by Chris Ryan
Bald obeyed. He caught sight of the woman’s reflection in the passenger window of a parked Chevrolet C2. She had black, curly hair and the scent of expensive perfume wafted off her neck. Her skin was a shiny copper. Bald figured she was the Firm’s local handler. They had one in every city in the world. The handler was somebody who knew the lie of the land, who had an understanding of the situation on the ground. A Mark One Eyeball, as they called it in the Regiment. Usually the handlers were semi-retired Civil Service gits who spent their afternoons getting drunk on gin and tonic and their evenings making racist jokes. The woman at his six o’clock was about as far from that description as it was possible to get.
‘You’re John, right?’ Her accent was nasal, formal but somehow charming.
Bald coughed twice again.
‘This way,’ she said.
The woman walked quickly towards the short-term car park. Bald followed four metres behind. One look at her rear and his mouth was salivating. She had a first-class arse, the kind of arse that got featured on Internet forums. It was maybe the best arse Bald had ever seen. It swayed smoothly from hip to hip like a pendulum, neatly wrapped like a gift inside her abraded skinny jeans. A group of taxi drivers were smoking and playing cards on the top of a cab. They paused to eyefuck the woman. Bald followed her as she navigated her way through a maze of cars until she came to a silver Nissan Sentra. Bald smiled to himself. In Europe an MI6 agent could get away with shooting around town in a posh car. In Mexico you didn’t want to stand out. To do so would only make you a target for the local kidnappers. In that regard the Nissan was a shrewd choice. The woman hopped in, reached over and opened the front passenger door.
‘Get in,’ she said quietly.
Bald ducked into the front passenger seat. The woman fired up the Nissan and accelerated out of the car park. The airport was unusually close to the city centre and after a few hundred metres the whine of aircraft had been usurped by the catcalls of traffic and street vendors. Palm trees and bare concrete apartment blocks ticker-taped past, the sequence only broken by vast billboards advertising Mexican mobile phones and Coca-Cola. Bald remembered reading somewhere that Mexico consumed more Coke than any other country in the world.
Bald grew tired of the scenery. He angled his head at the woman and said, ‘You know there are easier ways of picking up a guy.’
‘First time in Mexico City?’ she replied.
‘Second. I got posted here four years ago with the Regiment. We were helping train the local cops in close-quarters battle, building assaults – all that shit. Back then they were getting fucked big time by the drug cartels.’
‘Nothing’s changed.’ She waved away an old woman who was stopping at each car and offering trinkets. ‘The whole country is caught up in the war between the Gulf, Zapoteca and Sinaloa cartels. Forty thousand dead in the past decade and the number rises every day. Just be glad you’re only passing through. I’ve been here three and a half years.’
The streets narrowed the further into the city they went. The pavements were festooned with rubbish.
‘What’s your name?’ Bald asked.
‘You don’t need to know that.’
‘Come on, lass. Fair’s fair. You know mine.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Grow up, for God’s sake.’ Dead air passed between them for a moment. Bald sat there wondering how the handler could be so fucking humourless. Then she said, ‘You’re Scottish?’
‘Dundee,’ Bald replied.
The woman adjusted herself in her seat. ‘Can’t say I’ve ever been there.’
‘Don’t bother,’ said Bald. ‘Unless you like pub fights.’
The woman laughed politely, but the tension in her shoulders slackened.
‘I’m Antonia. Daniel gave me your file,’ she said, Bald noting that she called Cave by his first name. ‘I know all about you.’
‘Yeah,’ Bald said, sliding down further into the seat. ‘Well, I know fuck all about you.’ He noticed the corners of her mouth flinch when he swore. Bald figured she’d had a posh upbringing but he couldn’t quite place her. She spoke with an upper-class English accent but her skin was Mexican. He went on, ‘What’s your cover here?’
‘I work at the British Embassy.’
‘And before that?’
‘I went into the Firm straight from university. I graduated from Balliol College with a first in Philosophy, Politics and Economics.’
