Law of the Lion

by Nick Carter

  He nodded to the young lieutenant. "Please listen to this carefully, compadre. I want you to be very clear on all this." Then he pointed a well-manicured hand toward Zachary and Carter. "Just as you are looking at me and wondering how much money it will take to bribe me, I am looking at you and wondering what kind of morals and ethics the two of you have."

  "All right." Zachary said, "you're honest and you're not looking for a bribe. What are you looking for?"

  "I'm looking for what we all in this profession look for. I want information. Pure and simple. No mordida. No propina. No donations to the state police retirement fund or whatever other imaginative twist you wish to give it. I want information."

  There was a long silence.

  "To give you a frame of reference," Alvarado said. "I tell you now that it is already a foregone conclusion that you are going to leave Mexico. Based on the information you give me, your departure will have options. If your information is false, I will see to it that your departure is from a courtroom and that you will be denied bail. If you give me good information, you will be given a ride back to your hotel, and you will have, shall we say thirty-six hours before I come looking for you. Your choice, senores. A prison breakfast, and detention until you appear before the magistrate, or a voluntary retirement from the Republic of Mexico."

  Nick Carter smiled. "If an exchange of funds for the privilege of staying in your country cannot be arranged, we have very little other choice left."

  Alvarado took his win graciously. "We have reached that plateau. No funds will be exchanged. You have a limited time — a very limited time left in Mexico." He pointedly addressed the lieutenant. "And you? You understand the ethics of this?"

  If the young officer was disappointed that any possibility of the exchange of money was now out of the picture, he managed to hide it. Carter was impressed with both of them. Mexico often got a bad rap on its public officials.

  Captain Alvarado returned his focus to Carter and Zachary. "Let's begin, senores, with you telling me what you know about an individual named Piet Bezeidenhout."

  "Bingo," Zachary said, smiling in triumph. "All of a sudden. Captain Alvarado, I think I have a high regard for you."

  The Killmaster smiled as well. He knew exactly what Sam Zachary was thinking.

  Ten

  "Thirty-six hours is rather generous, under the circumstances," Margo Huerta said.

  Chepe Munoz was even more emphatic. "That was one fine cop you guys ran into."

  Carter said, "It suited his purpose to be lenient. He knew Bezeidenhout was in his country, he was smart enough to know that Sam and I were not your ordinary cops, and he figured we might be on the up and up."

  "So what did you tell him, man?" Chepe Munoz said. "Or maybe I should put it like this: How little did you guys have to tell him?"

  They were finishing a buffet lunch that Margo had set out in her studio, and while the men were alternately showering, shaving, catnapping, and eating, Margo herself became busy on the telephone.

  "He knows everything we know short of LT," Carter said. "I let him think I was a bounty hunter for multinational insurance companies. He thinks I'm after some missing diamonds."

  "That's what I needed," Margo said. "That's a perfect edge to get you in."

  While the men continued with their eating, Margo made phone calls, wheedled, cajoled, and frankly traded on favors owed her. She came up with a list of three places where Piet Bezeidenhout had been for meetings during his recent visit to Mexico City.

  "Robert Silver, out in Coyoacán," she said in triumph. "Silver actually hosted a gathering of wealthy people to hear Bezeidenhout speak." She wrote the address and gave it to Carter. Munoz drew a man named Porfirio Gaston, a wealthy merchant. Zachary was to see Enrique Benvenidez, an investments broker. Margo wrote directions to each location on sheets of paper and Carter had the distinct impression that the one she dealt him was the one she believed would prove the most profitable.

  It was Zachary who first raised the issue that was on all their minds. "Margo, you'd better keep a weapon close at hand from now on. All the people you've been calling are aware of your interest in Bezeidenhout. Any of them or their associates could want you silenced."

  "Listen," the fiery Margo said with an arrogant toss of her head, "I've been associated with struggles of one sort or another for years. You think this is the worst danger I've ever been in?"

  Without hesitation, all three men nodded.

  "All right," she said contritely, "I'll be careful."

  While Carter was finishing a large plate of shrimp and rice, Margo cleaned and redressed the handiwork of Dr. Hakluyt on his left shoulder, building in a bit of padding and support. "You listen to me, Carter," she said, sitting herself down on his lap when the taping and bandaging was completed. "You and I — we have unfinished business, you understand? Several days of it?" She stood and tossed Carter a fresh shirt she'd picked up for him.

  The Killmaster, Zachary, and Chepe Munoz set up contingency plans for where they would meet if they could not regroup before Captain Alvarado's thirty-six-hour deadline.

  "Seems to me there's only one logical place," the CIA man said, looking approvingly at the remains of the buffet.

  Carter. Munoz, and Zachary agreed, and discussed strategy. "Just in case," Carter said, "we should each memorize the connection given the other two. That way, if one of us fails to return, the others will have a strong clue."

  "Strange bedfellows we are," Zachary said. "But it appears we all trust one another."

  Chepe Munoz shook his head in disbelief. "Dr. Castro would have my ass if he knew I was getting on so famously with a couple of capitalists."

  Carter nodded at Margo. "Just in case we can't regroup here, you'd better join us at the rendezvous too."

  The flamboyant artist liked that very much, and winked conspiratorially at Carter.

  Carter was out the door first, noting that Zachary was hurriedly building himself a sandwich to take along.

  Nick Carter's next stop was the wealthy suburb of Coyoacan. He stopped to call Hawk and give him the names of all three places Margo Huerta had learned about.

