Noble patted him on the cheek. “Good boy.”
Alejandra had gone into the bedroom. When she came back she was holding a pair of handcuffs and a ball gag.
Noble turned up an eyebrow. “Kinky.”
“Like you never,” Hector said.
“I’m a meat and potatoes kind of guy,” Noble told him. He wheeled the desk chair—with Hector still in it—into the kitchen where he handcuffed Hector to a water pipe. The metal ratcheted together with a sharp clink.
Noble said, “Make trouble and you get the gag.”
“What if I have to pee?”
Noble found a plastic cup in a cabinet over the sink. He handed it to Hector and then raided the refrigerator. The shelves were stocked with fruit, wheat germ, lox, pita bread and what smelled like hummus. Noble grabbed an apple, wiped it on his sleeve, and headed for the living room.
“Bully,” Hector muttered at his back.
“What’s the plan?” Alejandra asked. She had bolted and locked the front door as best she could. Together, they dragged the sofa in front of it.
Noble took a chomp out of the apple and spoke with his mouth full. “We should be safe here for the night. He hasn’t got any food, but we can order in. Tomorrow, I’ll get to the hotel ahead of Blythe and we’ll have a chat.”
“And if Blythe isn’t chatty?”
“I can be very charming,” Noble told her.
She looked at Hector, handcuffed to a pipe in the kitchen, and said, “Yeah, I see that.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
THE HOTEL PLAZA SUITES is a towering glass and steel horseshoe on Paseo de la Reforma. The monument to Cristobal Colón commands an island of green in the middle of the busy street. One tarnished bronze finger points to the heavens while traffic hums past. At night, the hotel glitters like a jewel in the heart of the city.
Noble arrived just after four. Layers of smog turned the sun into a shimmering red disk overhead. Exhaust stung his eyes and sweat soaked through his shirt. He spent the next hour watching foot traffic on the surrounding blocks. If Blythe had security, they were staying out of sight. Noble was betting the Brit kept his illicit liaisons hush-hush. Some sins earn the disapproval of even hardened criminals.
He entered the lobby at 5:15 and headed for a bank of elevators. Blythe had reserved 1402, his regular suite, according to Hector. The Englishman had a routine which he followed to the letter. He would arrive at five-thirty and the boy would be delivered at six. A “cleaner” would come by around midnight to dispose of the mess and sanitize the room.
Noble rode the elevator up to twelve and walked the floor. Modern hotels secure their rooms with cardkey readers, programed with a corresponding binary code embedded in the magnetic strip. Each card opens a single door. Keycards add to a guest’s feeling of safety. However, cleaning crews can access any room in the hotel with a universal card. And because hotel management is notoriously severe when it comes to the cleaning staff, most room maids clip their keycard to their trolley for fear of accidentally locking it in a room.
Noble walked the twelfth floor, returned to the elevator and rode to thirteen where he found what he was looking for; a maid’s trolley parked in front of a door near the end of the hall. A vacuum cleaner droned inside the room. The door was propped open with a rubber wedge. Noble glanced inside. The maid had her back to him, her attention was on the rug. She had a pair of headphones in, mouthing lyrics while she worked.
Her keycard was attached to the rolling cart by a retractable wire. While she ran the vacuum over the rug, Noble pried loose the plastic spindle. It had been glued down and came off with a small ripping noise. He glanced inside the room. The maid was still focused on the rug. He pocketed the card and returned to the elevator. For hotel staff, the only thing more terrifying than losing a universal card is having to report the loss to management. Noble was banking on that fact to give him the time he needed.
Down the hall, the vacuum cut off. The maid wrestled the big Black and Decker onto her cart, still unaware that her card was missing. She would figure it out when she got to the next room.
The elevator dinged. The doors rolled open. Noble stepped inside and thumbed the button for fourteen.
He stopped outside room 1402 and knocked, making sure Blythe hadn’t gotten there first. When no one answered, Noble let himself in. The room had a deep piled rug and modern art hanging on the wall. The bed was big enough to have its own zip code. Cars looked like toys from this high up.
