As they had sat on the floor in front of their small fireplace upon their return, holding each other while savoring their wine, Cruz had again silently remarked to himself that he was extremely fortunate to have found such a beautiful and wonderful companion to share his life.
Sometimes all you could do was live to fight another day and cherish the good around you.
Sometimes that was enough.
Chapter 8
Three miles off the coast of Costa Rica, Gato Negro, a two hundred forty-eight foot super yacht with its own helicopter, cruised north at fourteen knots, its stabilizers working to ensure that the passengers were not troubled by any rolling. There wasn’t much chance of that in the four foot waves – the ship’s forty-two foot beam and aluminum construction made her as stable as an oil rig in all but the worst conditions. A staff of sixteen full-time crew worked diligently to ensure that she was always ready for use, year round, whenever her owner decided to take in some salt air.
She flew a Bahamian flag, registered there by a corporation specifically formed for that purpose, whose shares were held by a Panamanian trust, which was in turn the asset of a Hong Kong corporation. Ownership of the Hong Kong entity was murky at best, with its shares technically owned by a bank, whose owners in the Isle of Man were not a matter of public record. A team of highly specialized attorneys worked full time to ensure that the dizzy network of intertwined entities remained impenetrable. The Byzantine web of structures was one of the more powerful financial conglomerates in the world, counting dozens of casinos, real estate holding companies, hotels, pawn shops, nightclubs, hedge funds and two insurance companies in its stable of assets.
Especially useful were the groups of casinos on Indian land in the western United States, whose receipts were colossal even in times when the massive parking lots were empty. Apparently, some things were recession-proof businesses, and between the gambling establishments and the nine hundred motels that sat forgotten by freeways, staggering quantities of dollars made their way to the related credit unions and banks that processed the syndicate’s money.
Some of the top finance graduates from American universities devised impossible to follow schemes to obfuscate the moving parts of this improbable empire, the magnum opus of the top narcotics boss in the world – Don Carlos Aranas. Aranas had been a man of vision, having taken a page from the American mafia’s playbook and worked towards sanitizing his income from the drug, human trafficking, murder-for-hire and kidnapping trades, by diversifying into legitimate businesses. Now, decades after having taken over the Sinaloa cartel when ‘The Godfather’, Miguel Angel Felix Gallardo, had gone to jail immediately following his dividing Mexico into the current decentralized scheme of smaller regional cartels, Aranas was a man with no home, who divided his time between Mexico, Honduras, Guatemala, Costa Rica, Panama, Colombia and Venezuela.
Not surprisingly, well-publicized efforts to bring down the number-one drug lord in the world had all failed. Aranas was incredibly resilient, having even escaped from a maximum security prison when he’d been apprehended in the early Nineties. While details were murky, as were most facts surrounding him, legend had it that Aranas had co-opted everyone in the prison, from the head of security on down, and on the day of his escape had simply hidden in a laundry cart pushed by the director of the guard shift, who had been thoughtful enough to then drive him to a nearby dirt airstrip, where a twin engine King Air prop plane had winged him to points unknown.
The total revenue of the Mexican drug cartels was a hotly disputed topic, with no agreement. For understandable reasons, hard numbers were difficult to come by. Some estimates placed the number at twenty billion. Others at fifty billion. Reality was that both numbers were laughably low, and that between all the cartels the real revenue number was closer to a hundred billion a year, wholesale.
Officials in the U.S. tried to downplay the number, as they did with virtually all statistics, preferring to massage them for their own devices. Just as unemployment was officially pegged in the eight to nine percent range through elaborate sleight of hand, and the GDP number was inflated by accounting hijinks, so too was the scale of the illegal drug business. Most experts privately agreed that the true ultimate street value of all drugs that passed from Mexico into the U.S. was closer to three hundred billion dollars a year, with two thirds of that sticking to the American side as the drugs were cut and distributed from the large wholesale distribution points and passed down to the street level dealers. Regardless of whose numbers one believed, the glaringly obvious fact was that, for whatever reason, the top man in the world was invisible to all law enforcement authorities and passed across national borders without hindrance.
Three deck hands cleaned the hull of one of the larger ship’s tenders – a thirty-two-foot Cabo Express Aranas liked to use for fishing, which was mounted across the rear of the yacht’s second-story deck, leaving the first free for entertaining. A massive crane swung the boat over the side and into the water whenever he was in the mood to use it to explore shallower waters for elusive game fish.
Aranas was almost sixty years old, which made him ancient in the drug business. Most of his rivals and peers had long since expired or had been incarcerated, and yet Don Aranas enjoyed glowing good health and virtually limitless prosperity. The ship was furnished with a fully-equipped gymnasium, and Aranas made a habit of taking an hour of exercise at least five days a week. What was the point of becoming one of the wealthiest men in the world if you threw it away with a sedentary lifestyle and poor habits, he reasoned. His intention was to live to a ripe old age, confounding his enemies and pursuers in the process. So far, the odds favored him. No photograph existed that was more current than twenty years old, and he no more resembled the images circulated of him than did his captain – a state of affairs he encouraged.
