Acceptable Sacrifice

by Deaver, Jeffery

  And, yes, much of this information had to do with books.

  Weaknesses …

  “Listen to this, Al. Last year he bought more than a million dollars’ worth of books.”

  “You mean pesos.”

  “I mean dollars. Hey, you turn the A.C. down?”

  Evans had noticed that the late afternoon heat was flowing into the apartment like a slow, oppressive tide.

  “Just little,” Díaz said. “Air conditioning, it’s not so healthy.”

  “Cold temperature doesn’t give you a cold,” Evans said pedantically.

  “I know that. I mean, the mold.”

  “What?”

  “Mold in the ducts. Dangerous. That is what I meant, unhealthy.”

  Oh. Evans conceded the point. He actually had been coughing a lot since he’d arrived. He got another Coke, wiped the neck and sipped. He spit Handi-wipe. He coughed. He turned the A.C. down a little more.

  “You get used to the heat.”

  “That’s not possible. In Mexico, do you have words for winter, spring and fall?”

  “Ha, funny.”

  They returned to the data-mined info. Not only was the credit card data available but insurance information about many of the books was often included. Some of the books were one of a kind, worth tens of thousands of dollars. They seemed to all be first editions.

  “And look,” Díaz said, looking over the documents. “He never sells them. He only buys.”

  It was true, Evans realized. There were no sales documents, no tax declarations of making money by selling capital items described as books. He kept everything he bought.

  He’d want them around him all the time. He’d covet them. He’d need them.

  Many people in the drug cartels were addicted to their own product; Cuchillo, it seemed, was not. Still, he had an addiction.

  But how to exploit it?

  Evans considered the list. Ideas were forming, as they always did. “Look at this, Al. Last week he ordered a book inscribed by Dickens, The Old Curiosity Shop. The price is sixty thousand. Yeah, dollars.”

  “For a book?” the Mexican agent asked, looking astonished.

  “And it’s used,” Evans pointed out. “It’s supposed to be coming in, in a day or two.” He thought for some moments. Finally he nodded. “Here’s an idea. I think it could work.… We’ll contact this man—” He found a name on the sheet of data-mined printouts. “Señor Davila. He seems to be Cuchillo’s main book dealer. What we’ll do is tell him we suspect him of money laundering.”

  “He probably is.”

  “And he’d pee his pants, thinking if we announce it, Cuchillo will … “Evans drew his index finger across his throat.

  “Do you do that in America?”

  “What?”

  “You know. That thing, your finger, your throat? I only saw that in bad movies. Laurel and Hardy.”

  Evans asked, “Who?”

  Alejo Díaz shrugged and seemed disappointed that he’d never heard of them.

  Evans continued, “So Davila will do whatever we want.”

  “Which will be to call Cuchillo and tell him his Dickens book arrived early. Oh, and the seller wants cash only.”

  “Good. I like that. So somebody will have to meet him in person—to collect the cash.”

  “And I’ll come to his house to deliver the book. His security man probably won’t want that but Cuchillo will insist to take delivery. Because he’s—”

  “Addicted.”

  The Mexican agent added, “I’ll have to meet him, not you. Your Spanish, it is terrible. Why did they send you here on assignment?”

  The reason for sending P.Z. Evans to a conflict zone was not because of his language skills. “I like the soft drinks.” He opened another Coke. Did the neck cleaning thing. He cleared his throat and tried not to cough.

  Díaz said, “We’ll need to get the book, though. That Dickens.” Nodding at the list.

  Evans said, “I’ll make some calls to my people in the States, see if they can track one down.”

  Díaz asked, “Okay, so it is that I’m inside. What do I do then? If I shoot him, they shoot me.”

  “Effective,” Evans pointed out.

  “But not the successful plans you’re known for, P.Z.”

  “True. No, what you’re going to do is plant a bomb.”

  “A bomb?” Díaz said uneasily. “I don’t like them so much.”

