The Mongolian Conspiracy

by Bernal, Rafael

  “The nun who gave me the passport was Mexican and . . . and that’s how I’ve spent eight years in Mexico, in peace . . . I don’t think I’ve hurt anybody by it . . . Only Mr. Liu knows the truth.”

  “And now you’ve told me, Marta.”

  “Yes, yes, I have. Because I know you’re not a bad man. That’s why I decided to tell you the truth . . .”

  “Drink your tea, Marta. Or maybe you want something to eat?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “A roll or some toast . . .”

  “Well, okay, thanks.”

  García ordered the bread and another beer. The waitress kept giving him dirty, mocking looks. That bitch thinks I’m trying to pick Marta up, and she’s right on the money. And those two guys still sitting there. To hell with them! I’m spending the night with Marta and tomorrow we’ll see about that business in Outer Mongolia. Fucking Outer Mongolia!

  “As far as I understand it, Canton is in Communist China, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “You were born there?”

  “No. In Liuchow. It’s nearby.”

  “Also in Communist China?”

  “Yes.”

  Then they were quiet while Marta ate her bread. I’ve got to be tough, give her one scare after another and before I know it I’ll have her in bed and grateful to boot. And then I could take her to Immigration and do my duty by the law. Fucking law! If all Chinese gals are like this Marta, I say, bring ’em on. Those two are starting to get on my nerves.

  “I don’t think you killed all those people, Filiberto. You wouldn’t be so good to me if you had.”

  “Do you know the owners of this place, Marta?”

  “Mr. Wang? He buys a few Chinese things at Mr. Liu’s shop, but they aren’t friends. They don’t get together socially.”

  “Which one is Wang?”

  “The old man, sitting behind the register. What are you going to do with me, Filiberto?”

  “What about those other Chinamen behind the counter?”

  “I think they’re his sons. What are you going to do with me?”

  García turned to look at her. Marta’s face was turned up toward his, and there was deep anguish in her eyes. Now’s when I throw the law at her. Fucking law!

  “I’m not with the immigration police, Marta. I’ve got nothing to do with them. I’m not with the narcotics police, either, and I don’t mess with those fellows who smoke opium.

  “So . . . you didn’t suspect me?”

  “No. Wait here just a moment, Marta.”

  He picked up the damp handkerchief and put it in his pants pocket. He stood up and walked over to the register:

  “Got a phone?”

  “Yeah, it’s over there.”

  Mr. Wang was old, probably very old, but he looked nervous. He glanced quickly over at the two men who were sitting at the table next to the door.

  “Got change for a ten?”

  Mr. Wang silently gave him change. The restaurant had started emptying out and the waitresses were bringing him the checks and money. Mr. Wang made two mistakes in his calculations. García, not moving, stared hard at him — a smile on his lips and his eyes as hard as nails. Then he walked over to the telephone. One of the men at the table approached the register, as if to pay his bill. García started dialing the number when he saw Marta stand up and rush toward the door. “Fucking Marta!”

  He ran after her and caught up with her at the door. Everyone in the restaurant turned to look at them. The two men had left.

  “Where are you going, Marta?”

  The waitress came over with the check in her hand. García gave her a twenty-peso bill.

  “Keep the change.”

  He took Marta by the arm and they started walking down the street. Marta’s head hung down:

  “I thought you were calling the police.”

  “I am the police, and I don’t like it when girls run off before we’ve finished.”

  “Please, forgive me, Mr. García, and, please, forget what I told you. Now I realize you can’t break the law just to help me. But I don’t want to go back there. I’d rather die than go back there.”

  They took a few steps in silence.

  “What are you going to do with me? Are you going to arrest me?”

  “Let’s just keep walking, Marta. It’s a pleasant night. Don’t be afraid anymore.”

