Saint Death - John Milton #3

by Mark Dawson

“That’s right.”

  “Seriously, Señor, please––you must have been a soldier at some point?”

  “A long time ago.”

  “Don’t think I’m ungrateful––you saved my life and plenty of others in that room. It’s just––”

  “It’s just that you have to make a report. It’s fine, Lieutenant. Ask your questions. I understand.”

  “You want a drink of water?”

  “I’m fine,” Milton said.

  “Smoke?”

  He nodded.

  Plato took out a packet of Luckies and tapped out two cigarettes. Milton took one and let the man light it for him.

  Plato inhaled deeply. “You know who those men were?”

  “Never seen them before.”

  “Those boys were from the cartel. La Frontera. You’ll have heard of them, no doubt.”

  “A little.”

  “A word of advice, John. Do you care if I call you John?”

  “If you like.”

  “Keep your eyes open, alright, John? What you did back there, that’s like poking a stick in a termite’s nest. People round here, they learned a long time ago that it’s best not to fight back when the sicarios come around. It’s better to let them get on with their business and pray to whatever God it is you pray to that it’s not your name they got on their list.”

  “Let them kill?”

  “Most people couldn’t make the kind of difference you made.”

  “I couldn’t just stand aside and do nothing, Lieutenant.”

  “I know. I’m just saying––be careful.”

  “Thanks. I’ll bear that in mind.” He drew down on the cigarette, the tobacco crackling. “Who were they after?”

  “We’re not sure yet.”

  “But you think it was the kids on the table?”

  “Most likely. They missed one of them. Probably thanks to you.”

  “The girl.”

  “Yes.”

  “Was she hit?”

  “In the shoulder. She’ll live.”

  “But she’s not safe, is she?”

  “No.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that.”

  “Where is she?”

  “I can’t tell you that, either. It’s confidential. I’ve already said more than I should’ve.”

  He leant forwards. “You won’t be able to keep her safe, will you?”

  “Probably not.”

  “I can, Lieutenant.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “I can.”

  “How long have you been in Juárez?”

  “Just got into town today.”

  “You know what it’s like here? You know anything about La Frontera?”

  “This isn’t my first dance.” He rested both forearms on the table and looked right into Plato’s eyes. “I can help. I know what they’ve done to the police. I know about the messages they hang off the bridges when they leave their bodies, I know about the threats they make on police radio and I know they’ve got a list with your names on it. I saw what that means tonight. There were three of you. Only you and one of your colleagues did anything at all. The other one was hiding behind the bar.”

  “This might not be your first dance, John, but if you haven’t been to Juárez before I can guarantee you that you haven’t seen anything like the cartels.” As he spoke, he took out a notebook from his breast pocket and turned to a page near the back. He wrote quickly, then turned it upside down and left it on the table between them. “You sure you don’t want that drink of water? I know I do. Dying of thirst here.”

  “That’s not such a bad idea. I would. Thanks.”

  “Alright, then. I’ll be right back.”

  Plato went out. Milton took the notebook and turned it over.

  There were two lines of writing in Plato’s untidy scrawl.

  Caterina Moreno.

  Hospital San Jose.

  * * *

  16.

  EL PATRÓN made it a habit to dress well and, this morning, his tailor had presented him with a fine new suit. It was cut from the most luxurious fabric––slate grey with the faintest pinstripe running through it––and it had been fitted expertly, measured to fit his barrel-like frame. His snakeskin boots disturbed small clouds of dust as he disembarked from the armour-plated Bentley, nodding to his chauffeur and setting off for the restaurant. Six of his bodyguards had already fanned out around the street, armed with a variety of automatic weapons. They would wait here while he ate. No-one else would be allowed to go inside.

