Montanegro’s pupils contracted to pinpoints, and his hands started shaking with fury.
“You’re a dead man, you little fuck. Dead.”
“Don Felix. I took this step because I understood that you might be less than understanding if I refused your offer, which I had heard through the grapevine would be forthcoming. I mean no disrespect. I simply had to ensure I had something to negotiate with.” El Rey leaned in even closer. “I was approached three days ago by one of your enemies, who offered me a half million dollars to kill you. I told him I’d consider it. I haven’t responded yet. My point is that if we reach an accommodation, and I continue to work on your behalf, I’ll decline these sorts of requests. Truthfully, I could have cut your throat last night and pocketed the half million after the fact, but I didn’t. Instead, I came here, listened with respect to your proposal, politely declined, and then things started down an unfortunate road.”
Montanegro said nothing. Merely glared at him. But the young man could see that he was now calculating instead of reacting. That was good.
“I like my work,” El Rey continued. “I enjoy it. I also enjoy clients who pay on time, and who do as they promise. You’re an honorable man and have always paid as agreed, so I enjoy working for you. I don’t want to see anything happen to you.” The young man sighed. “Here’s my counter-proposal. We agree I won’t kill you. I give your men the antidote when they’ve dropped me in a location of my choosing once we’re under way. It will be enough antidote for you, your companion, and whoever else drank your coffee this morning. There will be no ill effects, provided you take it within the next…” the young man checked his watch, “…hour or so. And as a further incentive for you to take a more positive approach, I’ll also terminate your enemy, one of the cartel bosses you’ve been at war with for the last six months, within forty-eight hours, for a contract price of one million dollars; satisfaction guaranteed. The reason the price is a million is because I will be foregoing the half million for your contract, so I’ll expect you to subsidize that.” The young man sat back, eying Montanegro impassively.
Montanegro seemed to fight an internal battle, a struggle in his mind.
“You’re insane.”
The young man’s face took on a smile that chilled Montanegro’s blood – the blood of a man who had killed dozens himself and ordered the execution of hundreds.
“That may well be. But the question is, do you want me on your side, or working against you? If against, you have nothing to do but wait, and you’ll see the result of that choice by two o’clock today, maybe two-thirty. The effects are quite painful, and at that point, irreversible. The Iranian who sold it to me said prisoners they tested it on tore off their own skin in an attempt to reduce the…discomfort.” He fixed the Don with a penetrating stare. “I don’t care whether I see tomorrow or not. The real question is whether you do. From that understanding will flow the correct answer.”
Montanegro now saw him in a new light. The young man imagined that was the way he would regard a cobra poised to strike, coiled on the table. Gone were the anger and the hubris. He already knew what the answer would be – Don Felix was certainly a man who wanted to live.
Montanegro slammed the table with his palm again and threw back his head and laughed; a laugh hollow with nervous relief.
“Fuck you. You really are good, you know that? I’ve sat across from many, and you take the cake. All right then. It’s a deal. One million, he’s dead within forty eight hours. I get the antidote within the hour. Who am I paying to exterminate, as a matter of interest?”
“Antonio Palomino. The head of the Chiapas cartel. I know where he’s staying. Not in Tijuana, by the way, but that’s not your concern. I want half the money now, and half when I close out the contract.” He glanced at his watch again. “I’d be inclined not to waste too much time right now.”
Montanegro rose, and shook the young man’s hand.
“It will take a few minutes to count it.”
Thirty minutes later, the Escalade dropped the young man off in a seedy neighborhood near the infamous wall that divided Mexico from the U.S.. He instructed the driver to cruise around the block, and that he’d meet him on the corner, in front of the small market, in ten minutes. The heavy SUV roared off down the dirt street, and once it was out of sight the young man ducked into one of the squalid little cinderblock houses, emerging a few minutes later with an empty aspirin bottle half-filled with clear fluid. He hefted the shoulder strap of the duffle bag with the cash and ambled to the market, stopping to buy a bottle of water with the few loose pesos jingling in his pants. The Escalade pulled up two minutes later, and he approached it, motioning for the driver to roll down the window.
The blackened inch-thick glass slid down.
“Wait until you see me walk round that corner. When I know I’m safe, I’ll call this phone and tell you where the antidote is. Be careful with it. Don’t drop it. That’s all there is. Tell Don Felix to shake it well, until the white powder in the bottom is completely dissolved, and then to take one tablespoon orally, and to have anyone else who’s affected take one as well. As long as they do so in the next forty minutes they’ll be fine. There are only enough doses to treat eight people, so don’t waste it. Do you understand?” the young man asked.
The driver nodded and took the proffered cell phone from El Rey’s outstretched hand.
Satisfied the men weren’t going to shoot him, he strode across the street, and then down a block; glancing back over his shoulder before turning the corner and disappearing from view. The men sat restlessly. A few minutes later the phone chirped.
“Go into the market. I left the antidote with the woman at the counter. Oh, and you owe her five hundred pesos for holding it. Let Don Felix know I’ll be in contact within forty-seven hours to confirm my successful closure of our contract, and to arrange payment for the second half. Again, be careful with the bottle of antidote, and no more than one tablespoon per person. Any questions?”
