll include fifty percent danger pay on top of the usual fee and expenses. And if you didn’t have such a specialized background, I’d never consider putting you in this situation.”
Right, h
e thought. Now he knew why she had thrown in the bit about Nya and Sekai, to secure his help in case she needed him. There was also the fact that he had just killed the twin sister of an Alianza sicario, and the General’s personal assassin had tried to murder him the night before.
Like it or not, he was involved.
“I’ll need to consult with Professor Radek,” Grey said.
“Of course.” Lana turned towards Fred. “You know there will be an investigation concerning last night.” Fred didn’t answer, and she continued, “Taking into account your previous record . . . frankly, I’m not sure your career will survive.”
Grey thought Fred would retort, but instead he looked defeated.
“Here’s what I can offer you,” Lana said softly. “Take a leave of absence. Claim you need a vacation. We both know no one will blink an eye. Work with me on this, and we’ll clear your record and restore your pay grade.”
Fred licked his lips. “You can’t promise that.”
“I report directly to the Deputy Director on this matter. He’s the one who authorized the investigation. I don’t have the power to clean your record, but he does. And I swear to you both, he and I are the only two people who will know about this. There will be no leak from our end. And all of that is classified.”
Fred remained silent, though Grey could see some of the light returning to his eyes.
“No leak unless you or the Deputy Director is dirty,” Grey said.
Lana looked him in the eye and held his gaze. She let the stare linger, unblinking, every muscle carefully controlled, giving him plenty of time and opportunity to gauge her body language. He saw no signs of deception, but of course, she was trained to lie.
“If he were dirty,” Lana said finally, “then he wouldn’t be spearheading this investigation. And if I were turned, I wouldn’t be seeking your specialized assistance.”
Her points were valid, and Grey could think of no reason why she might be lying. At least not at the moment.
“I understand all of this is highly irregular,” Lana said. “Believe me, we don’t engage outside assistance lightly. But you both possess rare expertise, and, well, exceptional circumstances require exceptional solutions.”
“What about you?” Fred asked. “You coming with us?”
“There’s another angle I need to finish investigating from here—which I’ll discuss as soon as we’ve come to an agreement. I propose that we meet here at the same time tomorrow, after I’ve cleared this with the Director and you’ve had a chance to consider. Hopefully we can move forward.”
Fred gave a slow nod. “Okay.”
She turned to Grey.
“Sure,” he said, raising his cup. “The espresso’s good.”
Needing to think, Grey took a long drive along Collins Avenue. A barrier of palms and dunes hid the ocean. He kept an eye out for trailing vehicles, but it was broad daylight in a bustling city, and this was not the Miami of the eighties. Cartel assassins did not march into shopping malls and spray bullets into the crowd.
But they did in Mexico.
Though Grey was a risk taker, he did not willingly put himself in dangerous situations without doing some fact-checking. He knew he wouldn’t find much on Lana, but he gave it a shot.
Before he left the hotel he had consulted his usual array of Internet databases that provided background checks. Lana, as Grey had guessed, was a Miami-born Cuban. Her socialite mother and prominent businessman father had divorced in 1997, Lana’s senior year of high school. She dropped out of cheerleading and almost flunked her first semester that year, then rebounded in the second. College admissions advisors must have taken the divorce into account, because she graduated summa cum laude from Princeton and starred for the debate team. After that came an internship with the U.N., a year as an aide on Capitol Hill, and then he presumed she joined the CIA, since she dropped off the radar.
Along the way she picked up a black belt in taekwondo, which he discovered because she won her division at nationals. No property or vehicle records. Never married. No criminal history. Younger brother a heart surgeon in Tampa.
Grey had two contacts in the CIA, one he knew from his posting in Bogotá, the other an ex-girlfriend from his vagabond days in New York. The latter had been an NYU student from an uptight Boston family, attracted to Grey’s gypsy lifestyle and restless anger. They met at a club where Grey worked the door. She was surprised someone as thin as he could be a bouncer, even more surprised to learn he was more well-read than she.
The former DSO didn’t answer, so he tried the ex-girlfriend. Grey called her old home number and got her mother. She remembered Grey and gave out her daughter’s cell, also hinting that her daughter was still single.
