“Mexico is a global force, and as such it has become a target of the same terrorism that plagues other civilized countries. We have been fortunate to avoid it for so long, but the regrettable events of the last days underscore that the twenty-first century brings with it both opportunities and risks. As long as there are extremists willing to do the unthinkable, to sacrifice the lives of the innocent in order to achieve their deplorable goals, there will always be a danger, which the museum bombing brought home.”
Cameras had clicked and whirred as he’d delivered an impassioned speech that had been carried by every network, and by the end of the day the popular consensus was that Mexico needed a resolute response to terrorism that would include new immigration measures, security checks, the creation of a database of high-risk individuals, and the establishment of a paramilitary law enforcement organization chartered with defending the homeland.
“Of course, safety comes at a price, and vigilance will require sacrificing some of our rights in order to counter the terrorism threat. But we must take appropriate steps as a player on the world stage, and I know that every Mexican will agree that nothing is more important than ensuring a safe and stable future for our children…even if that comes at a cost. I am committed to doing everything in my power to respond to this new challenge, and with the cooperation of our lawmakers, I am confident that we will persevere no matter what, as we have since our forefathers fought the revolution that created our sovereign state. In this war, there can be no middle ground – you are either with us, or against us.”
In the question-and-answer period after the speech, the inquiries had been mostly benign, dealing with the initial measures that would be taken. Toward the end of the interrogatives, a journalist from Television Azteca had pitched a hardball at the president that Norteño and he had discussed in advance.
“Mr. President, what did the terrorists hope to achieve with the bombing?”
“Good question, Renaldo. The terrorists issued a demand for Mexico to sever all ties with the United States, which they blame for a host of evils, none of which are legitimate. But the attack had the opposite effect – it brought us together as a nation and strengthened our bond with our neighbor to the north, who provided considerable assistance to us during this dark time.”
The response, a patent falsehood, had been eagerly lapped up by the media, and Norteño knew that within days it would be broadcast so often it would become the accepted truth. He understood from studying the Americans that it was possible to create a completely mythical official account of anything, and that most would believe it to be true if the press echoed it as reality. As a student of human nature, the approach had privately fascinated him, and he’d seen the technique used time and time again throughout history by governments intent on manufacturing enemies so they could justify their actions. The Soviets had done so, as had the Nazis, as had Japan, Italy, and the UK…but the U.S. had upped the ante and perfected the approach to the point it was considered treasonous to question even the most unlikely official explanations of events.
Now it was Mexico’s turn. About time, he thought with satisfaction, as he recalled the minor triumph of his ascendance to power, all within less than three days. He’d often dreamed of being the right-hand man to the throne, but his performance during the crisis had sealed it, and he could now do no wrong.
“Good night,” Norteño said to his secretary, and then worked his way down the long marble hall, his footsteps the confident ones of a man of consequence.
The drive to his high-rise condo was the only annoyance of the day, traffic snarled as was typical of the huge city, but even that couldn’t ruin his high. He’d pulled off a coup few would have had the audacity to dream of, much less spearhead. And his future was sealed as one of the men who would steer the nation’s fortunes, at least for the next few years. That gave him time to develop his standing within the party, which would be ably supported by the president’s endorsement.
Who knew? Perhaps he might be persuaded to run for office. Stranger things had happened.
He parked in the underground security garage and rode the elevator to the eighteenth floor, his mind a whirl of conflicting thoughts. While the condo was lavish for a single man, he’d start looking for something larger, in a more elite building. After all, he was now rich – his third of the one and a half billion dollars of diamonds would trickle into offshore accounts as Aranas liquidated the stones, so if he wanted a penthouse that ran five million dollars or higher, what of it? He could more than afford it and had the plausible deniability of his family’s fortunes to account for where the means to buy it had come from – not that anyone would dare to probe too deeply.
He unlocked his condo door and stepped inside, paused to set his briefcase down in the foyer, and moved into the living room, the panoramic view of Mexico City’s lights one of his simple pleasures. At a small bar near a wall-mounted flat-screen television he poured himself a healthy portion of Don Julio 1942 tequila before shrugging out of his suit jacket and plopping down on the contemporary sofa to watch the news.
He nearly jumped out of his skin when a voice spoke from behind him.
“Quite a day, no?”
He bolted to his feet, spilling his drink down the front of his slacks, and spun. A young man he’d never seen before leaned against the doorway with his arms crossed, a slight smirk on his face.
“Who the hell are you, and how did you get in here?” Norteño demanded.
“Ah. You don’t recognize me. Of course not. Why would you?”
The intruder took a step toward Norteño and drew a small pistol from his pocket. Norteño stood frozen as the intruder screwed a sound suppressor into place.
“I…I have money in the safe,” he blurted.
“That’s good to know.”
“And gold. Coins. Kruggerands.”
“A prudent investment,” the gunman said. “But that’s not what I’m here for.”
