By the time that the bodyguards had finally recovered their senses and had gotten to their feet, I had been level with them – a gun in each hand. The Czech automatic had been in my right hand and, as they made to move forward, I had fired off six rounds into the wall, immediately behind them, and barely inches above their heads. It had the desired effect, though – as they had all dived for the cover. I had paused just long enough to visually check for signs of life in the gang leaders, two of whom had still been sitting slumped in their chairs. But they had all appeared to be deceased, so I had holstered the Python back into the rear waistband of my combats – no need of a ‘coup de grace’ today – and had followed Maaka out through the fire escape doors into the cool night of an unlit alleyway. Walking briskly down this dark passageway, to the busy street that had intersected it, I had quickly disassembled the Czech CZ-75 automatic, throwing the component parts of the gun into various bins and up on to the low flat roofs of the buildings, on either side of the narrow alleyway. As I had not used the .357 Python, I had decided to take it back home with me, to the UK – and, since then, it has been put to good use on many an occasion.
According to Wendy’s specific instructions, that should have been my last involvement with Maaka. It was planned that he would return to New Zealand, only to be deported straight back to Thailand, for having a counterfeit passport – which would have effectively made him a stateless person. But, I couldn’t let a very accomplished killer such as Maaka slip through my hands, just to become a stateless refugee – so I had caught up with him and, over a few cold beers, had offered him a job.
***
Maaka has two overwhelming passions in life: Rugby, which, up until a few years ago, he had played semi-professionally, for a local team; and horses, being a regular gymkhana eventer and organiser.
Maaka is also an active assassin, currently in much demand throughout Australasia, the Philippines, Thailand and Hawaii. Maaka is also a combatant, taking part in most of our covert operations and, being ex Special Boat Service, is greatly experienced in amphibious and marine assaults. Along with his love of horses, Maaka shares ‘West Lodge’ with Colin. And, in pride of place above the mantel piece, in the sitting room of the lodge, hangs resplendently Maaka’s great, great, great grandfather’s war club.
More heavily stained and darkened, than I previously remember!
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Carlos ‘el Sastre’ – Carlos ‘the Tailor’…not so called because of his occupation, more so because of a particular speciality of his.
Born in Columbia, in the mid-fifties, to a Columbian father and Spanish mother, he had moved with his parents to Nicaragua, in the early sixties. His father had established a large beef ranch in the south-eastern part of the highland region, about thirty kilometres from the provincial city of Matagalpa. Due to its elevation above sea level; relatively high humidity; and average temperatures in the twenties – it had offered good grazing for beef herds; with lush green grass all the yearlong by virtue of the perpetual spring like weather. It was here that the young Carlos had developed his overwhelming love of animals, so much so, that his father had rewarded his young son’s attachment by giving him a small quarter pony, for his tenth birthday. Carlos had called his pretty mare ‘Leopardo’, as it was an Appaloosa; with a colourful coat of dark deep brown spots spread randomly over its white skin, giving it all the appearance of a leopard to the little ten year old boy – hence the name ‘Leopardo’. Carlos had been home taught by his mother, who had been a language teacher until she had met and fallen head over heels in love with his father, who had been on vacation in Barcelona, at the time. Her wealthy aristocratic parents had been firmly set against their relationship, right from the very start. But, despite the disproval of her family, they had married and had moved – first to Columbia, and then on to Nicaragua. After schooling had finished for the day, invariably the young Carlos had gone out ridding his beautiful ‘Leopardo’ – that is, apart from that one fateful afternoon when he had gone fishing with a friend, leaving the mare at home.
