He paused in front of the small storefront two blocks from the park and set his coffee down on a planter as he fumbled with a key ring. After a few moments, the steel grid that protected the plate glass window slid up into its housing, and he found himself staring at his reflection. Longish dark brown hair with sun highlights worn in a laisser faire style, a perennial three day growth of dark stubble, high cheekbones and piercing, nearly black eyes staring out of a light brown complexion. A pair of non-prescription horn-rimmed eyeglasses completed the look, which for all appearances was that of a scattered young academic, or perhaps a painter or sculptor who’d met with moderate success.
He studied the result with satisfaction. The man looking back at him bore little resemblance to the cold-blooded international cartel super-assassin known as ‘El Rey’ – the King of Swords – made infamous by his leaving a tarot card bearing the image of the seated king at the scene of his executions. No, that man was thinner, younger, with black hair and a differently shaped face. The only photographs of him known to exist were from his construction security pass when he’d been part of the crew building a convention center in Baja, and he’d taken care to alter his image for that shot. Cotton stuffed in his cheeks had created marked jowls, short-cropped ebony hair parted on the side and a bushy moustache sculpted a classic Mexican laborer look, as had the skin dye that had darkened his complexion by three tones.
The only thing that man had in common with the aristocratic young proprietor of the shop was a frigidity to his gaze. There were some things you couldn’t change. The slightly tinted Dolce and Gabbana eyeglasses were sufficient cover, though, given that he was an unknown in Argentina. He’d considered contact lenses, but discarded the idea as unnecessary. After all, he was on the other side of the world from his hunting ground in Mexico and was now a respectable business owner dealing in curios and knick knacks for the tourist crowd.
He’d bought the business for a song from the old woman who had owned it for a decade, and even though it barely made enough to cover the rent and his lone employee, Jania, he was happy with the bargain. It gave him something to do, without placing any demands on him. Jania took care of the sales and bookkeeping, which was simple, and he frittered his time away in an innocuous pursuit. Most of his day was spent in his comfortable little back office, and it was relatively rare that he had to deal with customers – a strong positive from his standpoint because interacting with patrons was the one aspect of the business he disliked.
He unlocked the glass door and glanced at his watch. Still two hours before the shop would be open, which meant that Jania would be there within an hour and forty minutes. She was always punctual, along with being very attractive and conscientious, making her the perfect employee. At times, he sensed she would be receptive to a more intimate relationship, but he didn’t want to mix business with pleasure. His life was fine with the bevy of dancers at the strip clubs he frequented. Those relationships were simple and efficient, and nobody probed too deeply into his life. Which was how he liked it. Clean, with no baggage or explanations required; everyone lying as part of the transaction and nobody surprised or concerned about it.
He relocked the door and made his way to the back office, where he reclined in his executive chair and savored his rich cup of brew. He had developed a number of bad habits since relocating; coffee being one of the vices he’d taken up and red wine another. It was impossible not to drink both in Mendoza, so he’d adapted, although strictly limiting his intake to two cups of coffee per day and one glass of wine. He offset these by spending two hours at his gym, an hour spent on hard cardio and another on isometric exercises and weight training, and he’d joined a martial arts studio, where he attended classes four times a week. It was a somewhat tedious routine, but he’d resigned himself to it as necessary, especially since he was number one on the Most Wanted list in Mexico for an attempted execution of the former president. Better to be a dull boy than to invite unwanted scrutiny. He was fully aware that Interpol had circulated a bulletin with his photo on it, and even though he had three passports in different names issued from dissimilar countries, he was still on guard, regardless that almost a year had gone by since his narrow escape and with each day the likelihood of pursuit diminished.
Antonio, as he was known in Mendoza and in his Ecuadorian passport, powered on his computer to check on the markets. He’d invested most of his twenty million dollars in a basket of commodities, from silver and gold to copper and iron ore, as well as some currencies that showed promise, such as the Chinese Yuan and the Aussie dollar. He was now up seventeen percent in under a year, and he fine-tuned his holdings once a week based on trends he perceived. He’d even made an easy ten percent playing the Mexican Peso, buying a million dollars’ worth when it hit fourteen to the dollar, and selling them when it hit twelve six. He’d shown a knack for all things financial, just as he’d done well at anything to which he’d applied himself, and he found the challenge of prospering by being ahead of international trends to be engaging enough to keep him occupied.
He pulled up the Mexican national news and saw more coverage on the unsuccessful attempt on the new president in Tampico. That had all the earmarks of a cartel operation, judging by the massive overkill and collateral damage. He shook his head. When would these guys learn that careful and surgical yielded superior results every time? A part of him itched to get back into the game, but he didn’t need the money, and he recognized that Mexico would be too hot to go back to for many years. After his last sanction there, he’d have to stay away for the duration. To return would be foolhardy. It was best to watch the carnage from afar.
He checked on the action in the gold and silver markets, and jolted when he heard the front door chime sound. His watch told him that he’d lost almost two hours online, so that meant it was Jania.
“Hola. Señor Antonio? Are you here?” Jania called from the front of the shop.
“Yes, Jania. Good morning. I thought I’d get a jump on the day. How are you?” he called from the back room.
