An Abduction (The Son of No One Trilogy Book 1)

by Rowley, M C

  Entrevistas. Interviews, it said, on a crudely written sign pasted to the door.

  So the set up was real. And Polysol, Lujano was a long term job. I peered in the office from which the line of people extended, and saw a young lady, sitting behind a desk, smiling at each interviewee.

  I walked around for a while longer, taking in the site, the size of it, the plans for new offices, and stealing glances at the looming hills in the backdrop. Then I headed back to my trailer office, I remembered Lena´s words back up north. Nothing about it made sense. Polysol had nothing to steal, nothing to sabotage.

  At least, until I found Ponce waiting for me in my office, looking disgruntled.

  “Why didn´t you tell me?” said Ponce, sitting in the visitors chair, turned around to face the door.

  “Tell you what?” I asked. “Why are you in my office?”

  Ponce raised his eyebrows. “Well, I prefer an open office policy,” he said.

  “Well I don´t.”

  A silence fell over the room. We stared each other out for a second or two, then Ponce looked away.

  “Look,” I said. “I´m sorry. I don´t mind you coming to see me. And I am sorry you are upset, but I don´t have the slightest idea of what you´re talking about”.

  “The governor´s dinner. You´ve been invited? Why didn´t they invite me too?”

  It was only then I noticed the letter Ponce was holding. It had no envelope but a fancy wax seal upon the top, that had been broken already. Ponce handed it to me.

  I looked at the invitation. In Spanish, it read:

  Mr Kersteen,

  You are hereby invited to dine with my family and I this night to commemorate the forthcoming opening of your enterprise, Polysol.

  My wife, Jacqueline and I are thrilled that you have arrived to Lujano, and we trust that you will find its delectable sites and beautiful natural features to your tastes.

  Please be here, at the Governor´s residence, downtown in Plaza de Los Angeles tonight at 19:00.

  I look forward to meeting you personally,

  Signed,

  Lic. José Augusto Alvarado

  I read it again. Pep is short for José in Mexico. They usually use “Pepe”.

  “Sorry. I just found this out. Now, if you don´t mind.”

  I opened the door for him and gestured with a flick of my head and eye contact that he should leave.

  He stayed in my chair a moment longer, rolled his eyes, puffed his cheeks but got up and walked passed me maintaining our gaze. I shut the door behind him, and locked it.

  I drifted to the desk propped my chair back a little, sat down and put my feet on the wood. The leather squeaked and still smelled new, and my head rested in a perfect position and I closed my eyes.

  Lena had said, something political.

  Governor Pep being my contact made all the sense in the world.

  Tiredness then overtook me and I fell asleep.

  Chapter Seven

  I woke up to a pain in my neck. Deep in the top of my spine, where it meets the head. It throbbed and jolted pain into my ear. My eyes popped open. At the same exact time, my feet fell off the desk and stuck out, stiff like they were ceramic.

  The light seeping through the meagre opaque caravan window into my porte-office was dimmer.

  Hours had passed.

  Shit.

  I pulled my phone and checked the time. Twenty past six.

  Shit. Forty minutes to find the governor´s residence, and I had no mode of transport.

  I got up and opened my bag. My shirts were all creased. I went to the tiny bathroom in the corner of the office and checked myself. I didn´t look too shabby. I undid my pants, re-tucked my shirt, lost the tie, and straightened up my hair. It would do.

  I left the office and ran out onto the dusty site. No people and no cars except one. A new red metallic Mazda rolled past me about fifty yards ahead. I held up my arm for a ride, but as I focussed, the CFO´s face scowled back, and then the Mazda drove off and was gone.

  I stomped along the thick gray sidewalk of the industrial park instead. The main road was at least twenty minutes away but I got lucky after fifteen. A yellow taxi sped along the freeway at the park’s entrance and by pure chance must have spotted me jogging from the park´s entrance road hands aloft.

  “A donde vas”?

  “Plaza de Los Angeles,” I said. “And I’ll pay you double if you get there before 7.”

  I made it to Plaza de Los Angeles at six fifty-five. I paid the taxi and ran to the only entrance I could see that looked remotely presidential, a grand old Spanish colonial building from the seventeenth century. Stocky and bold, and full of balconies.

  Two guys in flak jackets and desert storm hats appeared from the doorway as I tried to enter. Their hands met in the middle to form a barrier.

  “Who are you, Sir”? One of them asked, in Spanish.

  “Kersteen, Mark,” I said and gave them the letter the Governor had sent.

  One of them pulled his hand up to his mouth and muttered something into the two-way.

  After five minutes, the first guy nodded and released his arm from my way.

  I walked into a giant lobby. A complete contrast to the rough charm of the cantera rock floor outside with its yellow lights and blood red flowers. The inside of the governor’s residence was modern and marble. Two giant stairways curled away from each other to each side of the space and met at the top: two snakes posing for a kiss. In front of their mouths was a grand door of solid oak. The marble floor felt so clean, I lightened my step so as not to sully the hard work at least five cleaners would have invested that very day. On the walls hung photos and portraits of previous governors of Lujano. The older guys were painted and wore military garb and moustaches. The modern guys were photographed and wore expensive white shirts open at the collar and Mexican flag sashes draped across their chests. The older guys had faces like they were attending their own funeral. The newer guys beamed down at me as if they’d won the lottery. I remembered that famous Mexican phrase once spouted by the professor, businessman, and corrupt Mexican politician, Carlos Hank González,

  Un político pobre, es un pobre político”

  “A poor politician is a poor politician”.