Growing up as a child, Carlos had been blissfully unaware of the powerful enemies that his parents had made. Their outspoken criticism of blatant government corruption, within the ruling Somoza dictatorship, had brought them into direct conflict with the ruling regime – a conflict that was to have dreadful consequences, for them all. Just before dusk that evening, a large group of armed horsemen had ridden into the farm, blazing away with the Thompson sub-machine guns that each of them had carried – a detachment of Somoza National Guard, disguised as civilians. Carlos had been fishing a small shallow lake, just over a couple of kilometres from the farm, over a brow of a low wooded hill, when he had heard the intermittent crackling of the guns. Horrified, he had run in the direction of the sound – the direction of the farm. Breaking through the tree line, on the other side of the hill, he had clearly seen a band of men ride off in the direction of Matagalpa, leaving the farm and its many outbuildings on fire. With the added momentum of the downhill slope, Carlos had sprinted on at breakneck speed towards the farm, through fields that had once housed peaceful grazing cattle, now filled with dead or dying livestock…their pathetic cries haunting Carlos – haunting him still, even today. On either side of the tall gateway entrance to the farm’s courtyard, were the torn shredded corpses of the family’s two German Shepherd dogs – their loyal bravery rewarded by a hail of bullets. Carlos had found his father next, his body torn and shredded like those of the dogs, a machete still clenched in his right hand – a pathetic instrument of futile defiance. Bending down, Carlos had gently opened the still warm fingers of his father’s hand, and had taken the machete from them…he must find his mother! – He must protect her!
He had come across the corpses of the old cook and her handyman husband next, their hands still entwined with each other. Anna, the maid, had been lying naked in the hallway of the farmhouse; her legs spread wide open – her body violated. But, without a second thought, Carlos had run on past her – he must find his mother!
He had eventually found his mother lying spread-eagled on the kitchen floor; her dress pulled up over her waist and opened all down the front. She had been dead, too. Kneeling down beside her, Carlos had pulled down the hem of her dress to cover her…her ‘ladyness’. He did the same for the front of her dress, pulling it tight across her bruised and bitten breasts. What had really enraged Carlos was that they had spat into his mother’s face! Going to the sink, he had got a wet cloth and had tried to clean the thick sticky white substance from off her hair, her face and from around her open mouth…and even from inside it. There had even been spit there – it would be a several years before the naïve, ten year old boy would gain sufficient experience to enable him to tell the difference between spittle and semen! Covering his mother with a blanket, machete in hand, he had gone back out into the courtyard and had made his way to the paddock, at the rear of the farm house – his heart in his mouth as he had anxiously hurried himself along – what of ‘Leopardo’?
His pretty mare had been fine; she had been lying down on her belly, at the furthermost end of the paddock. Ducking through the wooden horizontal slats of the fence, Carlos had walked briskly across the tightly chewed grass of the paddock, towards her, dragging the long bladed machete behind him. On catching his scent, the mare had turned her head towards him, crying out as she had done so. Then, as he approached nearer, she had tried to struggle to her feet, but shattered fetlocks had prevented her from rising and she had screamed out – in agony. As he had drawn closer, Carlos had been horrified to see that her coat had new spots on it, from which thick lines of dark red flowed down. He had wanted desperately to cry, but he had known that he must not cry – for it would upset his pretty mare – his ‘Leopardo’. Despite her terrible injuries, the mare had tried to struggle up into a stand as her young master had drawn near, but it was impossible. Instead, Carlos had dropped down on to his knees, lifting up and cradling her broad head in his arms, whisperin
g soothingly into her ears, calming her – reassuring his pretty mare…his lovely ‘Leopardo’. He had continued to do this until his beautiful brave mare had stopped crying. Then, with a quick firm stroke of the machete – he had slit her throat.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
After the massacre, a local farmer had taken in the distraught young boy, hiding him from the marauding bands of National Guardsmen.
It had taken several weeks before the farmer had been able to locate and make contact with Carlos’s maternal relatives, in Spain – and then several more weeks to arrange safe passage and smuggle the boy out of the country to neighbouring Honduras, and then an onward flight to Spain. Carlos’s only direct relative had been his mother’s older sister; his maternal grandparents having been killed when their private plane had crashed into the Pyrenees, during a heavy thunder storm, some years before.
