by Layton Green
“Read the whole thing. There was a witness who got a look at the assassins. His name’s Dominic Grey, an ex-diplomatic security guy. I want to have a chat with him.”
The next morning Grey took a coffee on his hotel patio, which fronted Lummus Park on Ocean Drive. Nya’s absence felt like a port without ships. He took a jog along the beach to dull the pain of their parting, remembering their long runs together in the cool Harare mornings, dodging potholes and fallen mangoes.
The police had looked a little incredulous at his story, but his connection to Nya and Sekai checked out and, combined with his Interpol liaison badge garnered due to Viktor’s consulting gigs with the organization, secured his release.
Grey had also provided a composite sketch of the assassins, to no avail. He doubted they were in the system, or at least this system.
Miami PD confirmed that Manny Lopez had been one of the slain drug dealers. Grey decided he would call Nya later that day and let her know the principal two figures involved in Sekai’s death had been killed, probably by an unhappy employer. Hell of a way to have your pay docked.
Blinded by the morning sun glinting off the patio, he thought of the darkness he had seen the night before. Working for Viktor had been an eyelid-peeling parachute jump into a strange and mysterious world. Grey himself did not possess religious beliefs, especially since witnessing his mother’s death when he was fifteen, after her protracted bout with stomach cancer. A devout woman, she had put her faith in divine intervention rather than modern medicine, and Grey watched as she prayed every second of every sleep-deprived day, right until her pain-wracked death.
Grey knew that hatred of God did not equate to disbelief, and over time his anger had softened into numb agnosticism. If God existed, then He had created a beautiful world and left it, like a used target at a shooting range, riddled with degradation and despair. Perhaps one day Grey would feel differently.
But not that day.
What he had seen the night before had felt different, off the grid. It left him unsettled, as if he had dipped a toe into the abyss and it had come back dripping with a slimy, stygian residue.
Viktor was the expert, but judging by the armed guards and the feel of the ceremony, Grey guessed those men had been beseeching their god to protect them from the threat they knew was coming.
Two people passed by on their way to the lobby: a swarthy, capable-looking man with hairy arms sticking out of a coffee-stained guayabera, and a woman in sunglasses and a sharp business suit walking a step ahead of the man. Both looked Latino, though the woman had pale skin and more Anglicized features. They eyed Grey as they passed, and the woman stopped and turned just before she reached the hotel entrance.
“Dominic Grey?” she asked.
Grey stiffened. Though both possessed the guarded mannerisms of law enforcement, the woman looked like a government agent, the guy more like a cop.
Before Grey could answer, the man produced identification. Agent Federico Hernandez, Miami DEA. Grey eyed the woman, and she eyed him back.
Grey took a sip of coffee. “Can I help you?”
“Sorry to interrupt your morning,” the man said, gruff but respectful, “but we need you to come with us for a bit. It concerns the two sketches you helped Miami PD draw up.”
“We can’t talk here?” Grey said, sweeping a hand around the empty patio. At eight in the morning, he had South Beach to himself.
“Our sketch artists are better. I wish I could say the same,” the man said, cracking an easy grin, “about the coffee.”
The ride was short, across MacArthur Causeway and four blocks into downtown, to one of South Florida’s numerous DEA offices. After Lana introduced herself, no one spoke on the drive. Though Grey was highly curious about the CIA’s interest in the case, he had worked in government long enough to know that questions at this stage were pointless.
They filed into a bland conference room. Grey and Fred prepared coffees while Lana texted on her smartphone.
“The sketch artist is on his way,” Fred said.
Grey sat. “No interest in letting me know what’s going on?”
Lana turned to him and crossed her legs. “As Agent Hernandez intimated, we’ve reviewed the police report and the interview transcript, and we’d like you to provide another sketch of the two assassins. As you probably know from your time with Diplomatic Security, our computer banks are much more internationally focused.”
“Yeah, I gathered all of that. Why is this a CIA matter?”
“That’s not the concern of this meeting,” Lana said.