  Behind them, a black Pontiac started its engine and drove off slowly with its lights dimmed. These guys are definitely tailing me. They might be from Outer Mongolia all you want, but they’re total jackasses. I’ve been on this job for less than three hours, and they’ve already got me in their sights. Marta could be in on it. All her tears and me here comforting her, like her dear old daddy. Or maybe they aren’t such chumps and they want me to know they’re tailing me. But — why? And why Marta’s whole song and dance? All she had to do is say she wanted to be with me, she didn’t need to make up a sob story. Fucking Chinese! Maybe I’ll catch a bullet before I get to do it with Marta. And I’ve never done it with a Chinese gal.

  “Do you have the passport, Marta?”

  “Yes. Here.”

  She was carrying it in her handbag. An old Mexican passport. The Pontiac was still following them. Now they’re going to shoot me in the back, no sweat, just happened to be passing by, and boom. He died because he was a chump. Had to happen one day, the pitcher that goes to the well once too often gets broken. But they probably don’t want to take Marta out, too. Fucking Poles!

  “Where are we going, Filiberto?”

  “My place. We have to look at the passport and make a call.”

  Marta said nothing. She kept walking with her head bent. García took her by the arm. When he touched her, his hand trembled. Is it because I’m afraid of the Pontiac or because I’ve got the hots for her? I’ve never done it with a Chinese gal, and I’ve had my eye on for this one for a long time. But she should have acted offended when I said we were going to my place. Or maybe they told her to get me there. Just bring him where we can whack him easily. She is really fine. And those guys behind me. They’re giving me the shivers up and down my spine. If they do me in now, I won’t get to do it with Marta. And anyway, at times like this, I’ve never wanted to be the one who ends up dead.

  At the corner of Allende, a one-way street where the traffic went in the opposite direction, he turned and pushed Marta against the wall. The Pontiac seemed to hesitate, then sped up and passed them. Only one man was in the car. García stopped a taxi and gave him his address. Marta got in without a word. The story this Chinese gal told might be true, but I’ll have to take a good look at the passport, and at her, too. I’ve got a bottle of cognac at home. That always loosens them up. And come to think of it, these guys have no reason to be tailing me. Though maybe the Pole tipped them off — some international conspiracy. Now I’ve been promoted to the Department of International Intrigue. Holy shit! Next they’ll tell me to go whack some jerk in Constantinople, where they dance with their belly buttons swirling around. The dance of the seven veils. How do they whack people in Constantinople? As far as I’m concerned, a dead body is a dead body in any country. Like bitches. They’re all the same. But I’ve never done it with a Chinese gal, and I think tonight all that’s going to change, with or without Outer Mongolia. Fucking Chinese gal!

  He told the driver to stop a little before they reached his place. He got out, paid the amount on the meter, and looked up and down the street. It was empty.

  “Come on, Marta.”

  Marta got out of the car. She looked up at the houses and the sky. García took her to the door of the building, opened it, and they went in. The entryway was dark.

  “The bulb must’ve burnt out. This way, Marta.”

  He took her firmly by the arm. Truth is, I don’t like this light being out. I also don’t like what I saw from the street — one of my windows open, in the living room. Something’s definitely up.

  They climbed one flight of stairs
. They stopped in front of his door. Apartment four. Dark in there, too. He put the key in the lock and turned it slowly. He drew his gun with his left hand. As soon as he felt the bolt slide, he pushed hard against the door and fell into the room. The club hit his left shoulder and he dropped his gun. He fell to the ground on his side. The man with the club came at him. Marta was standing in the doorway, not moving, and the man didn’t see her. Or maybe they were in cahoots. The man raised his club and leaned over to hit him. García could just barely see him outlined against the dim light coming in through the window. As soon as he was within reach, García grabbed his leg and pulled. The man dropped his club and fell on top of him. Not bad, this guy, a contender, after all. The club rolled to the door and stopped. The man sat astride him and reached with open hands for his throat. He had already found it when García jammed his knife into his stomach. The man groaned but didn’t let go of his throat. At that moment, Marta hit him on the head with the club she’d picked up off the floor. García stabbed him again with the knife, and the man rolled off him, landing face down on the rug. García stood up, took the club from Marta, closed the door, and turned on the light. It was the Pole. García leaned over and touched him. He was dead. Marta stood motionless, her eyes wide open.