  It worked better in Spanish, but the sentiment summed up the priorities of Mexican leaders in a way they never could.

  I took the stairs to the left, which curved and when I turned, above me from nowhere it seemed, a tall man with slicked back black hair and an immaculate and well fitting grey suit stepped out into my path. He didn’t wear a tie and his dark brown shoes were polished to a profound shine. He was about 6”4 and in good shape. His unsmiling face made him look older than he likely was, but I guessed he was 30 odd.

  He held out his hand.

  “Mr Dyce,” he said in a perfect American accent. “Welcome. The governor is waiting for you.”

  “I apologize” I said. “Still finding my way around the city.” I looked at my watch. The time said 19:02.

  “My name is Salvatierra,” said the guy.

  I held his hand firmly and smiled widely. “Nice to meet you.”

  I had made the top of the stairs and Salvatierra turned and opened the right hand oak door.

  We walked down a long marble floored corridor. The fittings were brass, the tiling heavy and well polished, the doors thick, and small intricate lamps made of solid gold lit the way.

  Salvatierra stopped and I nearly went into the back of him. He didn’t turn but just held his right hand out toward a door.

  “Here, Mr. Dyce”.

  Then it clicked.

  My real name.

  I felt the blood rush from my face and I stared at him. He scowled back. I was off my game.

  “Go on,” said Salvatierra gesturing toward the door again. “You shouldn´t have come before getting your order”.

  I felt stupid. But at least I knew my contact. “What was I supposed to do?”

  Salvatierra came close to my
face. “You´re supposed to do whatever it is we say you do.”

  He placed his hand on my shoulder, opened the door with his left hand and pushed me through. I stepped into a games room. A man cave. Three guys in suits were sitting at a long wooden bar drinking cocktails. There was another older man, dressed in a butler´s uniform, white shirt, black waistcoat, shiny black Oxfords, dishing out glasses of gin martinis, and huge shot glasses of tequila.

  “Mister Kersteen,” shouted the middle one. I recognized him from the papers.

  Governor Pep Augusta.

  “I thought you British were the punctual ones,” he said.

  Finally, I thought. I might learn something about this damn job.

  Chapter Eight

  Governor Augusta´s playroom was the stuff of which mid-life crisis victims dream. A large, dark room that had been adapted from its original design. There were pillars in each corner and a vaulted ceiling, but the wooden floor boards were less than thirty years old, and the walls were papered.

  Along the right hand side ran a long wooden bar, with beer taps, and behind it at least fifteen glass shelves displaying a myriad of tequilas, cocktail mixers, gins, whiskeys and brandies. In the center of the room was a beautiful full size snooker table, not billiards but snooker, which was more than rare in Mexico.

  The governor and his two companions were sat on bar stools, drinks in hands, hovering over a plate of Rockefeller style oysters.

  “Come in, come in,” shouted the governor.

  He was a tall and handsome fellow, at least 6, 2” and he wore a well cut dark brown suit. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top and he had no tie on. He had a swagger, a kind of 60´s Sean Connery about him, the way he rested one elbow on the back of his stool and rested his other hand on his right knee, relaxed and playful yet friendly and abundant with confidence. He was balding, and had trimmed his hair short to compromise with genetics and nature. His face was not classic good looking but beamed a full and genuine smile.

  The other two guys were also suited. One had thick black slicked back hair and a gold chain just visible under his shirt collar, and the other guy was Spanish looking, and had white but mottled skin and thinning brown hair. Both stood off their stools to greet me. I walked forward and shook their hands.

  The governor stood last and extended his hand.

  “Sorry about the the formality of my letter to you,” he said. His English was East coast, Ivy League.

  “But really, I am a relaxed guy. I wanted to meet you, since you´ll be doing important work in our beloved Lujano.”

  “Thank you very much,” I said, taking a seat. The old man waiter appeared at my side.

  “¿Qué gusta beber, Señor?” he said.

  I ordered a Corona.

  “Thank you for the invitation, Mr Governor,” I said.

  “Call me Pep. Everyone calls me Pep,” he said, taking a huge lug of the tequila he was holding and nodding at the waiter for more.

  The way he did it gave away very little, but I am an experienced old dog in hiding emotions and motives, and perhaps it was nothing, but I saw something in his eyes as he turned to put down the glass. His mask slipped, for a millisecond, and I saw a tiny glimmer or a shred of something like nervousness, or tension. But it was too small to process.

  My beer arrived and we said cheers and drank. It was good to have a drink.

  “So,” said Pep. “They told us you´re English, is that right?”

  I nodded. “Yes, but I´ve been here in Latin America a long time.”

  “That´s good. And how do you feel about the Polysol project?” said Pep.

  “Hard to say at the moment. I´m in a porte-cabin kind of office. It´s all in the dust right now.”

