The Mongolian Conspiracy

by Bernal, Rafael

  “I figured why you came here, García, and I had your back.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You were right. We’ve scared these Chinamen, and that’s revealing.”

  “Right.”

  “Laski stayed at the table so the others wouldn’t become alarmed. They must think they’ve taken us prisoner or whatever they wanted to do. Now what?”

  “Now we go out and pretend nothing happened, then we leave. We delivered our message. I’ll tell the police to keep an eye on this place.”

  Standing in front of the dirty, broken mirror, he slicked down his hair that had gotten mussed and straightened out the handkerchief in the chest pocket of his jacket. The Chinaman on the floor began to show signs of life.

  “What do we do with this one, García?”

  “Leave him, Graves. He’s an underling, he doesn’t matter.”

  Satisfied with his grooming, he walked out, followed by Graves. They acted like they were simply leaving the bathroom. The Chinamen behind the counter were surprised to see them. Wang lifted his eyes and for a split second looked petrified. Laski was still at the table, pretending not to be aware of anything, but his hand was inside his jacket, on the butt of his gun. García walked straight to the register:

  “Our check.”

  Wang looked at García with panic in his eyes. He did some quick calculations on an abacus and said:

  “Seven pesos.”

  “Here. Give the other three to the fellow who cleans the bathroom so he’ll do a better job next time. It’s dirty in there.”

  Laski and Graves had joined him, Laski carrying his hat. García took it from him and put it on.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  They walked outside.

  “My car is across the street,” Graves said.

  They crossed the street and got into the car, a dark-colored Buick. All three sat in the front seat.

  “Let’s go to Guerrero Street,” García said. “You know where it is?”

  “Yeah. What’s there?”

  “We’re going to pay a visit to one of your compatriots, Graves. The widow of Roque Villegas Vargas. Maybe being a fellow American and all, she’ll tell you more.”

  He told them about Anabella.

  “Maybe you can get the truth out of her if you threaten to take away her American passport.”

  “Let’s go.”

  “But first I have to make a phone call.”

  “I have a radio in the car you can use . . .”

  “I prefer a public phone, no offense. Stop there, at the tobacconist.”

  “I’ll make sure we’re not being followed,” Laski said. “As you said, it’s ill advised to be the bait in a trap . . .”

  His eyes had become as sad as his voice. García got out of the car and asked for the telephone.

  “García here, Colonel.”

  “What do you want? You left less than an hour ago . . .”

  “I was with my friends at Café Canton.”

  “Good for you!”

  The colonel’s voice had that mocking tone of superiority it got sometimes.

  “We had an altercation . . .”

  “Were you drunk?”

  “No, Colonel. But they don’t want us there. And it seems there’s been a lot of movement at the warehouses in Nonoalco, where Wang has his merchandise. Maybe the dough is there . . .”

  “I’ll look into it.”

  The colonel hung up. Damn! I mention that dough and he doesn’t even have time to say goodbye. He’s probably already left like a bat out of hell. And me playing the chump. I should’ve left them with their international intrigue and gone after the dough. Fucking international intrigue! Five hundred thousand bucks. That’s a very tidy sum. And me stuck in Outer Mongolia. Fucking Outer Mongolia!

  He got in the car.

  “Nobody’s following us,” Laski said. “I think Graves told the truth for a change, and he doesn’t have men on our tail.”

  “I always tell the truth,” Graves said. “At least when it’s convenient. And such moments do turn up now and then.”

  “Not often,” the Russian said, “not often.”

  “Are they going to watch the warehouses?” Graves asked. “That’s important.”

  “Yeah. Let’s get going.”

  García knocked on the door of apartment number 9. Nobody answered.

  “The bird’s probably already flown,” Laski said.

  “Don’t think so,” García said. “She was too eager to collect the money and the car. Who wants to open the door?”

