by Tom Riggs
“Of course, I was in Chiapas then. But anyway, the GAFE are the pride of the Mexican Army. Man for man, we say they are as good as anything the Americans can throw at us. The Mexican SAS. As good even as your old unit.”
Munro smiled “I doubt that Eduardo.”
Eduardo laughed. “Still proud after two years out, I like that Jack, I really do.” His smile dropped and he continued. “I wish I could say the same thing about my old unit.”
“The cartels got to them?”
Eduardo smiled and put down his knife and fork, his steak was finished anyway. “They are the cartel now.”
Munro looked at him in slight confusion.
“A few years ago,” continued Eduardo, “the Gulf Cartel hired my old commanding officer in GAFE, a guy called Herbito Lazcano, as an enforcer. Sicario in Spanish. If you think about it, you can’t get a better hit man than one who has been trained to kill by the army. Lazcano took to his new job and recruited a bunch of his GAFE men. They called themselves Los Zetas and became the military wing of the Gulf Cartel. They set up training camps exactly like the ones they used in the service. They bought the same weapons as we use – MP5s, M16s – and even started wearing body armour. There are now over 300 of them. To look at, you couldn’t tell them apart from the real Special Forces soldiers. We came up against them last month in Nuevo Laredo and they fought us back with grenade launchers and .50 cal machine guns.”
“Pretty punchy for drug dealers.”
“That’s not the worst of it. When the head of the Gulf Cartel was arrested last year, Lazcano stood up and took over his employer’s organisation. My old commanding officer is now the head of the biggest drug cartel in Mexico. It’s a joke. Now the other cartels are copying them. The Sonora cartel, based on the Pacific coast, also recruited a bunch of ex-GAFE men as enforcers. These ones call themselves Los Negros, because of the black combat uniforms they like to strut around in…” he paused as they both thought through what Eduardo had just said. “It’s a war out there Jack, and at the moment it’s hard to say who’s winning.”
Munro had finished too and they both ordered coffee. Double espressos.
“But anyway my old friend”, said Eduardo, “enough of my life. You are now a free man, no more six am plates of sausages and baked beans for you. A private operative. I’m quite jealous.”
“Civilian life? It’s not all it’s cracked up to be unfortunately,” replied Munro. “I spend most of my life talking to lawyers and looking through databases.”
Eduardo made a face at the mention of lawyers before speaking.
“So what brings you to Mexico? Business or pleasure? We still have some beautiful beaches if it’s pleasure. Great waves too. Are you still surfing?”
“When I can. But I am actually here on business Eduardo, I am looking for someone.”
Eduardo raised his eyebrows, “A girl?”
“As it happens yes, but it’s not like that.”
“Of course not,” said Eduardo in mock seriousness.
Munro went on to explain the circumstances of Richard Lipakos’ murder, the police cover up, Anna Neuberg being a witness, the distraught mother.
“I know one murder sounds pretty trivial when you are in the middle of a war.”
“Not at all,” said Eduardo flicking his hand dismissively. “An innocent man is murdered, you must find the killers.”
“I thought you’d understand. Can you find out where her grandparents are?”
“You have their names?”
Munro handed a piece of paper to Eduardo and said “I think they might be somewhere near Puerto Vallarta.”
Eduardo clicked his fingers and one of the guards turned. They had a quick conversation in Spanish and Eduardo handed him the paper. “If they are checked in anywhere, we will find them.”
“Thank you Ed, this is good of you.”
“De nada, Jack. For you old friend, anything.”
“How is Maria-Helena? The children are well?”
“They are all in the US, in the protective custody of the FBI.”
Munro froze mid sip of espresso.
“What?”
“I have just been put in charge of counter-narcotics work for the Yucatan - the Caribbean coast. The local police weren’t up to the job. The Yucatan is one of the main entry points for Colombian cocaine, so Los Zetas have put a two million dollar price tag on my head.”
“Two million?”