  The place had been open for six months and was already the finest in Juárez. That was, perhaps, not the most impressive of accolades since local restaurants did not tend to last very long before they were shot up or firebombed or the management was murdered but that was all beside the point; it had a fine reputation for its cuisine, Felipe considered himself something of a gourmet and it was his habit to try all of the best new places. Now, with business to attend to in the city, he had the perfect excuse. He did not often venture down from the sixty thousand square miles of land he owned in the Sierra, not least because the vast space, the battery of gunmen and the fealty of the locals made it an almost impregnable redoubt. But this business was important and it needed his attention.

  The other members of his retinue had already been inside to inform the proprietor that El Patrón would be dining with them tonight. They had collected the cell phones of the other customers and staff and told them––politely but firmly––that no-one would be allowed to leave until El Patrón had finished his meal. Of course, no-one had protested. As compensation for their inconvenience, their meals would all be paid for. A couple celebrating their marriage had reserved the best table in the house but they had needed little persuasion that it was in their best interests to move. The room was silent save for the muffled noise of the busy kitchen and the crisp retorts of Felipe’s raised heels as they struck the polished wooden floorboards. He went from table to table, beaming his high voltage smile at each of his fellow diners, clasping the hands of the men and kissing the women on both cheeks. He introduced himself to them and apologised for their inconvenience. They looked at him with fear or admiration or both; the power of his reputation gave him enormous pleasure. El Patrón was almost a mythical figure in Mexico, his exploits the subject of countless ballads and stories. He had outlived enemies and accomplices alike, defying the accepted bargain of a life in the drug trade: your career might be glittering but it would be brief and it would always end in prison or the grave.

  Not for him.

  He left the newlyweds until last. He stood beside their table and treated them to a wide, white-toothed smile.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “Yes,” the man said. His fear was evident, although he was trying to hide it. “You are El Patrón.”

  “That is right. I am. And I understand that you are celebrating your marriage?”

  “Yes.”

  “Congratulations. May I ask, when was the happy day?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “And you are not on honeymoon?”

  “Money is difficult,” the woman said.

  Felipe took out the bankroll that he kept in the inside pocket. He had heard that one of his lieutenants had joked that the roll was thick enough to choke a pig, and it probably was. He removed the money clip, started to count notes from the roll––each was a $100 bill––got to twenty and then stopped. Smiling widely, knowing that everyone in the restaurant was watching his display of munificence, he put the roll on the table. He did not know precisely how much money there was––ten thousand, at least––but it didn’t matter. Felipe González was responsible for over half of the illegal narcotics imported into the United States every year. He had appeared in Forbes’ annual billionaires list. Ten thousand dollars was nothing to him. Chump change.

  “Congratulations,” he said. “You must take a holiday. You are only married one time, after all.”


  The woman looked ready to refuse his offer. “Thank you,” her husband said quickly before she could speak. He did not want to displease him with ingratitude. He glared at her and, his message understood, her frown became an uneasy smile.

  “You are very welcome.”

  His son, Adolfo González, was waiting for him at the table.

  He rose. “Padre.”

  “Adolfo.” Felipe hugged him. He was impetuous, and prone to dangerous predilections, but he was still his son and he loved him. There were other children––other brothers, even––but Adolfo was his oldest still alive and the only one who was born of his first wife. The boy reminded him of her often: she had been impetuous and wild, too, a seventeen-year-old beauty from a village near to his in the heart of the Sierra. She had been the most beautiful girl he had ever laid eyes upon and his wedding day had been the happiest of his life. That it did not last did not sour the affection he felt for her whenever he recalled her memory. She had eventually become a little too wild, a little too free with her affections and too loose with her tongue, and he had been left with no other option than to do away with her. They had dissolved her body in a vat of hydrochloric acid and poured her into the river.

  Adolfo and Raymondo had been twins. Raymondo was the oldest, and, as such, he had been the real apple of his father’s eye. He had arrived ten minutes before his twin, a protracted delivery that was contrasted by the ease with which Adolfo had followed. Felipe often joked to his wives that that had been the first indication of his character; if he could, Adolfo would always let someone else do all the hard work for him. Raymondo had been shot dead by the army two years ago. Felipe knew that the older boy had exercised a degree of control over his brother. Adolfo had reacted badly to his death and that, combined with the sudden removal of his brother’s restraint, had led to all this blessed nonsense with the girls.