  “It’s a cinch,” Graves said, “but I would like to observe the method used by my Soviet colleague. Someone told me that for him there is no such thing as an impenetrable lock or safe.”

  Laski smiled, pleased, and leaned over the door handle.

  “Very common. But I think we are being remiss in our manners. We should leave this job to our friend, Filiberto, our host.”

  “Just do it, Ivan Mikhailovich . . .”

  “No, it would be rude. At international conferences, and this is an international conference, the representative of the host country always presides. It’s all yours, Filiberto.”

  García took hold of the handle and turned. The door opened.

  “They didn’t lock it,” Graves said.

  They entered and García turned on the light. The room was still a mess. Only one thing was different. The corpse of what had once been Anabella Ninziffer, of Wichita Falls, alias Anabella Crawford, was sprawled out on the sofa. Someone had strangled her with an electrical cord. Laski went up and felt her wrist.

  “Not long ago. Two hours at the most . . .”

  “Whoever killed her,” said García, “left the door open, because they planned to return.”

  “Why return?” Graves asked. “They killed her so she wouldn’t talk, that’s all.”

  “But they must have also thought it wouldn’t be a good idea to leave a corpse in plain sight, that it’d be better to hide it. Then the police would think she’d split.”

  He entered the bedroom. All of Anabella’s clothes had been thrown haphazardly into a suitcase on the bed.

  “Maybe she was thinking of running away,” Graves said.

  “She wouldn’t have packed her clothes like that,” said Laski, who stood in the doorway looking in. “Women, especially performers, take good care of their clothes.”

  “They must’ve planned to take it all away,” García said.

  They went back to the living room. Graves ran his eyes over everything.

  “What should we do? Shouldn’t we notify the police?”

  “Better to wait for her killers. Do you agree, Ivan Mikhailovich?” García asked.

  “We have to turn off the light and close the door, just as they left it.”

  García closed the door and turned off the light. Some light from the street and a flashing red neon sign entered the room through the open window. Every time it flashed on, the neon lit up Anabella’s open eyes. They sat at the dining table, near the window, where they could watch the street.

  “She’d look drunk if her eyes were closed,” Laski said. “I’ve never liked drunk women.”

  “She probably was drunk,” García said. “Maybe she didn’t even realize what was about to happen. Doesn’t seem like she put up much of a struggle.”

  “It’s not easy to strangle someone without a struggle,” Graves said.

  “An electrical cord is very effective. Don’t you think so, Filiberto?”

  García was going to say that he’d never used one, but then he remembered the one time he had. It was in Huasteca, and I was carrying out orders. Puny old devil who spent the whole day in his rocking chair on the porch of his house. The Boss gave the order. I came up behind him with the cord. They told me to make sure there was no fuss, so I waited till it was getting dark, around seven at night. When he stopped moving, I put him in a coffin we had brought, and we took the main road out of town. The best way to carry a body di
screetly is in a coffin. A laborer coming down the road with his oxen even doffed his hat when he saw it. Then, suddenly, as we turned a corner, the fucking old man started kicking. Like he wanted someone to notice. We had to lower the coffin, open it, and give him another squeeze with the same cord. Fucking rowdy old man! His name was Remigio Luna.

  Graves said:

  “Not everyone puts up a fight. In Vienna, four years ago, I found it necessary to liquidate an agent. I think he was a colleague of yours, Ivan Mikhailovich. I gave one strong pull. First I wrapped my hands in handkerchiefs to protect them. He didn’t budge. He just made a gurgling sound.”

  “That was Dimitrios Mikropopulos,” Laski said. “A very effective man, sometimes, but of unstable temperament and rather inclined to be disloyal, like all Levantines.”

  “That was him,” Graves said. “A double agent . . .”

  He got up and covered Anabella’s face with a newspaper that was lying on the floor. Now, the neon lit with reddish tones the photograph of Roque Villegas, already dead, printed on the front page of the newspaper.

  “A few years ago,” Laski suddenly said, “a Chinese colleague . . .”