Norteño’s expression registered confusion. “No?”
“No. I’m here to watch you jump from your balcony.”
Norteño’s mouth worked, but no sound came out other than a hoarse choking noise. He found his voice, and his grip on the brandy snifter he was clutching tightened. “I don’t understand.”
“Allow me to explain. You authorized my execution with CISEN. I am known by many names, but the one you’ll recognize is probably El Rey – the King of Swords.”
The blood drained from Norteño’s face. “I…I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I don’t blame you for lying. I suspect it’s a way of life for you, and so far you’ve largely gotten away with it. Until today.”
“You have the wrong man.”
El Rey’s countenance could have been carved from granite. “It’s not working. Make your peace, because you don’t have long.”
A rivulet of sweat ran from Norteño’s hairline and traced a course down his cheek. “I swear it wasn’t me.”
El Rey glanced at Norteño’s nearly empty tequila glass. “You know what I hate more than a privileged snot who thinks he owns the world and can do whatever he likes with no consequences? Go ahead. Guess.”
“I…”
“A liar. I’d down the rest of your drink.”
“Please. I can make you rich.”
“I’m already rich.”
“Not like this, you’re not. I can give you a hundred million dollars.”
“The strange thing about having enough is that once you do, you don’t really care about getting more.” El Rey motioned with his gun. “Last chance to savor your cocktail. Shame for a good tequila like that to go to waste.”
Norteño hurled the glass at the assassin, who easily dodged it as Norteño lunged at him. El Rey sidestepped the clumsy attempt and clubbed him on the back of his skull with the pistol butt. Norteño landed hard on the polished floor but managed to break his fall with his arms. El Rey delivered a brutal strike to Norteño’s neck with his fr
ee hand and he groaned before going limp.
When Norteño came to, his upper body was hanging over the terrace railing. The city’s twinkling lights spun dizzily as he fought in vain to orient himself, the street beneath him dark save for the street lamps’ faint glow. Sour bile rushed into his throat as vertigo overcame him and he retched.
“Have a nice trip,” El Rey said from behind him, and then his legs followed his body over the railing and the street rushed toward him at impossible speed as his mouth formed a silent no.
El Rey didn’t watch Norteño’s fall from grace, preferring to let himself out of the condo and slip down the stairs. The apparent suicide would create sufficient chaos so that he could escape unnoticed, and he didn’t want to chance the elevator in case someone boarded it on his way down.
It took him three minutes to make it to street level, and by the time he did, the doorman and the two security guards were out on the street, yelling into their cell phones.
None of them noticed the slim figure emerge from the building and saunter away.
Chapter 54
Culiacán, Sinaloa, Mexico
Don Aranas ran a hand through his steel-gray hair and took a puff of his first cigar of the day as he watched the news. An earnest young man with the fake sincerity of a televangelist was reading the teleprompter while attempting to make the words sound like his own.
“The president announced today that he has arranged for the United States to house antiterrorism Special Forces troops in Mexico City, Guadalajara, and Monterrey as part of his comprehensive reforms in Mexico’s battle against terror. The troops will begin to arrive next week and represent an unprecedented step in international cooperation between the two countries. This culminates negotiations with United States antiterrorism to provide funding, weapons, and training. During the morning press conference, the president pointed out that many American corporations have manufacturing enterprises in Mexico, so it was in both nations’ best interests to ensure that there were adequate precautions in place against terrorist threats. In light of the recent bombing of the anthropology museum, the majority of the Mexican Congress applauded the historic peace pact.”
The newscaster paused and his tone grew somber. “Critics of the move called it a de facto invasion force and the next step in Mexico’s loss of sovereignty, which they say began with the acceptance of funds and equipment to fight America’s war on drugs – turning Mexico into a battleground and endangering its population to advance the U.S.’s agenda. The president didn’t address the concerns, instead underscoring that the forces would be under Mexico’s control and would only be used if a threat presented itself.”
Aranas chuckled and shook his head at the notion. He was quite sure that there would soon be another terrorist incident, even if he had no active part in it. He understood how the game was played, and another event was entirely predictable – the only question was when.
“In other news, the ministry of the interior announced that several key bids in the ongoing privatization of Mexico’s petroleum industry had been reviewed and nullified, and that an investigation was being launched into bidding impropriety. The companies in question are Haoyun Petroleum, Sun Strike Oil, and Shanghai Gas, all Chinese.”
A clip of a Mexican bureaucrat speaking ran. “We cannot allow a corrupted system to determine who will be our partners in harvesting our oil. There is sufficient evidence of widespread payoffs in the bidding process that we’ve canceled the agreements with these firms and held a second round of bids. It’s of paramount importance that the process be fair and impartial, and that the contracts go to the most qualified candidates.”
That drew a laugh from Aranas.
The broadcast switched to a beautiful brunette with blazing green eyes.