Grey called his long-ago ex and was surprised when she answered. The conversation was short and awkward, but it sufficed. He learned that a CIA agent named Lana Valenciano did indeed exist, and that she fit Grey’s description. He also learned, through a silent acquiescence to his questions, that Lana was considered a rising star and known to report on Latin America directly to Jeffrey Lasgetone, the current Deputy Director of the CIA. Who Grey surely knew, his ex said, had recently announced he would be running for president?
Grey hadn’t known. Or cared. But it did start his wheels spinning.
He got nothing else, but it was a start. He knew they were chasing a very bad operator. He knew Lana was at least who she said she was and that she had the ear of the Director.
And he knew, of course, that she wasn’t telling him everything.
Grey rolled through a quaint little beach community called Surfside, his thoughts coalescing at a stop sign. In his mind, the benefits of going to Mexico outweighed the risks. Besides the fact that a killer had him in his sights and Lana needed his and Viktor’s expertise, well, this was what he did. Grey might not be able to do much about who he was, but he could choose what he was.
He called Nya next, and thought of trust for the second time that day. She too had concealed things from him in the beginning, and even though it was because she hadn’t trusted him, it had still smarted.
Which only made her human. But which had not improved his ability to trust.
Nya was not happy with his decision to pursue the case. She was Catholic and, though she struggled with faith, harbored deep superstitions. She again voiced her worry that something terrible might happen if Grey chose to continue, and it would be her fault for getting him involved.
But Grey was not superstitious, and her worry perversely drove him forward, a sign that she cared. It was a dangerous cycle and he didn’t know where it would end.
He returned home, cracked a beer, and called to update Viktor. At the mention of Tata Menga, a flash of the old Viktor returned, a seasoned explorer stumbling upon new ruins in the jungle. “A feared palero in the Yucatan?” he said, an eager lilt to his voice. “Most intriguing.”
“What’s the history of Palo in Mexico?”
“The Africans taken to Mexico during the slave trade were in the vast minority, and their religious practices never established a foothold, especially not in the Mayan-controlled Yucatan. Santeria and Palo Mayombe gained a following in Mexico much later, due to Cuban immigration. The jungles of the Yucatan are the perfect place for Palo to thrive, however. Forests are sacred to Congolese religion. That’s where they believe the spirits prefer to roam.”
“The Yucatan’s huge,” Grey said. “Where do you suggest I start looking?”
“Perhaps start with the urban botánicas—yerberías in Mexico—and inquire discreetly about Palo.”
“The Alianza Cartel is based in Cancun, so that might be a good place to look.”
“Good. Yes. Though be warned, Palo and even Santeria are far less prevalent in Mexico than in Miami or Cuba. If you find you’re not making progress, there is a more . . . unorthodox . . . angle you might try.”
“Not sure I like the sound of that.”
“A palero who is widely sought after for his magical servi
ces will need supplies. Many Palo rituals, and each new prenda, require human bones exhumed from a cemetery.”
It took Grey a moment to see where Viktor was going. “You think I should stake out the cemeteries?”
“It might prove an excellent way to locate practitioners of Palo. Though my guess is that a palero with the reputation of Tata Menga will have someone collect his materials for him. A Renfield, if you’ll excuse the expression.”
“Thanks for the tip,” Grey said drily. “I’ll start with the botánicas.”
“There’s something else you should know.”
Viktor paused, and Grey’s eyes scanned the street out of habit. “I’ve done further research on the Mama Huaco mythology,” Viktor continued. “In addition to being a legendary warrior, she was also summoned for vengeance. And legend has it that once she focused on an enemy, she never failed to destroy him.”
“Legend being the operative word.”
“I just thought you should know. Those whom the General is seeking to cow will be familiar with the myth.”
“Yeah. Thanks. Anything else of interest?”
“Not as yet.”
They finished up with small talk, and Grey fell asleep on the couch with his arms crossed and his eyes on the door, thinking of the blue assassin and reminding himself that he was not, indeed, a man of superstition.
In the old days, Fred would have agreed without hesitation to go to Mexico on the spot, ready for another adrenaline-fueled adventure. Now he had a family to think about, and a floundering career, and a pair of aching knees.
Then again, he had a paralyzed partner on his hands. Back in the day, that alone was cause enough.
He stared at the phone, knowing that if he went to Mexico, he had to make that call. The one where he told his family a story they knew was bullshit, the one where the good-byes were quiet and somber because he might be coming back in a body bag.
The wife was no longer an issue, but he’d have to call his daughters.