“No. I understand.”
The young man terminated the call and pulled his truck down the dirt road, snaking his way to the highway that would take him south, down the coast. He wondered if the cartel boss would figure out that the antidote was water with a little Viagra dissolved in it. Probably not. In the end it wouldn’t matter. Montanegro would be pleased his rival was executed, El Rey would have established his new price as a cool million, and he would only have to do one hit a year to live like a king. He suspected he’d actually have to raise his price again in a few years just to keep up appearances.
One thing that was for sure was that Montanegro would use him for any other high-importance executions he needed carried out, regardless of price. Money was nothing to the man. But having the absolute best in his pocket, deferring to him, with the tacit agreement he wouldn’t turn on him and fulfill a sanction against him? That was priceless.
As had been the look on Montanegro’s face when El Rey had concocted the story on the spot, about the mythical toxin.
He hummed as he pulled onto the toll road, headed for Ensenada.
Chapter 12
Present Day, Mexico City Airport
Cruz stared at the little man, trying to decide whether he believed him or not. He rose and began pacing the room, as was his habit when he was thinking. Briones looked like someone had stolen his wallet.
“How do you know any of this, and more importantly, how can it help us find El Rey?” Briones sputtered.
Moreno smiled, revealing a near absence of teeth. “I was the gardener that day. I was the one trimming the ivy. I worked at Montanegro’s compound for four years, until he was executed by the Sinaloa cartel. You probably remember that. It was a bloody assault even by Tijuana standards. Don Felix was always generous with me, but over the years I fell on hard times, and, well, you know the rest,” Moreno said.
Cruz finally stopped walking and returned to his seat. He fixed the prisoner with a harsh stare and fired a question at him.
>
“How do you know about the Viagra?” Cruz asked.
“I overheard it. Seems he sent the ‘antidote’ to San Diego for testing. He about blew a gasket laughing when telling his brother a few days later. I don’t think I ever saw him so amused. He had tears rolling down his face. I think that impressed him more than when he read about the Chiapas cartel boss being executed the next day.”
“So you’ve seen El Rey? You could tell us what he looks like?” Cruz demanded.
“It’s been a very long time, but I think I could – but it will be what he looked like then. Time can change a man’s face, and I only saw him for a few minutes. I was working, and only glanced over occasionally. If you paid too much attention, it could be bad for your health,” Moreno explained.
“If we showed you some drawings, could you pick him out?” Briones asked.
“I can try. Only one thing. If I do, what will I get in return? I can wait for you to check my story if you want. You can look up the details of the death of the Chiapas cartel’s boss – and the date. That’s the only thing I can think of you can verify,” Moreno offered.
Cruz considered it. There was no way a man of obviously limited intellect and prospects could invent a story like that; not with so much detail. Cruz was willing to bet it was true.
“If you can help us, I’ll speak to Culiacan and ask that your charges be dropped. I’d also suggest that you stop burgling houses. You’re too old for that shit,” Cruz said.
“I believe you. And thank you, Capitan. Thank you so much,” Moreno said, close to tears with relief.
Briones opened his briefcase and spread the five drawings out on the table along with a few placebo drawings they’d had Arlen draw in preparation for the meeting. Moreno squinted at them for a few minutes, seeming undecided. Finally, he put his scarred index finger on one.
“This one’s the closest. He looks older here, and a little heavier, and there’s something about the nose and eyes that isn’t right, but this is the most similar to what I remember,” Moreno said.
They all looked down at the sketch Moreno had selected.
It was Briones’ vagrant.
~ ~ ~
Sarah Wilford checked her e-mail, intrigued when she saw the message from her brother-in-law, Bill Stephens. She racked her brain for the last time Bill had sent her anything and came up dry. This was a first.
She read the short introductory message, then opened the attachment, which was a formal meeting report with the Mexicans. Sarah skimmed it, and then a phone call distracted her. By now it was already five o’clock, and she needed to get going to pick up the kids from daycare. She thought about what to do with it, and then forwarded it to her boss, Carl Rugman, who would know better than she how best to proceed. Satisfied she’d done all she could, Sarah gathered her coat and purse and headed off to collect her darlings.
Carl was in a meeting with two communications specialists going over the latest satellite surveillance grids for Iraq, which took until six o’clock. He did a cursory scan of his messages and noted the one from Sarah. After a quick read, he picked up his phone and dialed his counterpart at Secret Service, who was out of the office, and left a brief message that he was forwarding on a report from the DEA. Next, he called a friend at the CIA, which also went straight to voice mail.
“Humphrey, this is Carl. I know it’s kind of late, but I just got a report from DEA I thought you might be interested in. It’s about a possible threat to the President, involving Mexican cartels. I’m forwarding it on. Hopefully, you’ll know who to hand it off to.”
After re-reading it again, he sent the e-mail to three other men within the NSA, and two more at the CIA. Between those contacts and the Secret Service, they should have the bases covered.