  Evans gestured to his computer, referring to the email he’d just received. “Instructions are nothing’s supposed to remain. Nothing to trace back to our bosses. Has to be a bomb. And one that produces a big honking fire.”

  Díaz added, “Always collateral damage.”

  The American agent shrugged. “Cuchillo doesn’t have a wife. He doesn’t have any children. Lives pretty much alone. Anybody around him is probably as guilty as he is.” Evans tapped a drone picture of the compound. “Anything and anyone inside?” A shrug. “They’re just acceptable sacrifices.”

  He liked his nickname.

  Alonso María Carillo was actually honored that people thought enough of him to give him a name that sounded like it was attached to some Mafioso out of a movie. Like Joey “The Knife” Vitelli.

  “Cuchillo”—like a blade, like a dagger: How he loved that! And it was ironic because he wasn’t a thug, wasn’t like Tony Soprano at all. He was solid physically and he was tough, yes, but in Mexico a businessman must be tough. Still, his voice was soft and, well, inquisitive sounding. Almost innocent. His manner unassuming. His temper even.

  He was in the office of his home not far from the upscale Hidalgo Plaza area of the city. Though the compound was surrounded by high walls, and sported a number of trees, from this spacious room he had a view of the city’s grandest mountain, Cerro de la Compana, if a thousand-foot jut of rock can be described thus.

  It was quitting time—he’d been working here since six that morning. No breaks. He put his work aside and went online to download some apps for his new iPhone, which he would synchronize to his iPad. He loved gadgets—both in his personal life and in business he always stayed current with the latest technology. (Since his companies had sales reps throughout Mexico and he needed to stay in constant touch with them he used the Cloud and thought it was the best invention of the last ten years.)

  Rising from his desk, declaring it the end of the day, he happened to regard himself in a mirror nearby. Not so bad for an old man.

  Cuchillo was about five nine and stocky and resembled Fernandez, Mexico’s greatest actor and director, in the businessman’s opinion. Though he was in scores of films, Fernandez was at his peak as Mapache in The Wild Bunch, one of the few truly honest films about Mexico.

  Looking over his face, thick black hair. Keen brown eyes. Cuchillo thought again, No, not so bad … The women still appreciated him. Sure, he paid some of them—one way or another—but he also had a connection with them. He could converse with them. He listened. He also made love for hours. Not a lot of 57-year-olds could do that.

  “You old devil,” he whispered.

  Then he gave a wry grin at his own vanity and left the office. He told his maid he’d be staying at home for dinner.

  And he walked into his most favorite place on earth, his library. The building was large: sixty feet by forty, and very cool, as well as carefully humidity controlled (which was ironic in Hermosillo, in the heart of the Sonoran desert, where there were two or three rainy days a year). Gauze curtains kept the sun from bleaching the jackets and leather bindings of the books.

  The ceilings were thirty feet off the ground and the entire space was open, lined with tall shelves on the ground floor and encircled with levels above, which one could reach by climbing an iron spiral staircase to narrow walkways. In the center were three parallel shelves ten feet high. In the front of the room was a library table, surrounded by comfortable chairs and an overstuffed armchair and a floor lamp with a warm yellow bulb. A small bar featured the best brandy and single-malt
scotches. Cuchillo enjoyed Cuban cigars. But never here.

  The building was home to 22,000 titles, nearly all of them first editions. Many, the only ones in existence.

  On a night like this, after a long day working by himself, Cuchillo would normally have gone out into the relatively cool evening and eaten at Sonora Steak and then gone to Ruby’s bar with his friends and—of course—his security. But the rumors of this impending attack were too real to ignore and he’d have to stay within the compound until more was learned about the threat.

  Ah, what a country we live in, he reflected. The most philanthropic businessman, and the most hardworking farmer, and the worst drug baron all are treated equally … treated to fear.

  Someday it will be different.

  But at least Cuchillo had no problem staying home tonight, in his beloved library. He called his housekeeper and had her prepare dinner, a simple linguine primavera, made with organic vegetables and herbs out of his own garden. A California cabernet, too, and ice water.