His nephew, Javier, approached him in the lower salon, where he was watching a DVD on the seventy-five-inch plasma screen television, and wordlessly handed him a small cell phone. He stared at it momentarily, and then nodded to Javier, who discreetly departed. Aranas muted the volume and paused the film, and the only sound was the almost imperceptible hum of the twin diesel power plants two stories below him.
“Yes,” he said into the phone.
“Don Aranas. I apologize for terminating several of your men in Argentina. I did so before knowing who they were or what their errand was.”
“It is of no consequence. They should have been more careful.”
“Yes. Well, I have given your request considerable thought, and I think it would be worth meeting to have a more meaningful discussion,” El Rey said.
“That’s a problem. I don’t meet. Anyone. Ever.”
“I understand, however I don’t come out of retirement ever, either. If you want me to do something I never do, I think that we all need to be prepared to make concessions. Would you not agree?”
Aranas’ anger flashed to the surface for a moment, but he quickly won the struggle to control it. He needed El Rey. These were unusual times. Perhaps flexibility was in order.
“What did you have in mind?”
“Did you receive my message about my fee?”
“Yes, yes. I have no problem with it, although for that amount of money, success had better be guaranteed. I heard about your adventure in Baja. That sort of outcome isn’t an option,” Aranas warned.
“That was the only instance of a failure in an otherwise exemplary career, and frankly it would have been rectified if the client had still been around to pursue it. As things worked out, it wasn’t a priority any longer, so it seemed more prudent to remove myself from the equation,” El Rey explained.
“You insist on a meeting. Again, what do you have in mind?”
“It must be only you and me. Nobody else. Just as you value your privacy, so do I. And it won’t be for three weeks. I have other matters that must be attended to before I can meet. I’ll call this number again on the twenty-fifth, at this time. Then we can arrange to get t
ogether somewhere both of us can be assured is safe. Will that work for you?”
“I still don’t like it.”
“Yes. I understand. The alternative, of course, is that we don’t meet, and you never hear of me again. I trust you’ll still be able to solve whatever problem that is so pressing you needed my services above all others?” El Rey suggested.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, my friend,” Aranas warned, his patience at an end.
“That’s all I do, Don. I mean no disrespect by my conditions. But that stipulation, as well as the fee, isn’t negotiable. Will that be a problem?”
Aranas sighed. Why was everyone competent a prima donna? He’d been cautioned by his associates that El Rey didn’t intimidate easily and was scrupulous in all aspects of his trade. If one wanted him, one expected to meet his terms. That’s just the way it was.
“I accept. But I will warn you. Anything that jeopardizes me will bring down the weight of the world on you, and there’s nowhere remote enough to hide from me. And why do we have to wait so long? I have a strong sense of urgency to this contract.”
“I completely understand and would expect no less. But I’m afraid that I can’t make it any sooner. Hopefully that won’t be a problem.” El Rey waited for any protest, and when none came, continued. “I will call at the agreed upon time and propose several meeting spots. I shall leave the final choice to you. We’ll need no more than half an hour. Thank you for your consideration in this,” El Rey said, and then the line went dead.
Aranas stared at the cell phone in his hand, and then stabbed the power off and resumed watching his film. One of his favorites. Bruce Willis was up against a diabolical terrorist, tackling impossible odds while taking names and kicking ass. They just didn’t make movies like that anymore. His nephew reentered the salon upon hearing the film resume.
Aranas handed him the phone. “Remove the battery and lock this up. On the twenty-fifth, charge the battery and bring it to me. I’ll be expecting a call.” He fixed his nephew with a hard look. “Javier, don’t forget this. It’s extremely important. Put a reminder in your phone or computer or whatever, but make sure I have that phone charged and ready on the twenty-fifth, or there will be hell to pay. Don’t disappoint me,” Aranas instructed.
Javier swallowed nervously. He knew that if the Don said it was important, failure wasn’t an option. He nodded and went to do as instructed. He’d program reminders in every device he had and probably wouldn’t be able to sleep for days before the big date.
The Don had that effect on people.
Gunfire erupted from the speakers as Willis again demonstrated that he was impossible to kill. Aranas smiled with delight.
He loved that part.
Chapter 9
Rio de Janeiro was a noisy symphony of sound and color, and as the taxi cruised along Atlantic Avenue past Copacabana beach the world appeared to be a nonstop parade of tanned skin and fake breasts ensconced in miniscule strips of fabric. El Rey watched the crush of nubile humanity move along the promenade, its distinctive wave design famous all over the world.
They pulled to the curb in front of the Palace Hotel and the driver exited the cab and opened the trunk. A uniformed attendant rushed to retrieve the single Tumi travel bag as the young man paid the fare, offering a generous but not memorably large tip. He wore a white linen short-sleeved shirt and tan lightweight cargo pants, and his hair was pulled back in a ponytail, revealing a tanned complexion and appealingly symmetrical features. He looked like nothing so much as an international playboy arriving in town for a taste of the city’s renowned pleasures – an image he would do nothing to deny.