Noble settled into a plush armchair in the corner and waited. It’s a skill most people never learn. They get antsy. They get impatient. They fidget. They need something to occupy their mind so they start tapping, or check their phone. Maybe they decide to watch TV. Noble sat in the dark without moving a muscle. The hands on his TAG Heuer revolved slowly on their axis.
It was 5:28 p.m. when he heard the sound of a plastic card pushed into the electronic reader. There was an audible click and the door swung open. Blythe didn’t look like an ex-con. He looked like a history professor, with a paunch and thinning hair. He was dressed in slacks and a button-down. Reading glasses rode low on his nose.
Noble had Hunt’s Kimber resting on his thigh. Blythe moved deeper into the room and flicked a light switch. The overheads stabbed Noble’s eyes, forcing him to squint.
Blythe, his hand still on the switch, froze like a wild animal that had just blundered across the path of a larger predator. His mouth opened. His eyes got big behind the gold-rimmed spectacles. “Who are you?”
“What’s the matter, Blythe? Too big for you?” Noble aimed the gun at Blythe’s belly.
“What’s this about then?” Blythe stammered. “Who are you?”
“You ought to know. Your boss has been looking all over town for me.”
The last of the color drained from Blythe’s pale face. “Jacob Noble.”
Noble waved the gun at the bed. “Sit.”
Blythe reached for the corner and lowered himself gently onto the mattress. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Actually, I do,” Noble said. “Who’s the traitor?”
“I don’t follow,” Blythe said.
“Machado bought or blackmailed someone in the CIA,” Noble said. “You’re his money man. Who is it?”
Blythe shook his head. “It’s not at all what you think.”
Noble thumbed back the hammer.
Blythe held up a hand. “Wait. What I mean is, it’s not someone in the CIA.”
“Keep talking, Blythe.”
“I’m not sure you’ll believe me.”
“You better hope I do.”
“Her name is Helen Rhodes,” Blythe said.
“The Secretary of State?” Noble said. “You’re telling me a presidential candidate is passing secrets to the cartel?”
Blythe nodded.
“You’re right,” Noble said. “I don’t believe you.”
“It’s the truth,” Blythe insisted. “Machado has been funding her political campaigns for decades. He keeps her war chest well-stocked and she makes sure he has nothing to fear from American law enforcement. It is a rather tidy arrangement, you’ll admit.”
Noble sat in stunned silence.
“Funny old world we live in, isn’t it?” Blythe said like a man commenting on the weather. “Your man was sold out by the very people he worked for.”
“Hilarious,” Noble said in perfect deadpan. “Tell me about the security around Machado.”
Blythe tittered and shook his head. “He has his own private army. You’ll never even get close. Besides, there’s a hit squad hunting you as we speak. The leader is an ex-cop. He’s got connections inside the department. I’m surprised you survived this long.”
“You’re talking about Santiago?”
“Machado’s top lieutenant,” Blythe said. He pronounced lieutenant leftenant. “He’s the one that killed your mate.”
“Where do I find him?”
“That would be like telling the pigeon where to find the cat.”
<
br /> “Let me worry about that.”
Blythe shrugged. “He and his bully boys hang out at a bar called Paquita’s. Machado runs the whole neighborhood. They’ll know you’re coming the moment you show your face in that part of town.”
“I’m counting on it,” Noble told him.
Blythe said, “What happens now, Mr. Noble?”
“Smoke your last cigarette, Mr. Blythe.”
“It’s like that, is it?”
“It’s like that,” Noble told him.
Blythe shook one out of a pack. It took him three tries to get a flame. He took a drag, blew smoke at the ceiling and said, “It didn’t start out this way, you know?”
“It never does.”
Blythe talked while he smoked. He told Noble about his failed marriage and his first hesitant foray into homosexuality. It was like he needed to tell someone and Noble was the only person there. So Blythe talked and Noble listened. He explained his descent into pedophilia, his arrest, how he moved to Mexico and fell in with the likes of Machado. When he had smoked the cigarette down to the filter, he dropped the butt on the floor and ground it under his heel, leaving a small mess of black ash. “Are you going to shoot me?”