Grey chuckled. “I’ll be happy to provide a sketch. But I’ve found that understanding all angles of a crime can be crucial to an investigation. It might help me know what to focus on.” He looked Lana in the eye. “Jog my memory.”
Lana met his gaze. “You realize, of course, that it’s a crime to withhold information.”
“I told the police everything I remember. Like I said, memory’s a funny thing, and sometimes it depends on perspective.”
Lana kept staring at him and drumming her fingers on a folder, which Grey assumed contained his file. “You’ve got an impressive background,” she said, “at least until you were discharged from Diplomatic Security for insubordination.”
Grey didn’t bother blocking the jab. The choice had been between keeping his job or trying to save Nya’s life. Nor was it the first black mark on his CV.
“You were almost one of us,” Lana continued. “Lived abroad most of your life, fluent in three languages, no relevant family ties, high I.Q. tests, hand-to-hand combat instructor for Marine Recon. The last is particularly impressive.”
“Keep reading. I’m sure there’s something in there about my poor social skills and refusal to toe the line. All true, you know.” He glanced at Fred and then back at Lana. “I suck at joining.”
Fred crossed his arms and grinned.
Lana was good at concealing her expression, Grey gave her that. He wondered again at her involvement, and didn’t miss the bureaucracy and hidden agenda of government work in the slightest.
“Does this particular cartel have CIA ties?” Grey wondered out loud. “Someone who needs protecting? Sensitive diplomatic issues at stake?”
Lana dismissed his speculations by returning to her smartphone. Moments later there was a knock at the door, and the sketch artist entered. Fred and Lana left the room.
After Grey finished profiling, Fred popped back in and asked him to wait a bit longer, offering pastries and more coffee. An hour later Fred and Lana both returned. Lana set an open laptop on the table in front of Grey. She stood behind him and he could smell the subtle spice of her perfume.
Staring at him from the left half of the screen was the woman he had seen in the hallway of Manny Lopez’s bungalow. The photo looked shot in a chaotic Latin American market, and she looked different: shoulder-length black hair as opposed to blond, more mature clothing, less makeup. But it was the same trim athletic body and youthful face, and the eyes gave her away: boring through the camera, sharper than the scenery around her yet at the same time as lifeless and indifferent as two brown pebbles in a dried-up riverbed.
To her right was a man who looked more similar to the woman than Grey had realized in the hallway. Caught sipping a beverage on the columned balcony of a crumbling villa, he was taller and thicker but had the same smooth skin and dead eyes. Grey nodded in recognition. “That’s them. God, how old are they?”
Lana closed the laptop and sat beside Grey. “We call them the Alianza twins, Lucho and Angel. Orphans raised in a slum of Mexico City, approximately twenty-five years old, drug mules for the Alianza Cartel since they could walk and sicarios—cartel assassins—since they were thirteen. Over a hundred reported hits between the two of them.”
Grey tipped his head down and shook it. There wasn’t much to say.
Lucho’s heavy brow and downturned mouth lingered in Grey’s vision, a fellow orphan who had fallen into the black hole of violen
ce and never escaped its pull.
“Don’t let their youth and good looks fool you,” Fred said. “They’re two of the most feared enforcers in Mexico. A particular specialty of theirs is seducing Mexican cops, handcuffing them to the bed, and burning them alive.”
“I’ve seen their handiwork firsthand,” Grey said. “They’re good.”
Fred grunted. “We’ve already got APBs out on them.”
“You don’t think they’re gone by now?”
“Probably.” Fred leaned forward on his elbows. “Look, we appreciate you coming down here, and while it’s likely these two wastes of sperm fled back to Mexico, you should know they aren’t the types inclined to leave witnesses alive.”
Grey took a sip of coffee.
“You want some protection for a few days?”
“I fly back to New York tomorrow. I’ll watch myself.”
Fred reached for a toothpick and gave a slow nod. “I thought you might say that.”
Lana rose. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me.” She reached for Grey’s hand. “We appreciate your assistance in this matter.”