“I know, it’s an honour in a way. But it means that I’m not really very safe anymore. Even with army bodyguards. The army general staff said my family would be safer in the US. I am afraid they’re right.”
“Are you safe?”
“I live in military bases and the army, apart from Los Zetas, still has some good men. But two million dollars is a lot of money.”
“I am sorry Eduardo. I thought you would be living in a big house in the suburbs with a nice job on the general staff.”
“So did I, Jack, so did I. My plan after Sandhurst was to do a few years active service. Maybe fight the Zapatistas in Chiapas for a bit, maybe a bit of UN work. After that take a staff job and perhaps move into a junior government ministry. Now I am a policeman with two million dollars on his head with a wife and family I get to see once every three months.”
“Such is life,” said Munro.
“Such is life.”
And with that the two old friends stood up and hugged their goodbyes. One left as he had arrived, in a cavalcade of sirens, guns and bodyguards. The other left alone. He walked out into the bright afternoon sun, put on his sunglasses and headed north.
14
Munro had little to do for the rest of the afternoon, so he went back to his hotel. The walk from Boludo’s to the Hilton Guadalajara was not a short one, but it gave him a good taste of the city. The streets were busy, even mid-afternoon. The traffic was gridlocked. Large American SUVs jostled with identikit Japanese saloons and beaten up old VW Beatle taxis, all desperately trying to move on a few metres. London had its black cabs, New York had its yellow city cars. And Mexico City had its Beetles. Painted green with white roofs, they were all two-doored, meaning that a quick entry and exit was impossible. Most were also unlicensed and no local with any sense would go near them. The unlucky tourists who did often ended up outside an ATM on the dangerous East side of the city.
Walking along the pavement, Munro thought again what an odd city Mexico City was. On one block you could walk past a parade of open-air cafes and restaurants set into an elegant 19th century façade that would not look out of place in Paris or Vienna. The next block along and the elegant 19th century façade would be replaced by a run down deserted concrete tenement block. Broken glass, graffiti, the kind of building you would cross the street at night to avoid. The next block might return back to open air cafes, or could be a huge colonial church, almost grotesque in its size compared to the surrounding low rises. Still another block might hold a steel and glass office block, thirty storeys high, seemingly placed there at random nowhere near any other office blocks.
The hotel was a Hilton and was not especially pretty to look at. It was built in an arc, thirty stories high, around a large swimming pool. It might have been chic for a brief period in the early seventies. The interior was dark, with lots of brown and gold and thick carpeting. The clientele matched the hotel. They too would probably have looked good in the seventies, but were now beginning to show their age a little. Leathery suntans and a lot of gold jewellery. More brown and gold. Most of them seemed to be rich South Americans, visiting Mexico to do some shopping. But the hotel was central and had high-speed internet access, which was all that really mattered.
Munro set himself up in his room. Balcony door open, armchair half on the balcony, half in his room. To his left he had his laptop and Blackberry, ready on a small side table. To his right he had a good view of the swimming pool seven floors below.
It was past seven in London, which meant that Rudd had had a whole day to put together
some information on Richard Lipakos. More than enough time.
Six months previously Rudd had insisted that they install encrypted and expensive video call software at the office. It meant that as long as both he and Rudd had an internet connection and a computer, they could see and talk to each other at the same time. As if they were in the same room. Munro was pretty sure that Skype and Zoom did the same thing for free but he had deferred to Rudd’s technological superiority. He pressed a few buttons and Rudd’s face came up on the screen. Munro leaned back into the armchair and took a sip of his freshly squeezed orange juice. Rudd looked tired. His eyes were bloodshot and his hair looked slightly dishevelled. Munro could see the office window behind him. It was dark and raining in London.
“Afternoon old boy,” said Munro, raising his orange juice in salute.
“Fuck off, Jack.”
“What’s wrong? Hard day at the office?”
“You could say that. I’ve been working on the Stanfield file all day. Not swanning around Latin America like you.”