‘Fuck me,’ said Bald. ‘You’re one of them.’
Antonia shot Bald a glance that could have bored through lead. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘How many languages can you speak?’
‘Four. Five if you include my rather modest Mandarin.’
Bald nodded like she’d given the right answer. ‘And where did you grow up?’
‘Harpenden, in Hertfordshire.’
‘And what did your old man do for a living?’
‘Daddy was Professor of Defence Studies at King’s College, London. He was a very important man.’
‘Yeah,’ Bald grunted. ‘Like I said. One of them.’
‘One of who?’
‘One of the posh twats who sail through life with a silver spoon up their arse.’ He imagined messing her up a bit. ‘I bet you never had to work for anything in your life.’
Antonia reddened, then fell into a stony silence as the car crawled around the edges of Zócalo Square, the beating heart of Mexico City. Bald remembered the place from his previous stay: the plaza the size of two football pitches, the vast baroque buildings hemming it in, the protesters camped out on the plaza and surrounded by trigger-happy cops. Finally Antonia said in her most professional and cold voice, ‘Daniel said you have to get across the border tonight, and you have to do it illegally.’
Bald nodded. ‘How hard is that?’
‘Thousands make a run for it every day.’ Antonia honked her horn at the locals, who seemed to take forever to cross the road. ‘A handful make it across.’
Bald said, ‘And the others?’
‘If they’re lucky they get caught.’
‘And if they’re not?’
‘They get shot.’
‘Makes you wonder why they fucking bother. Life doesn’t look so bad here.’ Bald eyed the crowds. The women weren’t exactly stunners. Half of them might generously be described as pear-shaped. A lot of the men were decked out in Manchester United shirts with ‘Chicarito’ on the back. The footballer’s face also beamed out from several billboards.
‘Crossing used to be easy,’ Antonia said. ‘But now there are gangs of rednecks on the border. I’m sure you know the type. They patrol at night and shoot at anyone trying to get in. It’s murder but the US government chooses to turn a blind eye.’
‘Why?’
‘Illegal immigration is a red-hot issue in America. Down here, people just want to make a better life for themselves and send some money back home.’
‘Weird,’ said Bald.
‘What is?’
‘That you can be so posh it’s embarrassing, and yet you still feel sorry for the great unwashed. Where did that come from?’
‘Maybe it comes from hanging around too many Scottish soldiers with chips on their shoulders.’
‘Ouch,’ Bald squealed.
‘But, believe me, if you’re caught crossing that line, the rednecks will kill you.’
They veered away from Zócalo Square and motored down Avenue 5 de Mayo. Kids, eight years old at most, hawked cigarettes and nachos.
‘There’s a man in a town about 100 kilometres north of here. His name is Nelson.’
‘Who he?’
‘The guy who will smuggle you across the border.’
Bald pulled out a miniature of Jim Beam he’d pilfered from the Gulfstream. He unscrewed the cap and tipped the bourbon down his mouth. It tasted honeyed and wooden. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and ignored the incredulous look on Antonia’s mug.
Bald said, ‘And what time are we meeting Mr Nelson?’
‘Great. That means we’ve got time for a drink.’
They had turned down the tatty thoroughfare of Luis Moya and ventured east onto Ayuntamiento. This was a sweaty, desperate neighbourhood. Battered houses lined the street, their side walls often missing, like dolls’ houses with the hinged façades left open. Bald could peek right in and see podgy women washing and cleaning. Old men wearily climbed concrete stairs. Bald spotted a saloon-type bar twenty metres down from the Nissan on the opposite side of the road.
‘Pull over here,’ he said.
Antonia looked down the street, then screwed her face up. ‘What on earth is that?’
Bald did a spit-take. ‘You’ve lived in Mexico City for three fucking years and you don’t know what a pulquería is? Jesus, where do you go for fun?’
Antonia shrugged. ‘I’m not a prude. And I’m not upper-class. But I do have taste – which you clearly lack.’