  “It is good to see you, Padre.”

  Felipe sat and made busy with the menu. “Have you eaten here before?”

  “When it opened.”

  “What is good?”

  “The steak. Excellent. And we should get some wine. They have a very well stocked cellar.”

  He summoned the waiter and ordered an especially fine Burgundy. The man offered to pour but Felipe dismissed him.

  “Adolfo,” he began, pouring for his son. “There are things we need to discuss.”

  “Yes, Padre.”

  “The Italians?”

  “Pendejos! It was easy. No survivors.”

  “Good.”

  “Have they tried to contact you?”

  “No,” Felipe said. “And they won’t.”

  He looked at the boy. He was wide-eyed and avid, desperate for his approval. He wondered, sometimes, if that need was the reason for the way he was. Amongst other things, the men called him El Más Loco.

  The Craziest One.

  “You did well, Adolfo. I couldn’t have asked for more. But tonight?”

  He frowned. “Yes. I know.”

  “What happened?”

  “I’m as unhappy as you, Padre.”

  “That is doubtful.”

  “I’m still trying to find out.”

  “Were you there?”

  “No.”

  “She was just a girl. It is a simple thing, is it not?”

  “It should have been simple.”

  “And yet it wasn’t.”

  “She has been difficult to find. Her culo boyfriend was less careful. We have been following him, and he led us to her. There was a third person, a girl, they were meeting her there––another of her stories, no doubt. I put five men on the job. Good men. They have always been reliable. As you say, it should have been easy. They went into the restaurant but, as they were carrying out their orders, they were attacked.”

  “By whom?”

  Adolfo could not hide his awkwardness. “One of the cooks.”

  “A cook, Adolfo?”

  “At first. And then two policemen.”

  “This cook––who is he?”

  “I’m going to visit the proprietor. I’ll know more after I have spoken with him. Whoever this puto is, he isn’t just a cook. He threw a knife halfway across the room and hit Javier, and then he knew how to use an AK. I’m thinking he was a soldier.”

  “And the police?”

  “They will be easier to find. Don’t worry––they will all be punished.”

  “Make sure that they are. They work for us, Adolfo, not against us. Remind them. Make an example out of them.”

  “I will.”

  “It is important, Adolfo. I’m meeting the gringos tomorrow. They are cautious men. There must not be any doubt that we are in control. This kind of fuck up makes us look bad. If they think we cannot get rid of a journalist who has been writing about us, how will they trust us to control this plaza? Do you understand?”

  He look crestfallen. “Yes.”

  He steepled his fingers and looked over them at his son, his brows lowering, his Botoxed forehead crinkling a little into what passed for a frown. “This whole mess would have been unnecessary if it wasn’t for your”––he searched for the right word, each one more distasteful than the last––“problem. I will hear no more excuses about it: it has to stop. I’ve told you too many times already. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, Padre. It will––it has. No more.”

  “Very good. You have money, connections, power––you don’t need to take your women. They will come to you.” Felipe looked up; the waiter was at the edge of the room, shuffling nervously from foot to foot. Felipe smiled and beckoned him over. “Now then. Shall we order?”

  * * *

  17.

