by M C Rowley
“Sorry for the subtlety,” he said.
“I’m sorry?”
“The note,” he said, passing my beer, complete with a flawless centimeter-thick head of foam. “What made you come?”
“Thanks,” I said, sipping from the glass and considering my next move. Salvatierra had already warned me that coming had been a mistake, and my wife was missing. Could I trust a politician I didn’t even know?
“I googled the address,” I said. “And it made me curious.”
Pep smiled, and walked back around to join me on a stool.
“Is this your first time in Lujano, Mark?”
I nodded.
Pep’s expression turned into earnest concern. “I love this state,” he said. “It is my soul.”
I said nothing. I was well used to the trite garbage Mexican politicians spouted while their fingers slipped into the till.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “Bullshit, right?”
I turned to him. “I didn’t say that.”
He gave me that Cannes-red-carpet grin again.
“We have an amazing future here,” he said. “You’ll see. Lujano’s gonna be on the map.”
He went on to tell me about his projects, and the achievements his government had made, and the attention it was getting. He told me about the record number of jobs he’d helped create and the number of sick kids who’d received free healthcare. I listened and drank.
I had to admit, Pep’s charm was convincing. He talked like a real person and oozed genuine gusto. It wasn’t the words he used—they could have come from the mouth of any politician—but the way he delivered them: thoughtful, considerate and passionate. When he talked about people he’d met, he remembered every name; he even recalled what they’d eaten when they dined together.
After an hour, he’d won my vote.
But we both knew that wasn’t why I was here, and as I began to grow restless, he sensed it and ushered me away from the bar to a set of French doors. They opened onto a small balcony that looked out over the busy plaza below, and he led me outside and closed the glass doors behind us.
When he turned to me, his face had changed again. Now, he looked nervous—frightened, even.
“I know,” he said.
I looked at him and said nothing.
“I know,” he said again. “The cartel. The Sons of No One. They plan to kidnap me.”
I tried not to show my surprise.
“Kidnap you?”
“Oh, come on,” he said. “I know you’re involved too. Don’t play the fool.”
Eleanor came into my mind. And the blank face of the son I didn’t know. Information is power. Which means holding it back until it is absolutely necessary to use it.
“I don’t know what you’re on about,” I said.
Pep tutted. “Okay, play the game if you like,” he said. I tried to keep a straight face. “But listen to me when I tell you this: Do as they say to the letter, okay? To the letter.”
I said nothing.
“If you don’t,” he said, “you’ll lose everything you love.”
Chapter Eight
I left the governor’s residence with more questions than answers. I thought about going to the apartment, but I didn’t feel safe there at all, so I hailed a cab and gave the driver the Polysol address.
After a thirty-minute drive, the taxi pulled up at Polysol’s isolated entrance. It was 10:35 p.m. and the industrial park was dead, not a soul in sight. Behind Polysol’s hangar and the mobile offices, the large twin hills loomed.
“Take me to the foot of those hills,” I said.
The cabbie looked at me, his face puzzled.
“Lo más cerca que llegue la carretera,” I said. “Well, as close as you can get.”
We rolled on down the street until the street lamps and pavement stopped at a flimsy metal fence. Beyond the fence lay acres and acres of unfarmed, un-cared-for land that belonged to no one. Anywhere in Mexico, you could travel less than ten minutes and find this virgin land: earth too brittle and tough to farm, borders too rigid and nationalized to sell. The shrubs here were cactus—nopal specifically. The locals called them tuna, or prickly pears, and they picked the fruit and sold it out of baskets at traffic lights in the cities.
I needed space and time to think, and I didn’t feel tired. I figured this was as good a place as any for a walk. I paid the taxi and added a decent tip. Then I scrambled over the thin fence and lumbered up the slope. When I glanced back at the industrial park, I saw the lights of a few vehicles moving around in the streets below. The breeze seemed to expand in my lungs as I took in great breaths of it. The night sky was littered with stars and the moon was almost full. It lit the dirt path through the undergrowth well enough as I tracked my way up the hill.
The terrain was rough, mainly rocks and dirt, and the small nopal trees were separate enough to walk through them with ease. I reached the steep part of the first hill after twenty minutes. From there the climb became more treacherous, and my Hugo Boss shoes slipped a little on the dirt. I thought how ridiculous I must have looked, a business executive, obviously foreign, hiking through the Mexican undergrowth.
After another ten minutes, the hill grew steeper still, and then I reached the lip of a giant bowl-shaped valley where the two hills met. I peered down into solid blackness. There would be no exploring the valley floor. My muscles ached and my breathing was heavy.
I turned back to look below. A grid system of factories sat in silence, barely lit, though steam poured out of a few of them. People working the third shift, right through the night, making grommets and automobile parts and plastic molds for people who would never question from where their expensive goods actually came. I sat down on a rare tuft of soft ground and reached inside my jacket pocket for my smokes. I didn’t smoke much, and never in front of people, only when I was alone, or with Eleanor and felt comfortable. I lit the Marlboro and took a long drag.
The industrial park below was laid out in a giant rectangle, three or four kilometers across. Beyond it was the main highway, with tiny pairs of car headlights moving toward Lujano center in the south or toward the north of the country. After the highway, more black hills mirrored the one on which I sat.