  He turned on a small high definition TV, the news. There were several stories about the ceremony in the D.F. on Friday, commemorating the latest war against the cartels. The event would include speeches by the country’s president and an American official from the DEA. More drug killings in Chihuahua. He shook his head.

  In a half hour the food arrived and he sat down at the table, removed his tie—he dressed for work, even when staying home—and stuffed a napkin into his collar. As he ate, his mind wandered to the Dickens that his book dealer, Señor Davila, would be delivering tomorrow. He was delighted that it had arrived early, but pleased, too, that he was getting it for a lower price than originally agreed. The seller whom Davila had found apparently needed cash and would reduce the price by five thousand if Cuchillo paid in U.S. dollars, which he immediately agreed to do. Davila had said he would reduce his percentage of the finder’s fee accordingly, but Cuchillo had insisted that he receive the full amount. Davila had always been good to him.

  There was a knock on the door and his security chief, José, entered.

  He could tell at once: bad news.

  “I heard from a contact in the Federales, sir. There is intelligence about this bus attack on Friday? The tourist bus? The reports are linking you to it.”

  “No!”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Dammit,” he muttered. Cuchillo had uttered only a few obscenities in his life; this was usually the worst his language got. “Me? This is absurd. This is completely wrong! They blame me for everything!”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  Cuchillo calmed and considered the problem. “Call the bus lines, call the security people, call whoever you have to. Do what you can to make sure passengers are safe in Sonora. You understand, I want to be certain that no one is hurt here. They will blame me if anything happens.”

  “I’ll do what I can, sir, but—”

  His boss said patiently, “I understand you can’t control the entire state. But use our resources to do whatever you can.”

  “Yessir, I will.”

  The man hurried off.

  Cuchillo finally shrugged off the anger, finished dinner and, sipping his wine, walked up and down the aisles enjoying the sight of his many titles.

  22,000 …

  He returned to his den and worked some more on the project that had obsessed him for the past few months: opening another auto parts fabrication plant outside of town. There was a huge U.S. automobile manufacturer here in Hermosillo and Cuchillo had made much of his fortune by supplying parts to the company. It would employ another 400 local workers. Though he benefitted from their foolishness, he couldn’t understand the Americans’ sending manufacturing away from their country. He would never do that. Business—no, all of life—was about loyalty.

  At ten p.m., he decided to retire early. He washed and walked into his large bedroom, thinking again of The Old Curiosity Shop he would receive tomorrow. This buoyed his spirits. He dressed in pajamas and glanced at his bedside table.

  What should he read now, he wondered, to lull him to sleep?

  He decided he would continue with War and Peace, a title that, he thought wryly, perfectly described a businessman’s life in Mexico.

  In the living room of the apartment with the complicated ownership, P.Z. Evans was hunched over his improvised workbench, carefully constructing the bomb.

  The care wasn’t necessary because he risked getting turned into red vapor, not yet, in any event; it was simply that the circuits and wiring were very small and he had big hands. In the old days he would have been soldering the connections. But now improvised explosive devices were plug and play. He was pressing the circuits into sheets of especially powerful plastic explosive, which he’d packed into the leather cover after slicing it open with a surgeon’s scalpel.

  It was eleven p.m. and the agents had not had a moment’s respite today. They’d spent the past twelve hours acquiring the key items to the project, like the surgeon’s instruments, electronics and a leather-bound edition of the play The Robbers by Friedrich Schiller, which their new partner—book dealer Señor Davila—had suggested because Cuchillo liked the German author.

  Through a jeweler’s loupe over his right eye, Evans examined his handiwork and made some small adjustments.

  Outside their door they could hear infectious norteño in a nearby square. An accordion was prominent. The windows were open because the evening air teased that it was heading toward the bearable, and the A.C. was off. Evans had convinced himself he had a moldinduced cough.