  Pep nodded and drank. “We´ll get over there to do the grand opening. It´ll be great. And all those jobs. Wow. Keep them coming!”

  We said cheers and drank again.

  “Forgive me,” said Pep. “My manners. Allow me to introduce Antonio, and Christian. They worked on the land deal for Polysol, got in touch with the investors, all of that.”

  The first guy, the Spanish looking one was Antonio.

  “Good to meet you,” he said.

  I returned the greeting and turned to the other, Christian.

  And he looked at me with a smile.

  “Good to meet you,” he said.

  Something about the Christian guy tugged at me. But I couldn´t place it.

  I didn´t get a chance to think about it any more, not with Pep focussing his attention on me. He asked about where I was from, what experience I had, what I thought of Lujano, what I thought of the British government. I uttered the usual answers and we jousted in a friendly way. He to show interest and to dig a little into me. And I, to maintain my cover. And Lena´s words repeated in my mind the whole time. But the atmosphere remained friendly. Polysol would be a great company according to the politician and his lawyers. I learned nothing from them, but I was sure at least, that this meeting was no lucky coincidence. The job had to involve Pep in some way.

  The three of them, including Pep, got very drunk. I didn´t, I hold my licor well.

  I had to admit, Pep’s charm was real. He talked like a real person and got passionate when the topic of conversation turned to politics.

  “I know we have an amazing future here,” he said. “You will see. Lujano’s gonna be on the map.”

  It was not the words he used, they could have come from the mouth of any politician but in the way he delivered them. Thoughtful, considerate and passionate, he talked about people he had met. He used names, and remembered what they had eaten when he had met them.

  We toasted Lujano many times and drank, and then again and again. The waiter was patient with the guys, and I remained polite.

  The booze began to seep into my muscles and system after three hours, and it was then that Pep revealed something by accident.

  I had asked him a question about his fellow Lujano resident. “What does Lujano´s other famous son, Mr Esteban, say of all this? He must be delighted for you.”

  The two lawyers stopped laughing and their faces turned earnest and they stared at Pep.

  He took a second too long to answer. Something had hit a nerve.

  “Of course, Mr Esteban is a key stone to this city. Without him, we´d be nothing, plagued by the narcos, corruption. No-one can deny that.”

  I smiled and raised my glass, “To Lujano, then,” I said, and smiles ensued.

  We drank on for another couple of hours. We talked politics and about the drug problems within the neighboring states. Pep spoke of education, of water problems and environmental objectives for new businesses.

  The governor was magnetic and unpretentious. When I announced that I should get some sleep and leave, I told him good luck and I meant it. He patted me on the back.

  “Take care,” he said. “Anything you need, ok?”

  I nodded and shook his hand for the twentieth time that evening, and got up.

  “Let me see you to the door,” said Christian, who got up also.

  Pep and Antonio stayed in their seats, while Christian walked up alongside me, his arm around me.

  Christian and I swayed towards the door, and as soon as I heard Pep and Antonio resume conversation behind us, out of earshot, he whispered to me.

  “Hang in there. We can get you out. Just wait. You´ll know when it´s time.”

  We got to the door, and he said nothing more, he just stood there smiling.

  Chapter Nine

  I walked down the corridor trying to get my balance and made it to the top of the double staircase when the tall guy in the slick suit was waiting for me, Salvatierra.

  His straight face and condescending eyes sobered me.

  “Walk,” said Salvatierra.

  I nodded and started alongside him.

  “Be more careful. You didn’t even blink when I caught you out earlier. Got to be smarter than that.”

  He turned to face me and I now noticed
the muscles in his neck, he had a build like a martial arts expert.

  “So what’s the order?” I asked.

  “Not here,” he said. “That’ll come later.”

  I nodded. “Well, it was a real pleasure to meet you,” I said.

  He turned away in silence and walked back up the corridor. I watched him get smaller, and then turn into the door opposite the governor’s man cave.

  I left the governor’s residence and waited in the ancient cobbled plaza below. There were still young revellers milling about, walking bar to bar hand in hand. The old street lamps lit the place in a deep yellow glow.

  I hailed a passing taxi and got in, and then realized I hadn’t got my new address yet.

  “¿A donde?” asked the cabbie.

  The first thing that came into my mind were those green hills behind Polysol.

  “Parque Industrial Lujano. Polysol,” I said, and the driver nodded.

  After a 30 minute drive, the taxi pulled up to Polysol’s isolated entrance. It was 1:35am and the industrial park was dead, not a soul in sight. Behind Polysol´s hangar and the porte-cabin offices, the large twin hills loomed.

  “Take me to the foot of those hills,” I asked.

  The cabbie looked around 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 un-farmed, un cared for land. Anywhere in Mexico, you could travel less then ten minutes and find this virgin land. Earth too brittle and tough to farm, borders too rigid and nationalized to sell. The shrub was cactus, nopal specifically, and what the locals called tunas, or prickly pears. People of course did farm this fruit, but they sold it out of baskets at traffic lights in the cities. Other than that, this land belonged to no-one. I needed space and time to think and I didn´t feel tired.