Christ, thought Bald. This bird’s so prim she makes a primary teacher look like Frankie fucking Boyle.
‘Join me for one drink,’ he said, unbuckling his seatbelt. ‘You never know, you might like a bit of rough.’
She thought about it for a long moment. Then she said, ‘Just the one.’
They got out of the car. The air stank of maize and body odour. A wild dog pissed enthusiastically against rusty metal railings. A beggar was suddenly stepping into Bald’s face. The guy had a face like a bowl of rotten minced beef and a stump for a right arm. He looked like some lame Hispanic version of Joe Gardner. He made some noises. Bald shooed him away with a simple ‘Fuck off’.
Bald escorted Antonia through the pulquería’s swing doors. He watched her arse and dreamed about slamming her in her bedroom while her parents sat at the dining table eating salmon and drinking white wine. Her old man trying to politely ignore the ecstatic screams as Bald drilled his precious daughter in the arse.
Something in his peripheral vision snapped Bald out of his fantasy. The beggar had stopped thirty metres down the street. He was lingering. Staring back at Bald.
eleven
0838 hours.
It was a million degrees in the bar and the place stank worse than the changing room at Bald’s gym. Some kind of shit local music was playing. Loads of fucking banjos and shouting. Brightly coloured murals covered the walls like graffiti. Bald half-expected the dozen locals at the bar to turn around in unison and draw their weapons, Western-style. But they didn’t. They chain-smoked Marlboro Reds, motioned for more shots of pulque and minded their own fucking business.
Bald made a beeline for a table near to the bar. He waved two fingers at the drowsy bartender, indicating he wanted a couple of shots of pulque, and pulled up a chair. Antonia was standing behind hers, as if waiting for Bald to pull it out for her. But Bald wasn’t programmed that way. He let her tuck herself in.
‘I’ll have a Diet Coke,’ she said.
‘Too late,’ Bald replied. ‘I already ordered.’
The bartender dumped two shots of pulque in front of them. The pulque was creamy and looked like dog sperm. Bald knocked his back in one swig. Spicy and hot in the back of his throat, it settled in his stomach like battery acid. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Antonia didn’t touch her drink. She stared at it like it was, in fact, dog sperm.
‘Go on, lass. Drink up.’
‘I’m not thirsty.’
Bald shrugged and said, ‘What did Cave tell you about me? Apart from the fact that I’m a legend in the sack?’
Antonia pushed her drink away. ‘He said that you used to be in Special Forces. One of the best, and one of the worst. That the other guys respected you but steered clear, because they couldn’t trust you an inch. He also said that you’re a bitter drunk living in the past and I should keep a close eye on you in case—’
Four chubby Mexicans at the bar laughed out loud at something. Antonia looked over her shoulder at them. ‘In case what?’ Bald said.
‘Daniel said you’re a combustible Scot,’ Antonia said, speaking as if reading from an autocue, ‘who’s prone to violent tendencies, frequently expresses his anger with his fists and has a serious dependency on cocaine.’
‘I agree with everything except the bitter part.’
Antonia didn’t laugh. She didn’t smile. Her lips were so straight you could paint road lines with them, and Bald was thinking the same thing he thought about every English bird. That she’d look a hell of a lot sexier if she didn’t have a face like the world was taking a shit on her.
‘You think you’re a funny guy.’
‘Nah,’ said Bald.
‘You know that humour is the first defence mechanism for people suffering from acute PTSD.’
‘You know that psychobabble is the first line of defence for people who’ve never fired a gun.’
He suddenly realised how knackered he was. Mexico City was six hours behind London. Which made it almost 1500 hours back home, which meant that Bald had been awake for more than thirty hours. He hadn’t slept a wink on the flight. He’d been too busy chugging back free beverages and eyeing up the stewardess. Now the jetlag had caught up with him. He needed something to juice his bloodstream. He pointed with his eyeballs to the untouched pulque in front of Antonia and said, ‘You gonna drink that?’
‘I think I’ll pass.’