Jania pushed the partially open door ajar and greeted him with a smile. She was twenty, slim, with long, dirty-blond hair and an appealingly fresh face.
“Good morning to you, as well. Is there anything special you need me to do before we open?” Jania continued to beam at him, seemingly unaware of the multiple ways the invitation she was extending could be taken.
He paused, then returned her smile. “No, we can do the inventory tonight after we close. You’ve been keeping track of our sales, right? It’s probably time to reorder some of the top sellers.”
“The corkscrews are moving well and so are the bone-handled steak knife sets. I think we’d be wise to stock more of those.”
“Noted.”
“Oh, and my uncle Gustavo will be by at eleven. He says you promised to let him beat you at chess today,” she announced, then spun perkily to attend to the small showroom.
Gustavo came by every few days, and Antonio allowed him to hang out and kill time at the store. Gustavo presented a welcome diversion and got him out of the shop. They would sit at one of the numerous outdoor coffee shops adjacent to the entry and play chess for hours, shooting the breeze and watching the world go by. Normally anti-social, he’d made a measured effort to appear friendly since moving to Argentina. Socially adept people were not regarded with suspicion, whereas recluses were. And the last thing he wanted to do was attract attention.
“I’ll look forward to his arrival.” He checked the time again. “Might as well open the front door, since we’re both here now,” he called after her.
Gustavo was a character – a retired bureaucrat in his early sixties living on a pension, who always seemed to have plenty of money to throw around. He drove a new BMW and lived in one of the most expensive areas of town, which had struck Antonio as odd. When he’d probed the topic with Jania, she’d simply responded that her uncle was the black sheep of the family and always had his hands in something lucrative. Antonio took
that to mean that he was involved in the black market that was ubiquitous in Argentina, and without which the economy couldn’t function. As far as he was concerned, what the old man did to make ends meet was none of his business.
He finished up his online chores and then heard the chime again, followed by Gustavo’s distinctive baritone from the front. He quickly powered down the computer and, after doing a scan of the office, closed the office door and moved into the shop. Gustavo was chatting with Jania, examining the tango music CDs on the countertop display.
“Ah, good morning, my friend. So today is the day where I finally win a game against the maestro?” Gustavo boomed in greeting, holding his boxed mini chess set aloft in his left hand.
“It’s a time of hope. One never knows what little miracles will be bestowed upon the fortunate,” Antonio replied with a grin.
“Shall we?” Gustavo gestured at the door.
Antonio nodded.
They made their way to the French bakery a few doors down and claimed one of the sidewalk tables. A waitress emerged from the shop and took their order as Gustavo carefully set the pieces on the chessboard.
“How’s business, my friend?” Gustavo asked.
“Oh, you know. Slow. It could be better.” The truth was that business was dismal, not that Antonio cared much.
“It’s the damned government. Did you know that Argentina was the eighteenth richest nation in the world at the start of the twentieth century?” Gustavo commented.
“What happened?” Antonio asked politely, having heard the story before.
“Back at the end of the Eighties, the president, Menem, privatized all the industries in Argentina that were part of the collective national worth. That’s the polite way of saying that he took anything of value and sold it to foreign banks for two cents on the dollar, in return for massive bribes. That’s why everything costs so much here. Argentina produces oil, and yet there are chronic gasoline shortages, and the price is higher than most non-producing countries. Same for power. The electric rates are among the highest in the world. Even the airline got sold, and it was wildly profitable at the time – and yet it went for less than the value of the assets, much less the revenue.”
“Well, the rest of the world is starting to get the same treatment by the same banks. The population gets screwed while the banks and the government get rich,” Antonio observed.
“Is it any wonder that the rule of law is breaking down? Society is a contract, between the people and their government. If the government doesn’t honor the deal, and lets special interests rob them, and inflates the currency till savings are worthless and prices go through the roof, then the population walks away from the deal. That’s how things are in Argentina,” Gustavo concluded.
“I’m not here to judge. I’m here to get beaten at chess. You do what you have to in order to get by.”
“A wise philosophy, my friend,” Gustavo said, nodding. “So how are you getting on with Jania?”
“She’s perfect for the job. I couldn’t ask for a better person,” Antonio replied neutrally.
“I think she’s rather fond of you.”
“As am I. Like I said, she’s the perfect person for the job,” Antonio repeated, preferring not to go down the road Gustavo was trying to steer towards.
“Ah. Just so.” Gustavo moved his opening pawn and eyed Antonio warily. “Your move.”
~
Gustavo had always perceived that, with Antonio, there was more going on than met the eye. He considered himself a good judge of character, having spent years doing handshake deals as he built his network in the Argentine underworld while he was one of the directors of the secret police. He wisely vacated his position after his role in the mass executions and death squads of the 1970s came into question, and he faded into obscurity before being recruited for the new regime, which was equally brutal, a few years later.
He’d leveraged his power in the newly-created intelligence apparatus to solidify a slavery and drug distribution network in Buenos Aires that survived to the present, albeit with younger men in the active positions. Upon his retirement from the government twelve years earlier, Gustavo had moved first to Patagonia, and then later to Mendoza, to be as far from the scene of his crimes as he could get while still remaining in the country.