“I’ve been busy too. Should have a location for the Neuberg grandparents soon. What’ve you got for me?”
“Check your emails. I’ve sent you the file.”
“I will. Can you give me a summary?”
“Not a great deal to report. He is – was – a pretty straightforward son of a billionaire. Went to leading public schools. Was generally liked, although quite quiet and not really a games player.”
“The bookish type?”
“That’s right, although not academically brilliant. Even so, managed to get into UCL in London, studied Geography, etc etc.”
“Any enemies?”
“Not really. Everyone seemed to quite like him. One ex-girlfriend to speak of. Not really on the London social scene, unlike his older brothers, who were in the gossip columns for a few years.”
“For what?”
“Usual rich boy stuff, dating C-list actresses, one of them was thrown out of a club for drunkenness. They’ve both calmed down now, are married and working for their father in Piraeus.”
“But Richard?”
“He was apparently very into the environment. He did that trip to Antarctica with his father two years ago, just after he left UCL. Since then, to the extent that he has been working, he’s been working for environmental groups.”
“Controversial ones?”
“Not at all, all very dull stuff I am afraid. Constantine Lipakos is also very committed to the environment. It seemed to be a bond between father and son.”
“So they got on?”
“Very well it seems, the newspapers always talk about him being old man Lipakos’ favourite. He was out in Brazil partly to help out on his father’s environmental reserve there. You remember Mrs Stanfield told us he bought a chunk of the Amazon? Well it’s about the size of Greater London.”
“That is a big chunk.”
“It’s huge, half a million acres. He did it under the auspices of his charitable foundation. The plan is to protect it from the loggers and the miners and create a private bio-reserve. Lipakos is also quoted as saying that he thinks it will pay for itself when the carbon trading restrictions fully kick in.”
“And that’s where Richard was working.”
“Not exactly. He had just spent six months working for a save the rainforest NGO in Manaus, on the Amazon. People think he might have been helping on the bio-reserve too.”
“What else?”
“There’s not a great deal more, he was a pretty average twenty six year old, albeit a very rich one. The rest is in the report.”
Munro leaned back in his chair and finished his orange juice. Video calling Rudd had been a mistake. He was clearly in a bad mood and it was not being made better by having to talk to Munro on a sunny balcony.
“Have you got somewhere you would rather be Rudd?”
“It’s eight o’clock Jack. Mrs Rudd is cooking dinner for her parents at home. It’s not a case of rather, more must. So if that’s all, I better go.”
“Of course, enjoy. But one more thing … where are you with Hudson?”
“Your SIS pal? I am waiting to hear back from a contact at SIS; they’re pretty busy.”
“Fine, let me know when you can, not urgent.”
And with that the screen went blank. Munro then checked his emails. Rudd had been busy. He had school records, university records and even some trust registration details. Richard had been the named beneficiary of two trusts, both based in Jersey. Both Lipakos family trusts from the look of it. How Rudd had gotten such confidential information so quickly, Munro was not quite sure. But he did seem to know a lot of company records keepers in a lot of offshore jurisdictions, all of whom got a hamper from Fortnum and Mason every year.
Lipakos owned a flat in Earls Court, west London. Rich, yes, but by no means super rich. Perhaps the trusts did not really kick in until he was older. No mortgage on the flat, so the boy had at least half a million in assets, Munro guessed from his hazy knowledge of the London property market. The trusts were an unknown quantity, but they had to have at least a million in them. No point setting up a trust in Jersey with less than that. So the boy had at least two and a half million. Not bad for a twenty six year old a few years out of university. Not bad at all.
Other than that, Rudd was right. The boy was pretty average. A few friends, no enemies, average grades. A rich young man interested in the environment. With no real need to get a job, you had to find something to fill your time. The environment was a good one - it showed you cared. Some girls liked that. It also enabled you to go to exciting places like Antarctica and Brazil. That made you seem interesting. Munro got up from his armchair to get a better look at the pool. Perhaps he was being overly cynical. Perhaps young Lipakos’ interest in the environment was for real. Whatever the case, he didn’t deserve to die like that. No one did. He thought again of Sarah Stanfield. Of the photo she gave him, the 12-year-old laughing into the sun.