Once in his room, he watched the sea of tourists ambling along the iconic beach and checked his watch. His appointment was in an hour at the exclusive private clinic he’d been directed to, giving him just enough time to unpack his bag, walk down the strand a ways, and then snag a taxi at one of the numerous other hotels. He knew from his research that the clinic was fifteen minutes away, and traffic was light at this hour so he had no fear of running late.
The cab pulled up to a discrete contemporary edifice in an upscale neighborhood with a mirrored-glass lower floor as street frontage, and a small sign announcing the Rodrigo Caleb Surgical Center. El Rey tried the front door, but it was locked. He noted a chrome button on the side of the doorjamb and pressed it. A few seconds later a low-pitched buzz vibrated through the frame, and he pushed the door open.
The lobby area was all stainless steel and black leather furniture: ultra-modern, and obviously very expensive. Several large aerial photographs of Rio adorned the otherwise barren walls, illuminated by halogen spotlights. A breathtakingly beautiful nurse sat behind the severe reception desk, eyeing him neutrally.
“I have a noon appointment,” he announced, approaching her.
“Please fill out this form, and the doctor will be with you shortly.” She held forth a clipboard and a Mont Blanc pen. He was liking the clinic’s style so far. “Would you care for some water? Pellegrino? Fiji?”
“No, thank you. I’m good.”
He busied himself scribbling an invented medical history, and after six minutes returned the form to the nurse, whose only reaction was one eyebrow shifting upwards a scant millimeter. He wondered how much of her was surgically augmented and decided that it really didn’t matter – the net effect was absolutely riveting, even in a town full of beautiful women.
Everything about the clinic said extremely expensive, which was exactly what he was hoping for. The last thing he wanted was a botched job by an economy hack.
The console on the reception desk trilled, and the nurse murmured into an earbud before rising and gesturing to him.
“The doctor will see you now.”
Normally not one to spend a lot of time focusing on female charms, even he had to admit that the way she filled out her uniform would have been the envy of any men’s magazine in the world, and would have sold out an edition with her on the cover. He was getting a very good feeling about the doctor’s skill level.
He followed her back to a large room with a desk, couch, and an examination chair much like a dentist’s. A man in his early fifties wearing a white physician’s coat rose from the desk and approached him with his hand outstretched.
“Ah, Señor Guitierez. Nice to meet you,” he said in fluent Spanish with no trace of a Portuguese accent. “I am Doctor Caleb. Has Nina been attending to you satisfactorily?”
“Yes. Everything is good. Pleased to meet you.”
They shook hands as the nurse left, closing the door behind her.
“What brings you to my establishment?” the doctor asked, studying the young man’s face.
“I want to change my look. Alter my nose and give it a thinner shape, and perhaps a chin implant?”
“Come sit in the exam chair, and let’s see what we have here. Would you like me to make suggestions, or do you have a very specific idea in mind?”
“No, I just want something new. Definitely a change to my nose. I’ve always hated it. I got the idea for a chin implant from the television…” El Rey did his best to sound hesitant. “And if I don’t like the effect of it, I suppose I can always have it removed.”
“Well, it’s not quite so easy, but let’s see if we can come up with a plan that will accomplish what you want.”
They spent a half hour going over possibilities and agreed on a nose alteration, chin implant, and cheekbone augmentation.
“We should do the procedures a week apart, at least,” the doctor advised.
“No. I don’t have unlimited time. I’m only here for a few weeks, and I want it all done at once so I can go home looking different. And I’ll need an apartment with full-time care – do you have something like that?”
“Yes, we have a full suite upstairs. Yours isn’t an unusual request. Many wish to remain sequestered while the bruising and trauma is attended to. Although I’ll caution you that it’s quite expensive to go that route…”
“The money isn’t as important as a quality outcome and discretion,” El Rey assured him.
“Ah, then…just so. It’s against my best advice to do the procedures all in one sitting, however, it can be done. You run more risk of a longer recovery time required and increase the possibility of complications. But if you’ll be availing yourself of our inpatient services, I think we can reduce the trauma to a minimum…” the doctor paused. “Now, to the matter of price. The nose will be four thousand U.S., the chin implant thirty-five hundred, the cheek implants three apiece, and two weeks of round the clock care in our suite will be sixteen thousand dollars, for a total of…call it twenty-nine thousand dollars, plus any special requests. Will you be paying by credit card?”
“Cash. Half in advance. Half upon completion.”
“Well, we can work something out. We ordinarily get a hundred percent of our fees up front, however, if you are willing to pay for the surgery in advance, we can bill for the suite on a weekly basis, with the balance due before checkout,” the doctor advised.
“That will be fine.”
“We can do this within the next two days. During the interim, avoid any aspirin or alcohol.” The doctor studied the information on the pad El Rey had completed. “You don’t take any medications? No vitamins? No, er, recreational substances?”
“No.”
“Alcohol?”
“No.”
“Coffee? Tea?”
“No.”
“Very well, then. When would you like to have the surgery and begin your stay?”
Revenge of the Assassin Page 8