A rustling sound came from behind me.
I stubbed out the cigarette and looked around. The shadowy figures of the nopal trees blocked my view, so I stood.
I heard the noise again. Two, maybe three people—locals, or wanderers. I didn’t want to make them jump and fire a shot; many people carried guns in these parts.
“Buenas noches,” I called.
No one replied, but the rustling grew stronger and closer and more determined.
“Buenas noches,” I called once more.
Then, out of the shadows of a tree came a huge figure rushing toward me. I ducked, but his large arms wrapped around my torso and squeezed. I struggled in his grasp, and his hand pulled my arm back and toward my own neck until it felt as though my elbow would snap in two. I stopped struggling and watched as two other men walked out of the darkness. One of them lit a flashlight and pointed it at the other. A sultry face stared back at me. His slick black hair was still immaculate and his dark eyes bore into me.
“Salvatierra?” I said.
“Quite the adventurer you are,” he said with not the slightest amiable hint in his tone. He was panting too after the trek. “You’ve done me a favor, bringing us up here. It’s perfect for the conversation we’re going to have.”
He nodded at the guy holding me, who turned me sideways and kidney-punched me with his free hand. Pain blazed up from the bottom of my back to my neck and then through my eyes to my head. I gasped for air and his grip got tighter.
“This is your order,” said Salvatierra. “The cartel needs you to be in a certain place at a certain time next Tuesday. You will need a truck with a hold that closes completely. You will receive a large package to be loaded into the truck. That package will be sensitive, and you nee
d to take it to Polysol and keep it hidden and stay with it. There is cash to purchase a truck in the company apartment. Do you understand?”
I said nothing.
“Good. You have a week to prepare,” said Salvatierra.
I nodded, but my head swirled with confusion.
“Once you arrive at Polysol with the package, further instructions will come.”
The guy holding me let me go and I fell to my knees. First relief and then pain flooded my veins. I looked up at Salvatierra.
“Where do I have to go? To receive this package.”
He looked down at me with hatred straining his face. “Here are the coordinates. Put them into a GPS and you’ll get there,” he said, flinging a small Post-it note at me. “Memorize those numbers and destroy the note.”
I looked at the coordinates and nodded, and then I put the Post-it in my jacket pocket.
“What’s the package?” I said, rubbing my twisted arm.
“Don’t concern yourself with that. Just get hold of a truck. Be there at those coordinates next Tuesday before four a.m.”
Salvatierra took a phone from his pocket and swiped it. The backlight illuminated his face. He smiled, and turned the screen around to me. It was showing a live FaceTime video feed of a small room lit by white light. There were two people tied to chairs sitting back to back. I couldn’t see their faces, but one was a woman, the other a younger man.
I stared at the screen. “Eleanor?”
I couldn’t be sure it was her. It was impossible to tell from the camera angle. Her head was down, like she was asleep sitting up. Same with the guy. Both were dressed in what appeared to be hospital scrubs. The room had beige tiles. No sound accompanied the feed. There was nothing else remotely distinct about the video.
“Our son?”
Salvatierra clicked the sleep button on the phone and pushed me over.
I tried to shout at him, but my throat was dry and tasted of old cigarette. I tried to stand, but that put strain on my midriff, and the pain in my abdomen was so intense, I slumped back down to the dirt, pathetic.
“Please,” was all I managed.
But Salvatierra turned away and said over his shoulder, “You have a week.”
And they walked back into the shadows.
Chapter Nine
I had phoned Jason immediately and told him about meeting Pep, and then my run-in with Salvatierra and the cartel’s instructions. He told me to head to Polysol and wait there. I did, and after an hour Jason arrived in an old VW Jetta. He told me to be quiet in the car, as if it was bugged, and didn’t say a word until we reached a fairly busy street in central Lujano, even for the hour. Jason parked, and we left the main street and walked for at least ten minutes until we reached a cantina and entered.
It was late and we were now sitting at a table in the back. The two-story walls loomed over us, dark red and strewn with pictures of bullfighting from the ’80s. The place smelt of floor cleaner. We weren’t the only customers—three other tables out of the six were occupied. Jason said we would be safe here, hidden in a cobbled back street of an ugly neighborhood on the wrong side of town.
An old guy dressed in a shabby white shirt and a waiter’s apron walked between the customers, serving cold beers and botanas. Jason sipped his Americano coffee. My drink was a Cuba libre.
“You should’ve called me when the governor made contact,” he said, his voice lowered to just above a whisper. “Mr. Reynolds was not happy when I reported that.”
I shrugged. All I could think of was Eleanor and that video Salvatierra had shown me.
“I want to help you,” said Jason. “We want to help you.”
“Who is Mr. Reynolds?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” said Jason. “Not exactly. It’s obviously a codename. But his organization is powerful. How long have you been working for him?”
I thought about it. “Years,” I said.
Jason nodded and sipped his coffee.
“Why does he want to sabotage the cartel’s operation?”
Jason shrugged. “I don’t get paid to question him. He pays me well and he pays me on time. That’s good enough for me.”