  “Is he . . . is he dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “I killed him . . .”

  García looked up at her. There was indescribable anguish in her eyes.

  “I killed him . . .”

  García kept watching her. Her lips were trembling. She looked like she was about to vomit.

  “I killed him . . .”

  “Do you know him? Look at him, look at his face, Marta.”

  “I can’t . . .”

  “Look at his face!”

  Marta took a few steps toward him and forced herself to look at the dead man.

  “It’s . . . it’s the man who was in the shop this evening . . . When you were there and . . . and you asked me who he was and if he came often . . .”

  García dropped the dead man’s head.

  “What’s his name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’d never seen him before?”

  “No.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes . . . and I killed him.”

  García stood up. Seems like she’s telling the truth. Fucking Pole! He nearly broke my shoulder. And now Marta thinks she killed him with the club. This’ll make things easy. I’ve got her now!

  “I killed him . . . It’s horrible, but . . . but he wanted to kill you, Filiberto.”

  García walked over to her.

  “No, Marta. I killed him, with my knife. You’ll see if you turn him over, it’s still in him . . . Anyway, thanks for the help.”

  Marta went over to the armchair and collapsed. The blood was starting to puddle onto the carpet. García didn’t take his eyes off the girl. Her eyes were glistening.

  “Thank you, Marta. I killed him because he attacked me.”

  “You’re covered in blood, Filiberto.”

  “It’s his.”

  He had a large blood stain on his jacket and down the front of his shirt. He sat down, next to Marta.

  “You see, Marta, they weren’t lying to you when they said I know how to kill. They weren’t lying to you . . .”

  “He tried to kill you. He hit you with that club and then he tried to strangle you. I saw everything, Filiberto, and I can tell . . . I can tell the police if you want. I saw it, he attacked you . . .”

  Marta’s words came out quickly, almost sputtering, like sobs.

  “That’s exactly what happened, Marta. But look at us — first time you go out with me, and we already have a dead body . . .”

  He stood up and went into the bedroom and returned with a sheet. He covered the body. Marta sat in her armchair, not moving.

  “Maybe you should go into the other room, Marta.”

  “It’s not the first time I’ve seen a dead body.”

  Marta’s voice was shaking. She’s making a big effort not to vomit. That’s always how it is the first few times. And once they start vomiting, there’s no stopping it, like they were drunk. Better not give her any cognac.

  Martha stood up. She left her shawl on the sofa.

  “What are you going to do with him, Filiberto? I saw everything and I know it’s not your fault. If you hadn’t killed him, he’d have killed you . . .”

  “He’s not the first person I’ve killed, Marta.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  García went up to her. He had to step over the body to get to her. Marta looked up and straight into his eyes. García stretched out his hands and grabbed her shoulders. His hands were trembling. Marta moved toward him, without taking her eyes off his face.

  “What are we going to do with him, Filiberto?”

  He was slowly bringing his face up to hers. Marta kept staring into his eyes. She is really really hot! And my hands are trembling like a schoolboy’s.

  He kissed her gently on the cheek.

  “Go into the other room, Marta. Or into the kitchen. Make yourself a cup of coffee. There’s a bottle of cognac on the

  counter . . .”

  “You want some? I can bring it to you, Filiberto. You could probably use some . . . Or if you want some coffee, I can make it . . .”

  “Yes, please.”

  Marta went into the kitchen. I’m even more of a chump than I thought. Who’d have guessed she’d get so affectionate with a dead body in the room? And here I am, acting like a goddamned gentleman.