Noble shook his head. “Nice of you to choose a hotel with windows that open.”
Blythe got up and took a deep breath. He seemed strangely resigned, as if he had been waiting for this day to come. He must have known when he took up with drug dealers that it would end badly. Blythe went to the window and turned the latch. Air rushed in. It was like someone turned the volume up on the traffic. He stared down at the pavement fourteen stories below. “They’ll think I’m a suicide.”
“Time’s wasting, Blythe.”
Blythe squeezed his eyes shut and stuck one leg out. It was a narrow window—probably to prevent people from jumping. Blythe had to grip the frame and force himself through. He got stuck halfway. “I—I really don’t think I can—”
Noble stood and gave him a kick.
Blythe popped out the window like a cork. He fell face first, his arms and legs pin-wheeling like he could run on air. A shriek ripped from his throat. Far below, there was a wet smack and the scream abruptly stopped.
Noble stepped away from the window, filled with a savage sense of justice. Blythe had been a monster. There was no telling how many lives he had ruined. He deserved to die. Forcing him to take a fourteen-story swan dive felt fitting. There was one less child-molesting creep in the world.
Noble let himself out and rode the elevator to the ground floor. A crowd had gathered. One limp hand could be seen through a forest of legs. Two hotel security guards rushed across the lobby. Noble strolled past humming “Sympathy for the Devil.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
HUNT TROLLED THE SLUMS until he found someone willing to sell him a black-market piece. A ponderously fat man occupying a barstool in one of Mexico City’s many dives asked for double the price of a new weapon in the States. He knew Hunt had money and he was desperate. With no other options, Hunt forked over seven hundred dollars American.
“This going to blow up in my hand the first time I use it?” Hunt asked.
“It would make you prettier,” the fat man said. That got a good laugh from the other patrons.
Hunt tucked the weapon into his waistband and stepped outside into heat so intense it almost buckled his knees. He flagged down a taxi. Sliding into the back seat felt like climbing into a frying pan. Fake leather burned the backs of his bare arms. As the driver nosed out into traffic, Hunt rapped on the partition. “Driver, can you turn on the air?”
The driver waved a hand. “Air broke.”
“Perfect.” Hunt leaned forward, doing his best not to let his bare skin contact the seat.
They passed a high-rise hotel with a pair of ambulances out front, lights flashing. A police car screamed past, headed to the hotel. Hunt craned around in the seat, wondering what had happened.
At the embassy, Hunt tossed money over the seats and launched himself out of the sweatbox.
His phone vibrated as he hauled open the heavy glass door. A wave of cold air washed over him, drying the sweat on his face and leaving his shirt clammy. He waited until he was on the elevator to check his messages. It was a street address, sent from an unknown number. Hunt frowned. The elevator dinged. He went down the hall to the cramped office.
“How did it go?” Ezra wanted to know.
“Fine. No problems.” Hunt said. “Gwen, I need you to run a check on an address.”
He read off the street number and she plugged it into the computer.
“It’s an apartment in a section of the city described as ‘artsy.’ No red flags. No connection to any past or ongoing operations. What’s up?”
“I’m not sure,” Hunt admitted.
He found the location on a map, circled it, and added a question mark.
The text hadn’t come from Foster; the Deputy Director wouldn’t bother hiding behind an unlisted number. And it hadn’t come from Burke, who didn’t want Hunt taking down his prized pupil. It might be from Sam. Maybe she dug up something sensitive and needed to pass it along without exposing herself?
“Any hits on Noble or his whereabouts?” Hunt asked.
Ezra and Gwen shook their heads in unison.
Hunt checked the action on the secondhand pistol. The text could just as easily have come from Noble. The crazy bastard might be flipping the script, trying to lure Hunt into an ambush. He said, “I’ve got to check something out.”
“Alone?” Gwen asked.
“You two weren’t much help on the last one.”