I nodded. I supposed it had been the same for me too, until recently.
“Scott,” said Jason, “the cartel that took your son and have your wife now, The Sons of No One. Do you know who their leader is?”
I flashed back to the voice in the dark apartment room. I didn’t say anything, waiting for Jason to play his hand.
“Matias Esteban.”
Matias Esteban? The words rolled over me like waves. One of the world’s richest men, Lujano’s first son, wanted me? Had taken my son twenty-two years ago, and now my wife?
“He has his fingers in a lot of dirty pies, Scott.”
“What?”
“The cartel is one arm, if you like, of his enterprise. No one knows that officially, of course. Apart from his businesses and foundations and charities, he also loves politics.”
I felt like I was standing on a cliff edge, where there was no bridge to cross or rope to climb down, and yet I had to cross—but if I stepped out, I would fall into a huge ocean and drown. If this man had taken my wife and his cartel had taken my son, what hope did I have? Mr. Reynolds? What did he expect to achieve against such power? As far as I knew, my mysterious employer paid for information stolen from companies—he was hardly an axis of brutal power.
“We can help you, Scott. I promise you that. Mr. Reynolds wants to take down Esteban. And you can help him do that.”
I put my head into my palms and sighed, trying to think of a way out of this, but knowing there wasn’t one.
“Go to your apartment,” said Jason. “Follow whatever this Salvatierra told you to do.”
I nodded; there was no other way. Jason got up and threw a few peso bills on the table.
“Get some sleep too,” he said. “You look like shit.”
I got a cab and arrived at the tower block of luxury apartments where I had awoken earlier that day. The complex was tucked into a small hill next to the Central Bus Station. I walked from the parking lot to the entrance of the south tower, and a security guard helped me work the fingerprint ID module that opened the main door.
The company apartment was on floor sixty-eight, and when I walked inside, the long elevator trip suddenly seemed worthwhile. I could see the whole city lit up from here and it was impressive, a sprawl of at least three million souls scattered around black squares where cement and concrete lay.
I walked straight past the five-meter gray sofa in front of the fifty-inch LED TV, to the telephone. I dialed Eleanor’s cell, hoping this had all been a trick. That the video had been a fake. After all, had I seen Eleanor’s face? No, I hadn’t.
But no one answered.
I went into the bedroom and checked the closets. There was an open safe in one of them. The cash Salvatierra had mentioned lay inside, in a thick envelope. I counted out the five-hundred-peso notes on the bed—four hundred of them. About 10,000 US dollars. I needed to hide it. Esteban and Salvatierra and their damned cartel had stepped over a line by showing me that video. It was time to protect myself a little.
I pocketed the cash, put a jacket on and left the apartment. At the end of the corridor was the fire escape stairwell. I opened the door and climbed the floors until I reached the very top. The fire door there had a push-down mechanism, but I saw no wires running into it. No alarm. I shoved it down, and the door opened onto a large, flat concrete roof. In the moonlight I could see loads of 2,000-liter water tanks with pipes snaking out of them and down into the abodes below.
I took off my jacket and left it wedging the door open. Then I stepped out into the cold wind whipping across the roof. I walked past the first tanks, looking for a hiding place. After a minute, I found one: below a tank, a small plastic fuse box that connected to one of the pumps. I opened it and squeezed the notes inside.
Once I was sure the box was secure and wouldn’t fly op
en on its own, I grabbed my jacket and returned to the apartment.
I awoke the next morning on the sofa, and for three beautiful seconds I’d forgotten it all. Then it came back to me, bit by bit. I decided then and there that I would prepare for the pickup. I would do it well, and not give Esteban or Salvatierra any reason to hurt Eleanor.
Aside from the money, I’d found a new Lenovo laptop in the safe, and now I took it to the kitchen counter. I fired up a browser, opened Google Maps, punched in the coordinates that Salvatierra had given me last night, and clicked.
The location pointer darted away from Lujano City, flew deep into the Sierra mountain range north of the city, and landed on an indistinct stretch of road right in the middle of precisely nowhere.
Now I needed the truck.
After ten minutes of searching maps, I’d settled on the perfect place to find one. I budgeted around 3,000 US dollars for a half-decent unregistered minivan and went up to the roof to grab some of the cash I had left there.
Google Maps had its small red pointer resting on a town called Santa Maria. It was situated by the major highway that ran past Lujano, with Mexico City to the south, and the USA to the north, twelve hours away. This meant two things: lots of car sales at the side of the road, a main artery of trade, and lots of residents who lived and worked illegally, and legally, stateside. I would be able to find a working US-registered truck in no time at all.
I grabbed a taxi outside the apartment building’s plaza. The drive was fast, and we cruised around the city along Lujano’s smooth highway and out into the sticks. Before long, we reached a battered and rusted sign that read:
Santa Maria
45,000 habitantes
The driver pulled over by the sign, after which the tarmac transformed into large, rough-cut cobbles and cement.
I paid, got out, and watched the taxi drive away. Then I turned and walked into town. At the center, a double-spired church sat in a dusty plaza that served as the meeting point for residents, who sauntered around in circles, followed by kids, and a few mangy street dogs too.