He looked at the pool, casting unwanted thoughts away. Concentrate on the here and now. The sun had sunk slightly in the sky, casting half of it into shadow. But the other half had turned a soft gold. It was late afternoon, his favourite time of day in the tropics, and he decided to go for a swim. It certainly beat an office in London.
Two thousand miles away, in a thirteenth-floor office suite in Caracas, Adrian Hudson was wishing he was by a swimming pool. He was sitting at his desk, with his feet up, staring out of the window. Staring out of his window at Caracas. Staring out of his window and wishing he was anywhere but the ugly hot sprawl that was Caracas.
Pancho and Cesar were sitting out on the other two chairs in the poky office, looking at a hardcore porn website. Pancho’s right arm was in a sling from his run in with Munro. Both of them were smoking, which Hudson hated. Especially when the air conditioning did not work properly. But they rarely listened to him when it came to matters of order in the office. They brought in their disgusting smelling tacos, smoked, and accessed porn websites – all things he had asked them specifically not to do. But they ignored him and did it anyway. The sounds of several people grunting and shrieking at each other in Spanish came from Pancho’s laptop. Hudson went into the small kitchenette to get some peace and quiet. The stark white room had a small window looking out onto a four by ten roof surrounded by seven storeys of building on all four sides. There were a number of air conditioning units on the gravel-topped roof and Hudson noticed that the unit attached to his office was by far the oldest. He was just putting the kettle on when the intercom went. He ignored it. Let the grease balls answer the door. The thugs had to be good for something.
A couple of minutes later Pancho popped his head into the kitchen.
“Boss, Hector is here.”
“Here?”
“Si, he is on his way up.”
Hudson turned off the electric kettle and went back into the office suite. Pancho and Cesar had turned off their computer and were clearing the desk. They had put their
cigarettes out. They were nervous and so was Hudson, although he hated to admit it. Everyone was nervous around Hector. He had that effect on people.
The door opened and Hector walked in without acknowledging any of them. Pancho and Cesar instinctively stood up. They were Hector’s men. Grease balls stick together, thought Hudson. Hector continued to ignore them all and looked out of the window. Taking in the smog and the sprawl. Hudson looked at him. Like many Mexicans with a lot of Indian blood, he was not a tall man, no more than five foot six. But what he lacked in height, he made up for in strength. He was at least 13 stone, all of which was bone and muscle. His face was strangely elongated. Deeply sunken cheeks, low jutting out chin. It was as if he had once been made of rubber and someone had grabbed his chin and pulled hard, down and out. His hollow cheeks were deeply pitted and pock marked with old acne scars. Like someone had repeatedly gouged him with a potato peeler. The only part of his face not acne-scared was his right jaw line. A large gash ran down to his neck, across his Adam’s apple, stopping just above his collar line. It had healed badly and stayed red and raw. It looked painful just to touch. But when he turned around Hudson realised that it was not his strength or his scars that made him terrifying. It was his eyes. Hudson could not hold his look for long. Dark and small, Hector’s eyes were generally dead. But occasionally they burned with a sordid menace. They were the eyes of a killer. The eyes of a man who would kill for pleasure and take his time doing it.
He stared out of the window some more and then turned.
“Where is the gringo?” he asked looking straight at Hudson. Hudson had stayed seated. Show no fear. Hector could do nothing to him.
“He’s left the country. I told him to go and he left,” replied Hudson.
Hector continued to stare at Hudson, “Where is he?” he asked again.
“He flew to Mexico last night.”
“Do you know why?” said Hector, continuing to stare intently at Hudson.
Hudson stood up. Assert your authority. He hoped Hector would not notice the slight tremble in his left hand. “I don’t know Hector, and I don’t care. I was told to get him out of Venezuela and I did.”