***
Zona Rosa made Hunt’s skin crawl. The district looked like a live performance of Rocky Horror Picture Show. He found the address. The front door had been broken down and then propped up against the jamb. Hunt pulled the 9mm Makarov and threw the door aside. Someone had scrawled a note and stuck it to a computer in the corner. It read CHILD PROSTITUTION RING. In the kitchen, Hunt found a man handcuffed to the radiator with a ball gag in his mouth. Another note had been taped to the man’s forehead. It read MIDDLEMAN.
The pimp pulled at the handcuffs and moaned through the ball gag. He stank of sour sweat and urine. His eyes rolled in their sockets.
Hunt checked the rest of the apartment, then pulled out the gag and wiped his fingers on his slacks. “Just when I was starting to think I had seen everything.”
Hector couldn’t get it out fast enough. Sweat rolled down his face in little torrents while he babbled. He told Hunt about the break-in and the meeting with Blythe.
Hunt leaned against the stove, crossed his arms over his chest, and tucked the Soviet Makarov under his arm. “So Noble went after Machado’s accountant?” he said, mostly to himself.
Hector pulled on the cuffs. “The key is in my dresser drawer, next to my wallet.”
“Why would he do that?” Hunt wondered aloud.
“How should I know?” He tugged at the cuffs, rattling the chain against the radiator pipe. “I told you everything. Please un-cuff me.”
Hunt stuffed the ball-gag back in Hector’s mouth, took out his cell and dialed Gwen.
She answered on the first ring.
He said, “Find out who’s in charge of Mexico branch. I busted the middle man in a child prostitution ring. I’ve got his computer here. If we move fast, we can take down the whole network and maybe get the two of you back in Foster’s good graces.”
Chapter Fifty
PAQUITA’S WAS A RUNDOWN BAR in a rundown section of the city. The buildings were layered in Graffiti and bars covered the windows. The government had recently tried to revitalize the neighborhood with a series of projects designed to lure businesses to the area. There was a half-finished strip mall where abandoned construction equipment was turning slowly to rust. Looters had carried off anything of value. Despite the attempt at urbanization, the neighborhood remained a sad jumble of brick and asphalt that decent people avoided.
Noble, behind th
e wheel of the stolen sedan, circled the block. A knot of girls hung out on the corner near Paquita’s, plying their trade. All of them were hustling except one. A curvy girl in a purple tank top and a miniskirt was watching cars go by.
Noble did one more lap around the block and told Alejandra, “Climb into the backseat and get down.”
“Why?” she asked.
“You stand out,” he said.
She scrambled over the seats, into the floorboard.
Noble held Hunt’s Kimber next to his thigh. He pulled over at the curb, buzzed the window down, and waved the watcher over.
Her eyes narrowed. Her face was just short of beautiful but her body made up for it.
Noble gave her a big, toothy American grin. “Hola, señorita.”
She sauntered over and stuck her head in the passenger side window, giving him a generous view of her cleavage. “Want some company, handsome?”
Noble showed her the gun. “Get in.”
If she was a pro, the sight of the gun would have sent her screaming. Instead she pressed her lips together, opened the door, and climbed in.
Noble pulled away from the curb. “Let’s have it.”
She spread her legs. The leather skirt rode up to reveal a nickel-plated .38 revolver strapped to the inside of one thigh.
Noble said, “Get that for me, would you, Alejandra?”
Alejandra sat up and the prostitute gave a start. She let Alejandra reach between her thighs and remove the revolver. The snub nose barrel had been drilled to dampen the sound. The chambers were loaded with sub-sonic ammunition—a poor man’s silencer.
“Is Santiago and his crew at the bar?” Noble asked.
The prostitute crossed her arms over her breasts and looked out the window.
Noble said, “Shoot her in the knee.”
Alejandra ratcheted back the hammer and pressed the barrel against the prostitute’s kneecap.
“Yes,” she said.
“How many?” Noble asked.
“Five, including Santiago.”
“How were you going to make contact when you spotted me?”
She reached a hand into her tank top.
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