His aunt had personally flown to Honduras herself to collect him, not entrusting the delicate task to any of her minions. Carlos could see some of his mother in his aunt, and she could see some of her sister, in him. From the very first moment that they had set eyes on each other – they had mutually bonded. His aunt had instantly become mother and father to the young Carlos – and he the son that she would never have. A spinster, Carlos’s aunt had been sole heiress and beneficiary to a vast family fortune, comprising: a vineyard and estate in the Ribera del Duero region, in Northern Spain; the family’s land and property agency and law firm, in Madrid; and a domestic and international transport company and import-export agency, based in Barcelona. Along with her aristocratic breeding and lineage, her wealth had firmly established her standing within the Spanish hierarchy of polite ‘haute société’. While others may have remarked on the perceived mixed breed appearance of her nephew – although Carlos had inherited most of his mother’s fine facial features, he had his father’s high cheek bones, dark almond shaped eyes and thick jet black hair – they did not do so within earshot of her! Carlos had been the apple of her eye, and she had been determined that only very the best would be good enough for him. Her eye had also been firmly set on grooming the young boy to be heir apparent to the family businesses and considerable wealth. To this end, she had enrolled Carlos into King’s College, the British School, in Madrid, as a prerequisite for his further education; concentrating on learning languages along with developing his own cognitive skills. Carlos would be chauffeured every morning the short distance from his aunt’s prestigious luxury penthouse apartment, in the Barrio Salamanca distinct, to King’s College, and collected again in the evening. At the weekends, they would go to the Villa at Pedralbes, situated up on the outskirts of the Zona Alta, one of the more exclusive neighbourhoods in Barcelona. Or, if too hot for his aunt, they would go north and stay at the vineyard and estate in the flat, rocky, gently undulating plateau terrain of Ribera del Duero, the estate lying close to the Duero river. Wine making had been little more than a recreational hobby to Carlos’s aunt – even though the highly prized wine had, and still does, command exceptional prices throughout Europe and the rest of the world, with most bottles costing upwards of a hundred dollars, or more. But his aunt’s real passion had been bullfighting – that is, until she had taken Carlos to his first and very last bullfight.
It had been the first bullfight of the season at Madrid’s Plaza de Toros de Las Ventas, the first Sunday in March, a bright pleasant day. Because of her extensive patronage of Las Venta, Carlos’s aunt had always been given pride of place in the Royal box, sharing it with the show director, official vet and other visiting dignitaries – including the mayor. As well as being an outstanding example of arabesque architecture, the official box had its own private room, bathroom and an elevator to all the lower floors. Such had been his excitement; Carlos had little sleep the night before. And the actual grandeur of the occasion and the surroundings had only heightened his excitement, even further. First, the parade, the ‘paseíllo’. Heralded by trumpet calls and accompanied by frantic band music, the participants had entered the arena. The matadors proudly strutted in their traditional gold ‘traje de luces’ – ‘suit of lights’ and brightly highly coloured dress capes of magenta and gold; the lesser ‘banderillero’s in their silver ‘toreros de plata’ – ‘bullfighters of silver’; and then the ‘mozo de espada’ – ‘the sword page’; followed by the ‘picadores’, lancers mounted on horseback. As the participants, in turn, had saluted the Royal box, Carlos had stood to attention and saluted back to them. Then the first fight – the first bull. A young bull, comparatively light in weight, probably the prescribed minimum of four hundred and sixty kilograms, had sprinted impatiently into the arena, running around the inner wooden barrier as if looking for a means of exit. But there had been no exit. After a short while, the young bull stopped running, standing perfectly still, visibly snorting at the warm spring air for a scent. It had been then that the matador had slowly approached the bull, gently waving his dress cape to the side, endeavouring to attract the bull’s attention. The bull had not so much as charged, but had ambled at a slow trot over to the posturing matador, merely making a token attempt to toss the cape being held out towards him – just as he had been specifically trained to do on the farm where he had been bred and reared! Collectively, the matador and the three banderilleros had made a series of passes at the bull, not only to impress the cheering crowd, but to also enable them to carefully observe the behaviour and characteristics of the bull. Carlos had cheered, and had excitedly clapped at the spectacle.