  LATER THAT NIGHT, smelling like grease and blood and cigarettes, Milton stepped out of the police station and stood with his back to the wall for a quiet smoke. There, away from the noise of the kitchen, the snarled abuse in the holding pens, the smell of gunpowder, away from the familiarity of boiling fat and plates that burned to the touch, the startling profanity of the kitchen, the weirdness and the drained-out sensation of being a short-order cook at the ragged end of a long, bad night, and then the sudden shock of violence and death, all of reality came crashing back in on him. Here was only the night, the dark, the fecund stink of uncollected trash and the distant highway roar, the ticking sound as the earth gave up the stored heat of the day, the wet pressure of breathing in the humid soup and the fat black cockroaches that crawled through the gutters. The night was warm and fuzzy from the refinery stacks on the other side of the border, from street dust and smoke. The low sky glowed orange. Milton knew that he had travelled far from London and what had happened there, far away from his job and the blood that still dripped from his hands. Suddenly, the thought of going back to the squalid dormitory room with the other men, of smoking cigarettes through the window, trying to read his paperbacks in the glow of his torch or watching Mexican football on Telemundo, too exhausted to sleep, was not what he wanted to do at all. Standing rigid, eyes aching, feet throbbing, blood humming in the hollows behind his ears to fill the sudden quiet, he stared up into the night and the stars, and decided. He pushed himself off the wall. He would get as much sleep as he could and then, first thing tomorrow, he would head for Hospital San Jose.

  That girl, whoever she was, was in trouble.

  And he was going to help.

  * * *

  DAY TWO

  “Just a Cook”

  * * *

  I shot a man in Reno

  Just to watch him die

  Johnny Cash, “Folsom Prison Blues”

  * * *

  18.

  “TAKE A SEAT, Miss Thackeray,” the man said.

  Anna Thackeray did as she was told. The office was impressive, well-appointed, spacious and furnished in the tastefully understated fashion that said that money had not constrained the choices that had been made. There was a wide picture window that offered a view of the Thames toiling sluggishly under a gunmetal gr
ey sky. The room was light and airy. Military prints on the walls. Silver trophies and two photographs in luxurious leather frames: one was of the man on the other side of the desk in his younger days, in full battle dress; the other was of a woman and three children. A central table held a bowl of flowers, and there were two comfortable club chairs on either side of an empty fireplace.

  The international HQ for Global Logistics was on the same side of the Thames as the more imposing building in Vauxhall where the important decisions were taken but that was as far as the similarities went; it was built in the sixties, with that decade’s preference for function over form, constructed from red brick and concrete, its anonymous five floors all rather squat and dowdy when compared to the Regency splendour of its neighbours or the statement buildings of government that had been constructed more recently. A grand terrace had been smashed down the middle by a three hundred pound Luftwaffe bomb and this unpromising building had eventually sprouted from the weed-strewn bombsite that had been left. The windows were obscured with Venetian blinds that had been allowed to fade in the sunlight; the staircase that ascended the spine of the building was whitewashed concrete and bare light bulbs; the lift––when it worked––was a dusty box with four walls of faux wooden panels and dusty mirror. And yet the drab obscurity of the building was perfect to cloak its real purpose. The government organisation that did its work here lived in the shadows, a collection of operatives that was secret to all but those with the highest security clearances.

  Anna had never even heard of it until yesterday and she prided herself in knowing everything.

  “You asked to see me, sir?”

  His codename was Control. Only a handful of people knew his real name, and even fewer his background. He was a plump, toad-like man, dressed with the immaculate good taste of the best class of public schoolboy. A well tailored suit, an inch of creamy white cuff, a regimental tie fastened with a brass pin. His hands were fleshy, his glistening nails bearing the unmistakeable signs of a recent manicure. Anna found that, above everything else, rather distasteful. He was oleaginous and slippery, undoubtedly brilliant but as far removed from trustworthiness as it was possible to be. That, of course, made him ideal for his position. Like the building from which he worked, he was perfect for his purpose. Control commanded Group Fifteen, otherwise known as the Section, Pegasus and the Department. He supervised two hundred civil servants, mostly seconded from MI5, MI6 and the Foreign Office, analysts and spooks that were simply the network that facilitated the work of the twelve men and women who carried out the jobs that Group Fifteen was allocated. When the government found itself with a particularly intractable problem, and every other route had failed––commercial, diplomatic, political––Group Fifteen would occasionally be put out into the field. And, for them, all solutions were in play.