He wasn’t sure what Antonio’s situation was, but he did know one thing after spending a few months chatting with the man and playing chess. He claimed to be from Ecuador, but his accent said differently. It was oddly neutral, almost in a practiced way, but Gustavo thought he detected Mexico rather than South America. Whatever the case, he knew that a young man of brilliant capabilities such as he’d displayed with the chess board didn’t appear out of thin air in Mendoza to operate a money-losing trinket shop unless there was something else going on.
Gustavo’s natural curiosity had been aroused as he’d gotten to know him, and he’d put out feelers to see if he could figure out who he was dealing with. As a career criminal, he sensed an opportunity potential with Antonio. Perhaps young Antonio could be of use in his ongoing Buenos Aires operation, or maybe he had contacts with the Colombians or the Mexicans that could be of help in solidifying new suppliers for the drugs that were so in demand in the Argentine capital.
Whatever the case, Gustavo smelled rat all over Antonio, and it wasn’t in his nature to let that go without rooting around and finding out what the real story was. If he’d learned anything during his time on the planet it was that information was power, and he could no more help his drive to discover more about his current chess adversary than a salmon could help swimming upriver. It was part of his wiring – who he was.
He’d made some calls over the past week, and his former colleagues on the police force and with the Argentine intelligence network had agreed to check in Mexico and Central America for any young men who were wanted for serious crimes. It was a shot in the dark, but Gustavo had time on his hands. This was a project he could get interested in, and his instincts were piqued whenever he sat with Antonio. There was more to him than met the eye, and as a predator himself, he recognized the same qualities in others when he saw them.
And make no mistake. Antonio was a predator. Of that, Gustavo was sure.
Once home, he turned on his computer and began downloading the thousands of photos and rap sheets his network had come up with through Interpol. It would be a painstaking and potentially fruitless chore, but he was infinitely patient and loved a project. And there was a point of stubborn pride in the equation. Gustavo’s nose was never wrong.
Now, it was a matter of discovering where and what young Antonio was running from, and then they could have an altogether different discussion than one revolving around chess. Which Antonio had beaten Gustavo at today, yet again, for the seventeenth straight time since they’d begun their irregular matches.
Gustavo was more than intrigued.
The files finally loaded, he began paging through the photos.
At three in the morning he came across one that stopped him. There were striking similarities, and yet the face was different.
He made a few notes and resolved to make a call in the morning to get some more information. Gustavo wrote down the sparse details on the file and yawned, beyond tired. He’d do a web search for more tomorrow. For now, he was beat.
If Antonio was the man described in the bulletin, he might be just what the doctor ordered for messy contingencies, as his subordinates grew bolder and deferred to Gustavo less and less over the years. It could never hurt to have a pit bull on a chain.
Especially one that loved the taste of blood.
Chapter 4
Captain Romero Cruz walked with a slight limp to the kitchen, hurriedly buttoning his Federal Police shirt. A plate of eggs and chorizo sat steaming on the small dining room table, a cup of coffee at its side. He sat down, and Dinah, glowing as ever in a fitted dress and colorful purple blouse, emerged from the attached laundry room and placed her hands on his shoulders, le
aning in and kissing his cheek. She was stunning, as always, with wavy black hair and huge eyes and a face that was beautiful in a non-traditional way.
“You’re going to be late, my love,” she warned playfully.
“They have to wait for me. I’m the boss,” Cruz responded, swallowing a forkful of eggs before grabbing her arm and pulling her closer to him. He kissed her neck and, with a minor adjustment, her lips.
“Good eggs,” Dinah said, pulling away and moving to the counter, where a glass of orange juice waited for her with a much smaller plate holding two pieces of toast.
This had been their regular routine since she’d begun staying at Cruz’s modest new rental condo, courtesy of the Federales. Ever since he’d been kidnapped by the head of the Sinaloa cartel, he’d been under twenty-four hour armed surveillance, and likely would remain so until he left his position with the police. Cruz was the head of Mexico City’s anti-cartel task force, which effectively made him the head of the national effort as well, given that DF, as Mexico City was called by the locals, was the largest city in Mexico, containing thirty percent of the nation’s population. He’d also developed somewhat of a reputation after a near miss assassination attempt on the last president was foiled by his team’s actions, which accounted for why he still had the job now that a new administration had taken office for its six year stint at running the country.
Usually, when an administration changed, the key positions went to new blood as payback for favors, but Cruz’s position was too critical to play politics with. Or alternatively, and more likely, nobody else wanted the job of tackling the most powerful and rich narcotics trafficking groups in the world. It was a position that wasn’t great for extended life expectancy, and Cruz believed that he was still heading the group because there wasn’t anyone foolhardy enough to take it. During his tenure, Cruz’s wife and child had been kidnapped and brutally murdered, he’d been shot in a bloody ambush that nearly cost him his life, he’d been kidnapped by the most powerful cartel kingpin in the world, and his life had been threatened by virtually every organized crime syndicate in Mexico.
Revenge of the Assassin Page 4