Grey shook her hand, which felt cool and firm and callused, like her personality. He couldn’t stand when government agents used “we” instead of “I,” as if they were trained to disavow all personal responsibility for their actions.
“I’ll give you a ride,” Fred said.
As they rolled through downtown, Fred said, “Your file says you’re an expert in cults, or something like that?”
“That’s my employer, Viktor Radek. He’s a professor of religious phenomenology. I help on the investigations.”
Fred clamped down on his toothpick. “What do you make of that stuff you saw last night? It’s gotta be Santeria, but . . . you think it’s strange that both the García and Lopez hits happened during a ceremony?”
“I think common sense tells us it’s strange.”
“Hey, what do you think about looking into the cult angle? I can probably get authorization for a couple of days’ work, but don’t go crazy or anything. I just want to know what we’re dealing with. It’d help me out. If you have time?”
“I can spare a day or two. Want to tell me why everyone cares so much who murdered a bunch of drug dealers?”
Fred chewed harder on the toothpick. “You don’t look like the kind of guy who deals in bullshit, so I won’t bullshit you. Is the fact that we’re looking for a bigger and badder player good enough for you?”
Grey was quiet for a moment. He had the impression he and Fred spoke the same language. “For now.”
Fred’s sedan crested the lime-green waters of the Intracoastal Waterway, swept onto Miami Beach, and took the off-ramp onto Fifth. When they reached the hotel and Grey stepped out of the car, Fred put his arm across the passenger headrest. “I assume you got hold of the police report?”
“I did.”
“Any idea if that blue lady thing means anything? You know, cult-wise?”
“No idea,” Grey said, “but I’ll look into it.”
Fred nodded, flipped the toothpick onto the sidewalk, and drove off.
After Fred dropped him off, Grey felt the need to cleanse. Hyper-aware of his surroundings as always, he took a long run on the crowded boardwalk, then relaxed in the ocean until his body cooled. Floating on his back, he admired the South Beach skyline hovering above the palms.
While the gritty energy of New York was more his style, the beauty of Miami helped relax his mind. It was harder to dwell on a troubled past and the injustices of the world when surrounded by a sleek metropolis with a gorgeous Caribbean backdrop.
In a haze of sunshine, Grey changed into jeans and a loose-fitting green T-shirt and walked to a sushi bar on Collins. Fresh fish and a bottle of crisp sake was the perfect digestif to an afternoon in the sun.
He wondered why Viktor hadn’t called him back, and shrugged it off. It had only been a day, and Viktor always had a lot on his plate.
As he walked back to the hotel, Grey thought about the two cartel assassins, the sicarios. They had only gotten a quick look at him, and good luck finding out who he was—he lived as under the radar as anyone.
If the Alianza twins did happen to ID him and wanted to make a run at him, well, this wasn’t Mexico, and they wouldn’t find a passive target.
Grey made the call from his balcony, bottle of water in hand, the pinkening hues of dusk merging with the neon lights of the art deco district. Viktor answered on the fourth ring.
“Good evening, Grey. I apologize for not calling.”
“Are you in Prague?”
There was a prolonged silence. “I’m in Switzerland. At a sanatorium.”
“New case?”
“Not exactly,” Viktor said, and Grey heard a note of uncertainty he had never heard in his friend’s voice. As if he couldn’t bring himself to say what he wanted.
Then it clicked, and Grey understood why Viktor had been so hard to reach the last few weeks. “The absinthe,” he said, his voice quiet.
Viktor’s voice was just above a whisper, as proud as a thousand-year-old glacier. “Yes.”
“You checked yourself in?”
“At the urging of my niece.”
“I didn’t know you had a niece.”
“My brother’s daughter,” Viktor said. “We’ve stayed close.”
“After what you went through,” Grey said softly, “I think you’re doing great. No one should have to relive the past like that.”
“I confess that greatness is not my current state of mind.”