  He picked up the gun, put on the safety, and placed it in his holster. Then he uncovered the body and started to search through the pockets. A few bills, all Mexican. A pencil, with its point protector. Two keys on a nondescript keychain. The suit from El Palacio de Hierro, Made in Mexico. The shirt, too. Gotta see his shoes, but it’s not easy taking shoes off a dead body, they grip onto them with their toes. Fucking stiffs! Pachuca Shoes. Common. Seems this Pole is Mexican after all. And the people who sent him — stupid sons of bitches. Or maybe they thought I’d be the one to end up dead. But if he’d wanted to kill me, he’d have brought a gun, and he didn’t even have a fucking knife. Looks like he’s from the North, a poor slob. Maybe he was just a thief, but that’s one coincidence too many.

  “Are you going to undress him?”

  Marta was standing at the kitchen door, a jar of Nescafé in her hand. García quickly covered the body with the sheet.

  “There’s only Nescafé, Filiberto.”

  “That’s fine, Marta. I just wanted to know who he was and what he was doing here.”

  “You take sugar?”

  “Yes, please, Marta.”

  Marta went back into the kitchen. García walked over to the telephone and dialed a number. It was answered almost instantaneously.

  “García here, Mr. del Valle.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t use my name.”

  “As you wish.”

  “Something important?”

  “I started investigating, and I think there’s something to that rumor.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was just getting started, very discreetly, and a man started tailing me, then he attacked me . . .”

  “Did he try to kill you?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “So . . . I don’t understand why he attacked you.”

  “Neither do I. But it’s strange and I wanted to let you know.”

  “You did well. This does seem to indicate that the rumor is true. Don’t you think?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What do you mean, maybe? The fact that you were attacked confirms it. Are you hurt?”

  “No.”

  “Have you started investigating the Chinese?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was your attacker Chinese?”

  “No. Seems like he was one of us.”

  “Okay. Keep me informed, García. I guess tomorrow you’ll meet th
e people we discussed.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good night.”

  They both hung up at the same time. Fucking Rosendo del Valle! And all his goddamned secrecy. And now I’ve got to get rid of this stiff. Fucking stiff! The one in Juárez was a proper corpse. This one is just a fucking stiff. And I’ve got to get that knife out of his ribs. Can’t go losing a knife on every stiff. Better not let Marta see this. Sometimes the dead hold onto their knives. They get greedy. And I’ve taken a shine to that knife. Knows its trade all on its own by now.

  He leaned over the corpse, turned it face up, and pulled:

  “You want me to wash the knife, Filiberto?”

  Marta was coming toward him with a cup of coffee in one hand and the bottle of cognac in the other.

  “You saw what I was doing, Marta?”

  “It had to be done.”

  “Yes, it did.”

  “I looked out the kitchen window, Filiberto, and that car that was following us, it’s parked in front. There’s a man inside, smoking.”

  “The same one?”

  “I think so.”

  García took the coffee and sat down on the sofa. He put the cup down on the coffee table.

  “A little cognac?”

  “You aren’t having any, Marta?”

  “My cup’s in the kitchen.”

  “Bring it here, Marta, and pour yourself a little cognac, it’ll do you good.”

  Marta went into the kitchen and returned with her cup. García poured her a little cognac. She’s going to sit down on the sofa next to me and then . . . but that stiff is in the goddamned way.

  Marta sat down in one of the armchairs. She looked up at García.

  “What are we going to do?”

  “You, nothing, Marta. You’re going to go into the other room.”

  Marta took a sip of her coffee. She’s fine alright, but she sat down pretty far away from me. Maybe if I tell her to come sit next to me she will. Then I put my arm around her, like I’m comforting her, with no bad intentions. Just like a father. Fucking fathers!

  “What are you thinking about, Filiberto?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You killed him in self-defense. There’s nothing the matter with that.”

  “No, nothing the matter.”

  “You are so brave, and now I know I wasn’t wrong. You are a good man and that’s why they like you . . .”