“Still no progress in the hunt for Don Aranas, the head of the Sinaloa Cartel. A well-publicized recent sighting, on a bus bound for Guatemala, turned out to be a false alarm after Mexican authorities, working with the Guatemalans, stopped the bus at the border and found nothing. Experts believe that the crime boss has taken refuge in Eastern Europe, where his organization has developed strong relationships with the Russian mafia.”
Aranas couldn’t help but roll his eyes. His disinformation campaign continued unabated, the lies repeated by a press that had never heard a whopper it didn’t believe. Next they’d place him on a flight to Mars.
His phone buzzed from its position on the coffee table, and after setting his cigar down, he reached for it.
“Yes?” he answered.
“Looks like you won that round,” the American said in accented Spanish.
“Life is nothing more than a series of obstacles to overcome.”
“Yes, well, it’s come to my attention that two of the three contracts went to companies that you have an interest in. Only one went to an American firm.”
“This is a land of compromises. Promises were made. It was impossible to do it any other way.” Aranas paused. “Of course, if you want to have greater participation, I could always arrange for a percentage of the companies to be sold to your friends. At a fair price, of course, representing their new status with the Mexican government.”
“That’s remarkably generous of you,” the American said dryly.
“Just as it was generous of you to waste no time renegotiating with my adversaries – at more favorable terms for you.”
The American cleared his throat. “We all do what we must. I’ll pass your thoughts along to the appropriate parties.”
“Yes, do so. Oh, and congratulations on achieving your objective of establishing a military presence within our borders.”
“It’s time for old-fashioned geographic distinctions to go by the wayside. We’re all in this together, after all.”
“I’m sure we are. But the track record for countries that have had American military helpers, for whatever reason, hasn’t been stellar.”
“Not everyone will be happy in all circumstances. As long as your interests are safeguarded, what do you care?”
Aranas sighed. “I fear the world is becoming too small for this old man.”
“Let us know if you plan to retire. We are heavily invested in you at this point.”
“Not quite yet.”
Aranas signed off with a frown and returned to his coffee. He took a sip and set the cup down in disgust.
“Coffee’s cold. Bring another cup,” he called out, and sat back to contemplate the grounds of his estate, his cigar as his companion, the distant whinnying of his horses music to his tired ears.
Chapter 55
Mexico City, Mexico
Rows of prisoners sat at a line of long wooden tables, working on tasks they’d been assigned by the prison administration. A bell chimed, and then a metallic voice rang over the prison public address system.
“Shift over in ten minutes. All prisoners prepare to return to their cells in five.”
El Maquino looked up from the collection of parts he was assembling and nodded slowly, his hair now trimmed close to his head. Aside from having to be around the other inmates, he didn’t mind being incarcerated – the routine had been easy for him to get used to, and his uncle had arranged for a private cell in the overcrowded facility with many of the same comforts of his old loft.
Four of his uncle’s jailed allies shadowed him everywhere he went, and not much had changed from his prior existence, other than the food, which he hated. He’d mentioned it to one of the guards soon after arriving, and the next day an older convict with a flat nose and a face that had seen its share of fights introduced himself as El Maquino’s new private chef, and asked for a list of his favorite meals.
That had temporarily stumped the big man, who eventually conveyed that he really only had one favorite meal and enjoyed eating it every day for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The chef had been taken aback at that and had been convinced that El Maquino was toying with him until he’d seen the dull gray of his unwavering stare and understood he was serious.<
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Since then he’d gotten along well, no sense of how long the twenty years he’d been sentenced to was, just as he couldn’t have told anyone his age. It simply didn’t matter, and he’d never bothered to keep track.
The mind-numbing sameness of each day that wore down even the hardest prisoners had been a dream come true for the big man, and he looked forward to each morning with the anticipation of a child for Christmas. He’d been assigned to the prison labor pool that dealt with repairs to the facility’s crumbling infrastructure, and he was quickly prized by the maintenance supervisor as the preferred person to handle anything mechanical or electrical.
Even the best prisons in Mexico were chronically underfunded and therefore constantly falling apart, and this one was no exception, so El Maquino was never short of work. He thrived on the challenge of troubleshooting and fixing the various pumps and gizmos he was brought, and had seldom been happier. Freedom had never been more than increased responsibility to him, and freed from the requirement to do anything but his repairs, he was thriving in the unlikeliest of circumstances.
The inmate next to him slid closer and leaned toward him. “Can I borrow that hex driver?” the prisoner asked. “You aren’t using it right now.”
El Maquino turned his big head toward the man and gave him a glare. The inmate froze as he was reaching for the tool and abruptly reconsidered. He moved back to his position on the bench and El Maquino resumed assembling the pump, humming quietly to himself, looking forward to dinner in his cell alone before spending his remaining hours before lights out drawing schematics for advanced drone guidance systems his uncle’s guards then ferreted out of the prison for shipment to the patent attorneys that handled his inventions.
Rage Of The Assassin Page 25