  “When the Russians were their friends,” Graves clarified.

  “Yes. He always carried a thin silk cord in his bag. He claimed it was the most efficient method. Once I asked him why he didn’t use nylon, and he told me that nylon stretches a little under pressure and is not as effective as silk. I think his preference was simply Chinese reactionaryism.”

  “That was Sing Po!” Graves exclaimed. “I never did find out what happened to him. I met him once in Seoul, but then he disappeared . . .”

  “The silk cord, as it turned out, was not such a sure thing after all. He wanted to use it one too many times, when he shouldn’t have. I stabbed him in the stomach. That was in Constantinople . . .”

  “You don’t say . . .” Graves said.

  They sat in silence: men who knew how to wait.

  “I heard you always use a .45, García.”

  “I used to use a 32-20, but the bullets are narrow and not immediately effective. Once, a guy with three bullets in him almost stabbed me.”

  “I prefer German Lugers,” Laski said.

  “We mostly use revolvers,” Graves said. “They have only six shots, but they’re reliable. It’s rare you have a chance to use all of them, anyway. Usually one’s enough.”

  “Lugers, just like American pistols,” Laski said, “have to be kept very clean. But if they’re well cared for, they’re very effective. For a while, in Canada, I had to use an American .45, Graves, and I must confess, it served me very well.”

  “Thanks,” Graves said. “I once had the chance to use a Russian submachine gun, and I can assure you, that is a terrific weapon.”

  They sat in silence again. Anabella Ninziffer was showing too much leg. Fucking gringa! Seems we’re holding a wake. And what, exactly, did the dead woman die of? Well, she caught a fever. Oh, yeah, a fever my ass! Your dead woman barely had a sniffle, but she died anyway. With a light cord wrapped around her neck. And with bare legs. These gringas are indecent even when they’re dead. And we were going to have a party. A wake, for this old bitch! Half a million dollars just to kill this bag of rags. These Chinamen are real morons.

  “García, my friend,” Graves said, “do you think there’s any rum left?”

  “Maybe, in the kitchen.”

  “Hopefully there’s milk in the refrigerator,” Laski said. “Americans always have milk. They are big milk drinkers.”

  García stood up. No matter what, since we’re in Mexico, it seems I have to play the host. Fucking host. Please, welcome to my humble abode, make yourself at home with the fucking stiff.

  He found a bottle of rum on the counter in the kitchen, and several bottles of beer in the refrigerator, but no milk. He brought the rum and two beers into the dining room.

  “No milk.”

  “That’s the problem with civilizing these Americans,” Laski said. “Before, they always had milk in their homes, but then, during the two wars, they learned about drinking, and now they don’t drink milk anymore. We have lost a lot by civilizing them. Hand me a beer, Filiberto.”

  Graves picked up the bottle of rum and took a slug, while García and Laski enjoyed their beers. They continued to wait. That was their job, to wait, so that when the time came, they could kill with a sure hand. Anabella Ninziffer’s legs shone white in the darkness. García got up and covered them with another piece of newspaper. Fucking gringa! And Graves drinks and drinks and never gets drunk. I bet he’s never been drunk in his life. And he’s good at karate. I should have learned that as a kid, but there were other things to learn, like how to stay alive.

  They continued to wait.

  “Mexican rum is very good,” Graves said suddenly.

  “Thanks,” García said. “Do you want another beer, Ivan Mikhailovich?”

  “Yes, please. And, please forgive me for not going myself, but I prefer not to turn my back on either of you in the dark.”

  García went to get two more beers. Fucking suspicious Russian! What are these two thinking about? Their own faithful departed? They don’t have a conscience. Gringo and Russian. Not a conscience between them. At least the gringo covered up the dead woman’s eyes. Maybe she reminds him of someone he shacked up with. Fucking gringo! All that shit about Vienna and Constantinople! They must see what a chump I am.