Then a lone picador had entered the arena on horseback, in his right hand, a long slender lance. The crowd had cheered wildly – so had Carlos; he and the crowd loved horses. The horse had been blinkered and had been protected by a heavily padded covering.
Up until the thirties, horses had not worn protection of any kind, and it had not been uncommon for a horse to be disembowelled by a charging bull! But sustained public outcry had insisted that the horses be protected. And so, they eventually were. Along with the padded armour, the horse would most probably have been drugged as well, to prevent it fleeing from the charging bull and to stand firm against its charge.
The picador had actively encouraged the bull to charge the protected flanks of his horse, stabbing at the muscles of the bull’s neck in an attempt to weaken them; adversely affecting the bull’s ability to hold up its head – making the beast vulnerable to the lethal sword thrust that was to come.
Carlos had suddenly been very frightened by what he had seen, the bloody bull charging time and time against the sides of the helpless horse, each charge resulting in even yet more blood. His aunt had reassured him that the horse would not come to any harm: ‘the horse is enjoying it all…it is but a glorious game between them both.’
After the picador had weakened the bull sufficiently, the three banderilleros had re-entered the arena. Each, in turn, had attempted to stick highly coloured barbed darts into bull’s shoulders. After its tiring attack on the horse, and the damaged inflected to its neck muscles by the picador’s lance, this had been an attempt to enrage the bull and agitate it back into action. With that part of the ‘tercio de banderillas’ ritual over, accompanied by resounding cheers from the gathered crowd, the matador had come back into the ring alone, with a small red cape in one hand, and a purposely designed flat sword in the other. Unlike the crowd, Carlos had not been cheering. He alone had been filled with a terrible dread. Again, using his cape, the matador had goaded the bull to perform a number of passes. To the crowd he had been demonstrating his power of domination over the bull…in reality he had been wearing the animal down – wearing it down, ready for the kill! Having finally manoeuvred the weakened animal into position, the matador had then provoked one last charge from the exhausted animal. Unable to raise its head to defend itself, because of its severed weakened neck muscles, the matador had been able to easily dispatch the bull with one thrusting sword stroke straight in between the animals shoulder blades, directly into the heart. The crowd had simultaneously erupt
ed in an uproar of baying applause and frenzied hand clapping – but not Carlos, he had fled!
They had eventually found the little boy sheltering in the stock pens. Having watched the final horrific act of the ritualistic kill – Carlos had fled, unseen, from the Royal box. Taking the elevator to the lower floors, he had been instinctively drawn by the scents and sounds of the stock yards below the stands – and the pens of the fighting bulls! And that is where his aunt and her minions had eventually found him – in the pen of a fighting bull, stroking the animal’s broad head and nose, whispering into its ear. Carlos had been fortunate. The bull, whose pen he had climbed into, was a young beast, not much more than three years old. No longer considered as a calf; the animal had lacked the aggression of its much older peers, and was considerably smaller in size – and, more importantly for Carlos, blessed with a placid temperament. The animal had been brought in as a ‘novillos’; a young small bull, brought in deliberately for a novice matador to gain his first easy kill in the ring, and to collect his first set of trophies of tail and ears. However, the young animal had been under the minimum weight prescribed by Spanish Law, for a fighting bull. And Carlos’s aunt had used this fact, plus her considerable patronage, to buy the bull from its breeder – it had been the only way that she had been able to placate the visibly distressed young boy, and get him to leave the animal’s pen! A large purpose built pen and paddock were created for the bull, called ‘Valiente’, on the estate in Ribera del Duero, where Carlos would spend all of his free weekends and vacations…often, to his aunt’s abject consternation – riding the beast bareback, around the estate and the local villages!
Autobiography of an Assassin:: The Family Page 16