He switched off his computer and donned his jacket before flicking off his lights, tired after another grueling day of meetings and briefings. Keeping the nation safe from terrorism and whatnot took it out of a guy, especially at his age.
Three hours later, a phone rang in the private office of one of the most powerful men at Langley, an assistant director for the entire Middle East.
“I sent a report to your encrypted anonymous box. Read it and call me back. We have a problem.” The line went dead.
Kent Fredericks dutifully logged into his alternative mailbox – a blind address for sensitive matters he didn’t want on record – and carefully read the report before dialing the phone.
“We need to meet. Can we get together this evening?” Kent asked. He looked at his watch. “Maybe tell the missus that you need to have a cocktail with an important constituent?”
“Ten-thirty, at my club. I’ll see to it we aren’t disturbed. Shouldn’t be many people around at that hour.”
“I’ll see you there.”
That gave Kent a little over an hour to get prepared. He needed to carefully consider how to deal with the report. It would be simple to put out a verbal dismissal of it as an unverified hunch by some Mexican nobody – he could spin the word ‘Mexican’ with a roll of his eyes to depict incompetent peasants. It wouldn’t be hard, given that many of those considering the findings would be older Caucasian males, whose embedded cultural prejudice would be simple to manipulate into a facile rejection of the data. He wasn’t so much worried about that as he was how to proceed. It posed a potential problem, and part of his value to the rarified membership of the group was in coming up with solutions.
When he entered the elaborate foyer of the club he was struck by how the place reeked of tradition and power. The walls were polished dark wood, with oil paintings of scowling men staring down from their positions in ornate gold frames – past chairmen, he presumed. A discreet man in black tie greeted him with a soft, “Good evening,” and then led him to one of the private meeting rooms, down a separate hall from the club’s main area, ensuring complete privacy. The man opened a door, and Kent stepped into a twelve by fifteen room. The passageway closed behind him, and he found himself face to face with the caller, as well as the Speaker of the House.
The ensuing discussion was exactly what he was afraid it would be. Towards the end, he tired of the speculation and accusations, and interrupted the borderline-hysterical dialog.
“Gentlemen, I think it’s safe to say that we need to deal with this as quickly and unilaterally as we can. I propose that I contact some of our assets in Mexico and get it handled through unofficial channels,” he recommended.
“That’s all well and good, but the cat’s out of the bag now, don’t you think?” the caller growled.
“Not at all. We have a police captain, who has a theory absent any support, based on hearsay from a criminal. It says right in the report that his own intelligence service shut him down. If they dismissed him, that’s a good indicator he’s got nothing solid. This is just a rogue cop with a wild theory and no evidence. Nobody’s giving it any credence in Mexico, and for good reason. It’s a non-event,” Kent responded.
“Well, what if he gets some proof?” the Speaker of the House asked.
“There is no proof. That’s the best part about this. There’s nothing to get,” Kent replied.
“What about this assassin he goes on about? What if he manages to find him and stop him?” the caller volleyed.
“You mean El Rey? The most famous assassin in Latin America? Gee, don’t you think that if the police could have caught him, they would have by now? There’s an entire task force devoted to doing so, and it’s turned up nothing. No, this is entirely containable. The cartel boss who took out the contract is dead. So nobody to talk there. That leaves a contract killer who’s evaded capture for a decade, and the Mexican police, who are about as competent as the D.C. cops…” Kent grinned at his humor.
“I’d say the cartel boss already did enough talking,” the caller said.
“Maybe, but he’s dead. So he’s no longer a problem.”
“What about the hit man, this El Rey? Will he carry out the contract now that his employer is no long
er alive?” the Speaker of the House asked.
“All our intelligence predicts that he will. The new cartel boss who replaces him won’t want to piss El Rey off – he’s considered indestructible in Mexico by the criminal gangs there. So if he shows up demanding payment for a predecessor’s commitments, the new guy will pay. Look, the cartels are swimming in cash, so it’s a rounding error for them versus a bullet in the head when they least suspect it. No, I think it’s safe to say they won’t stiff El Rey, which means the only thing that’s changed is this cop stumbling through matters that are none of his business,” Kent said.
The discussion went on for another fifteen minutes, but in the end what the two men really wanted was reassurance. Kent offered that, and proposed a solution they could all live with. They agreed, and the meeting ended. Kent glanced at his watch – it was now almost midnight. He rubbed his eyes and groaned as he got into his car. It would be a few more hours before he’d be going home.
He had some calls to make.
~ ~ ~
Six Months Ago, Mexico City
Francisco Morales, the Secretary of the Interior for Mexico, boarded the helicopter that was to take him to the meeting of prosecutors, convened to discuss new steps to battle the cartels. It was a foggy morning, and as the aircraft waited for the arrival of the other passengers, Morales busied himself with his Blackberry, sending a message on Twitter commemorating the death of his predecessor three years before in an airplane crash. That had been a serious blow to the nation; the Secretary of the Interior was largely responsible for the day to day operations in the war on drugs, and his predecessor had been vociferous in his condemnation of the cartels, as well as his development of innovative strategies to combat them, such as the creation of Cruz’s task force.
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