Grey chuckled. “Give it time, you’ll return to form. I’m guessing it’s a little bit better? Day by day?”
“Yes,” Viktor said, though every word sounded forced. Grey could have eased the conversation away, or feigned ignorance in the first place, but in his opinion it was better to confront one’s demons. A confronted demon is one with less power to subvert and consume.
The one thing Grey had truly desired during his years of aimless wandering, simmering in loneliness and shame and self-loathing, fighting a constant war against the rage and violence within, was someone in whom to confide. Not just anyone, but someone who could understand. Commiserate.
It had taken awhile, but for him, that someone had been Nya. Grey had never lacked confidence with women, but he saw the reflection of his soul as a cracked fun house mirror. Nya had started to correct the distortion, heal the broken edges.
Grey didn’t know if he was that person for Viktor, but he would offer himself up, no matter how clumsy the attempt.
“I’m not very good at this sort of thing,” Grey said, “but I’m always here if you need me. The way I see it, a struggle with the past is a struggle with the soul. Which means you have a good one.”
“Not everyone turns to addiction to cope. It’s a sign of weakness.”
“It’s a sign of empathy with the world. Who’s able to cope with everything life can throw at them? Anyone who claims otherwise needs to go live in the Horn of Africa during a drought. You’ve seen more tragedy than most, and yeah, sometimes we turn to other things and sometimes we need help. The best thing you can do is try to understand yourself so you can manage it better. Locking it away doesn’t help. Trust me.”
“Thank you, my friend. Sincerely.”
Grey heard Viktor exhale, as if talking had exorcised some of his pent-up fears and worries.
“Let’s discuss the matter at hand,” Viktor said, “though I won’t be discharged for a few more weeks, and my research capabilities are limited.”
“Miami DEA wants us to look into the cult angle,” Grey said. “I assume that’s okay, at our usual rate?”
“Of course. How did that come about?”
Grey caught Viktor up on the events of the last twenty-four hours. After Viktor absorbed the information, Grey said, “What do you think? How are the Santeria ceremonies connected to the murders?”
“It wasn’t Santeria. The ritual belonged to Palo Mayombe, a derivative of a Co
ngolese religion known in the Americas as simply Palo.”
“That’s a new one on me. Is it anything like Juju?” Grey asked, feeling uneasy at the mere mention of the Yoruban religion. Though the cult in Zimbabwe had been a derivation of traditional Juju, some of what they had witnessed had forever altered Grey’s view of reality. The N’anga, the Juju priest who had kidnapped Nya, had made Grey see things that weren’t real, feel things that weren’t there.
“Palo is completely distinct. In fact, it’s one of the more complex and intriguing religions I’ve ever encountered, though the theology is quite . . . alien . . . to a Westerner.”
“So far,” Grey said, “this alien theology has produced a pair of black cauldrons filled with sticks and dirt and human bones.”
“Santeria and Palo are the two predominant surviving African religions in Cuba,” Viktor said, as if he hadn’t heard Grey’s comment, “though Santeria is far more prevalent. Few outsiders have heard of Palo Mayombe, and those in the know hesitate to speak of it.”
Grey rubbed at his four-day stubble as he leaned against the balcony door. “That’s never a good thing.”
“I’m aware of the presence of Palo in Miami—this is not the first time the South Florida police have found human bones inside a prenda, or cauldron.”
“I hate to ask,” Grey said, “but why do people hesitate to talk about it?”
“Palo’s belief system has lent it a rather . . . unwholesome . . . reputation. It’s difficult to summarize, but at its core, a practitioner of Palo Mayombe works with the dead in order to affect the living.”
“Come again?”
“Palo practitioners believe that a vast sea of dead spirits—known as Kalunga—surrounds us. Imagine the living as the fish in the ocean, and the dead as the water. To a believer of Palo Mayombe, we are quite literally swimming through a sea of the dead.”
“I fully agree with you,” Grey said. “That is, without a doubt, an alien worldview that lends itself to an unwholesome reputation. And the cauldrons?”