Bald sank Antonia’s shot and gestured to the bartender for two more.
‘Daniel’s making a big mistake,’ Antonia said. ‘You’re in no shape to do this job.’
‘Still, he reckons I’m the best hope we have.’
‘Then we are screwed.’
The bartender brought over the drinks and laid them both in front of Bald, who sank them one after the other. He waved to the bartender – ‘Keep ’em coming’ – then said to Antonia, ‘You’re just fucked off that I’m a Jock from a working-class town. That I don’t have the posh accent and a public-school education. And I bet if I was James fucking Bond you’d be tearing your knickers off in a heartbeat.’
Antonia snorted.
‘Not even in your dreams,’ she said. ‘Face it, John. We’re different species.’
Bald had a comeback line but something else had stolen his attention. He was peering over Antonia’s shoulder at a guy who had entered the bar. He looked like a beggar in his stained jeans, sandals and old duster jacket. A pair of blackened goggles were strapped around his eyes. In his hands was a battered eighties cassette player held together with duct tape. A microphone was plugged into the player and some old Sinatra song was dribbling out of the speakers. Then the guy started belting out the lyrics in a voice that sounded like a dying dog. The punters sitting at the bar heckled him but the man refused to budge.
Antonia said, ‘I’ve got some things to take care of. Meet me at the Sheraton at ten o’clock sharp.’
Bald toasted Antonia’s arse as she rose. The bartender was manhandling Sinatra out of the saloon, to the cheers of the punters. Bald drained another pulque.
‘What’s at the Sheraton?’ he said.
‘Our package is waiting for you there.’
‘What kind of package?’
‘It’s a surprise.’
‘Great. I fucking love surprises.’
twelve
0959 hours.
Bald rolled out onto the street precisely one hour and twelve pulques later. White sunlight, hot and intense as burning sulphur, greeted him. He squinted and established his bearings. He was on Ayuntamiento heading east, so he needed to take the next left going north to get onto the main drag along Juárez. He was conscious of the fact that he was shitcanned. Each step was deliberate and required all his powers of concentration. He was focusing on the few inches of pavement ahead of his feet and wondering how he could sober up before his rendezvous with Antonia, when someone bumped into his shoulder.
The guy raised his hands in apology. He was a scrawny fuck with eyes that pointed in towards each other, as if staring at some invisibl
e trinket being dangled in front of him. He tried to mumble sorry, but since he had no teeth, only shapeless, deformed sounds came out. Bald eyed the guy as he stumbled on up the street. What’s with all the fucking bums in Mexico City? he thought.
As he watched Cross-Eyes shuffling down Ayuntamiento, he clocked Sinatra from the bar. The guy was fifteen metres away and lurking by a lamppost on the other side of the street. Six or seven metres behind him was the Hispanic Gardner. They were both staring at Bald.
Nah, Bald thought. Can’t be. He shook his head clear and hurried on.
Eight minutes later he arrived at the Sheraton Centro Histórico and weaved his way towards the revolving glass door. He shot another glance over his shoulder and spied the homeless trio hobbling towards him. Like zombies raised from the fucking dead. Bald laughed to himself at the image of these fucking bums trying to get past the hotel’s security. He made a wanker sign at Sinatra and entered the foyer.
Antonia was waiting for him there, flicking through messages on her iPhone. She locked it and said, ‘You’re late.’
‘And your boss is a prick, but what can you do?’
Leading Bald through to the restaurant, she scanned the breakfast crowd, looking past the familiar mix of lethargic travelling businessmen and bloated tourists common to any five-star hotel anywhere in the world. Her eyes settled on a man at a table in the far corner. He was clean-cut, stick-thin, with side-parted brown hair and wearing loafers, shell-white linen trousers and a pink shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A white jacket was draped tastefully over the back of his chair. Everything about him said Englishman abroad. He drained the dregs of his cappuccino, unhooked his jacket from the chair and made for the exit, blanking Bald and Antonia on his way out.