  “Here’s your beer, Ivan Mikhailovich.”

  “Thanks, Filiberto. It’s going to be very bad for me . . .”

  García sat down. His hand felt for his .45 that he’d left on the seat next to him. Got to stay alert in the dark. Especially with these two.

  “Not that we don’t trust you, Filiberto, but I don’t like you having your hand on your gun.”

  “The darkness,” Graves said, “breeds bad thoughts.”

  They continued to wait. Nobody has said, like at wakes, how good and kind the dead woman was. For all I know they’ll say that at my wake. Marta says so. And she’s lying in my bed and I’m here pretending to be a big shot in international intrigue. Along with these two guys who know more tricks than an old fox. And what’s this crap about darkness breeding bad thoughts? Do either of them ever have any good thoughts? Touch your forehead first, so God will free you from bad thoughts. That’s what I was taught to say in Yurécuaro. These fellows should touch their foreheads first. But as far as I can tell, they don’t even cross themselves. And those who don’t know God will kneel before any old sonofabitch, let alone the devil. Forehead first, also with the bullet, so they don’t budge. Like that guy in Tabasco. He jumped around like a decapitated lizard. Forehead first, like a true Christian. It’d be good to pray for the dead woman, but I don’t remember any of the prayers they say at wakes. It’s strange that I never go to wakes. Maybe it’s because it takes one person to make the dead and another to pray for them.

  Laski suddenly spoke, quietly, as someone does in the presence of a corpse.

  “Might seem strange, but sometimes I do think about death.”

  Graves laughed.

  “It’s just that one day it’ll be our turn,” Laski continued. “We get used to seeing it come to others, but we must remember that one day it will come to us.”

  “He who lives by the sword, dies by the sword,” Graves said. “That’s in the Bible.”

  “Yes,” said Laski. “We also study the Bible in Russia. It is an interesting book. And our great writers have dealt often with the problem of death.”

  “And your great leaders have employed it,” said Graves.

  “One cannot govern without killing, Graves, my friend. All governments have learned this by now. That’s why we exist.”

  “To conduct investigations,” Graves said, curtly.

  “And to kill when the time comes to kill,” Laski insisted again, his voice low. “Yes, to kill. But I wasn’t thinking about that. I was thinking about the death that will come to each one of us. We k
ill, but we don’t know what it is to die. As if we said, we are death’s doormen, but we always remain outside.”

  “You Russians, you’d rather be dead than feel left out.”

  “Welcome to your death, we tell people. But we remain outside, until the day comes for us to enter. As if we were in the dentist’s waiting room. And deep down, we feel certain that our turn will never come, even though we know it will.”

  “Are you afraid to die?” Graves asked, curious.

  “Only those who know nothing of death are not afraid. We know too much.”

  They continued to wait. These guys are turning philosophical on me. Every dog has his day. And there’s a bullet out there with each of our names on it. Or an electric cord, like this fucking gringa. Or maybe even pneumonia. He died in his bed, with last rites and a blessing from the pope. Damn! I’ve never thought of that. The colonel will die in his bed, same with Rosendo del Valle. There are categories of deaths, and there are men who are in the category of dying in their bed, with last rites. Straight to heaven. And when you get there, you turn into an angel. For all I know, this gringa already has her wings and her halo. Though she didn’t die in bed. And she of all people should have died in bed because when she was alive, that’s what she used most. But she had the bum luck to get involved in this international intrigue. And there’s Marta in my bed. So lovely, and all alone in my bed. And this gringa who wanted to leave her slutty life behind and enter the life of international intrigue. And they did her in with an electrical cord, and she couldn’t even make it back to bed, which is all she ever knew. And by the time she realized it, she was having a wake instead of a party. Fucking gringa!

  They continued to wait.

  At about four in the morning a car stopped in front of the building. The three men stood up. Graves cautiously looked out the window.

  “Two men are getting out,” he said. “There’s a third in the car . . .”