  Alejo Díaz sat nearby, not saying anything and seemingly uneasy. This was not because of the bomb, but because he’d apparently found the task of becoming an expert on book collecting and Charles Dickens daunting, to say the least.

  Still, Díaz would occasionally look up from Joseph Connolly’s Collecting Modern First Editions, his eyes on the bomb. Evans thought about diving to the floor, shouting, “Oh, shit! Five … four … three …” But while the Mexican agent had a sense of humor, that might be over the line.

  A half hour later he was gluing the leather into place. “Okay, that’s it. Done.”

  Díaz eyed his handicraft. “Is small.”

  “Bombs are, yes. That’s what makes them so nice.”

  “It will get the job done?”

  A brief laugh. “Oh, yeah.”

  “Nice,” Díaz repeated uneasily.

  Evans’s phone buzzed with an encrypted text. He read it.

  “Bait’s here.”

  A moment later there was a knock on the door and, even though the text he’d just received had included all the proper codes, both men drew their weapons.

  But the delivery man was just who he purported to be—a man attached to the Economic Development Council for the U.S. consulate in northern Mexico. Evans had worked with him before. With a nod the man handed Evans a small package and turned and left.

  Evans opened it and extracted the copy of Charles Dickens’s The Old Curiosity Shop. Six hours ago it had been sitting in a famed book dealer’s store on Warren Street in New York City. It had been bought with cash by the man who had just delivered it, and its journey to Sonora had been via chartered jet.

  Killing bad guys is not only dangerous, it’s expensive.

  The American wrapped the book back up.

  Díaz asked, “So, what are the next steps?”

  “Well, you—you just keep on reading.” A nod toward the book in his hands. “And when you’re through with that, you might want to brush up on the history of English literature in general. You never know what subject might come up.”

  Díaz rolled his eyes and shifted in his chair, stretching. “And while I’m stuck in school, what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going out and getting drunk.”

  “That is not so fair,” Díaz pointed out.

  “And it’s even less fair when I’m thinking I may get laid, too.”

  THURSDAY

  The latter part of h
is plans did not happen, though Evans had come close.

  But Carmella, the gorgeous young woman he met at a nearby bar, was a little too eager, which set off warning bells that she probably had designs to land a good-looking and apparently employed American husband.

  In any event, tequila had intervened big time and the dance of your-place-or-mine never occurred.

  It was now ten in the morning and, natch, hot as searing iron. No A.C., but Evans’s cough was gone.

  Díaz examined his partner. “You look awful. Hey, you know that many of Charles Dickens’ most popular novels were first published serially and that he wrote in a style influenced by gothic popular novels of the Victorian era, but with a whimsical touch?”

  “You’re fucked if you go in talking like that.”

  “I going to read one of his books. Is Dickens translated into Spanish?”

  “I think so. I don’t know.”

  Evans opened an attaché case he’d bought yesterday and had rigged with a false compartment. Into this narrow space he added the Schiller he’d doctored last night and sealed it. Then he added receipts, price guides, scraps of paper—everything that a book dealer would carry with him to a meeting with a collector. The Dickens, too, which was packed in bubble wrap. Evans then tested the communications app on the iPad that Díaz would have with him—it would appear to be in sleep mode, but a hypersensitive microphone would be picking up all the conversation between Cuchillo and Díaz. The system worked fine.

  “Okay.” Evans then checked his 9mm Beretta. He slipped it into his waistband. “Diversion’s ready, device is ready. Let’s do it.”

  They walked down to the parking lot. Evans went to a huge old Mercury—yes, a real Mercury, in sun-faded Mercury brown, with an untraceable registration. Díaz’s car was a midnight blue Lincoln registered to Davila Collectable Books, which Señor Davila had quickly, almost tearfully, agreed to let them borrow.

  According to the unwritten rules of times like these, the start of a mission, when either or both might be dead within the hour, they said nothing of luck, hope, or the pleasure of working together. Much less did they shake hands.