  "I'm going in as a member of the South African diamond cartel security."

  "Good idea," Hawk said. "Get them to doubt this Bezeidenhout as much as possible without seeming too obvious."

  Carter could tell that Hawk was growing impatient with the way the LT activity was developing. "A bit of an irony in your going out to Coyoacan, Nick. Leon Trotsky lived and was assassinated there. The famed painter. Diego Rivera, lived there. Both are associated with the politics of the left."

  There was a pause while Hawk thumbed the wheel of his lighter and puffed at one of his cigars. Then he continued. "Whatever happens, we want to know what Lex Talionis is, what it's doing, and who is behind it. Any we want it soon. The pressure on me has become unbelievable. I don't need to tell you where it comes from, either."

  Carter quickly found a cab and gave the instructions to Coyoacan, an attractive suburb with numerous parks, broad, cobbled streets, and a sense of quiet, refined good taste.

  As in so many large cities where there was a high rate of crime and poverty, the area had its share of high fences, barbed wire, and elaborate security measures.

  Following the instructions given him, Carter directed the driver past the Plaza Hidalgo, turned right at the Church of San Juan Bautista, and came upon one of the innumerable streets named after Mexican political or religious martyrs. In this case, it was the street of the child heroes: La Calle de los Niños Héroes.

  The Silver home appeared to be only modestly affluent when Carter sounded the bell at a small wrought-iron gate, but he was soon greeted by a servant who had him follow her through a small bricked courtyard and onto a much more lavish lawn that was part of an elaborate tropical garden.

  Traveling along a neat gravel path, Carter noted two large, snarling mastiffs, ready to pounce. He was ushered into a white stone building with tall, soaring
ceilings, a tile floor of immense complexity, and several large pre-Columbian pieces, notably a dog that was larger than any pre-Columbian ceramic animal Carter had ever seen.

  "Cortez, the conqueror of Mexico, once had a kingly palace right here in Coyoacan."

  This was said by a short balding man with a large head and seemingly bulging eyes who then stepped into the foyer and introduced himself. Shaking hands with Robert Silver, Carter tried to get some kind of impression of him. For the most part, it was one of a barely concealed arrogance in a man in his late forties or early fifties.

  "I must tell you that it took a great deal of pressure from Margo Huerta to induce me to agree to this meeting, Señor Carter. I am not particularly pleased at your visit. As you will see when we step inside, I am fond of works of art. Senorita Huerta's works among them — and I would hardly want to put myself in a position of having someone whose work I admire not want me to have any more."

  "I understand that I am here at your sufferance," Carter said in a cultivated monotone. "This is a very delicate matter."

  Dressed casually in gray flannels, a white shirt, and a fawn-colored sweater vest, Silver led the way down a hallway and into what must have been the man's private study. "At least you have wit and sensitivity. I can appreciate that, perhaps." He motioned Carter to a large overstuffed club chair and for himself chose an equally large Eames chair.

  A servant came scraping at the door and with her was, Carter saw immediately, a major reason for Silver's arrogance. Mrs. Silver was still in her thirties, her tawny complexion, wide-set dark eyes, and high cheekbones linking her back over the centuries to the original peoples of Mexico. Unlike Silver, her Spanish was fluid, melodic Mexican. Her thick dark hair, if allowed to fall free, would most likely reach her knees, Carter estimated. He admired the lacquered beauty of it as it was knotted and braided artfully to display an elegant neck.

  Carter felt a strong twinge of desire as her eyes met his, filled with a different kind of pride than her husband's. She may indeed be yet another of his fabled possessions, but she had a luster and determination of her own. As she offered Carter the choice of Mexican chocolate or coffee and cognac, he could see in the soft light the one anomaly to her otherwise stunning presence. There was a definite trace of a welt beginning to form on her left cheek. It was clear to Carter that Mr. Silver had been responsible and equally clear that Mrs. Silver intended to do something about it. While the servant was preparing the drinks, Silver produced a large ebony cigar box and extended it to Carter. "A great civilized pleasure, the tobacco of our friends in Cuba. As it so often happens, those who produce the civilized pleasures are least likely to enjoy them."

  "I take it you have little regard for the Cubans, Mr. Silver." He thought he saw a flicker of amusement from Mrs. Silver.

  "It depends what your historical thrust is, Carter. That bearded idiot is not one of my favorites."

  "Even so," Carter said, "there are those who say Dr. Castro is greatly preferable to the late General Batista."

  Silver grew impatient, which was what Carter wanted. "But of course, the reason for your being here is to discuss politics, eh, Carter?" The balding little man still did not betray a country or language of origin. His English was flat, nasal, correct; he might easily have gone to an English school or studied the language at an elite school for English diplomats* children somewhere abroad.

  Mrs. Silver crossed her legs demurely. It was not by any account a provocative gesture, but her physical beauty and her seemingly great reserves of dignity touched Carter.

  Silver didn't miss Carter's attraction to his wife. "Yes," Silver said. "Consuela is a great treasure. One could almost call her a national treasure. She is certainly worth a good deal."

  After the maid returned with drinks, Carter noticed that Silver spoke to her in a flawless Spanish with Mexican accents and intonations. He dismissed the maid, then in English dismissed Mrs. Silver. Carter watched her go with great reluctance.

  "May I add to my impertinence at being here by asking you your profession, Mr. Silver?"

  Silver used a wooden match to fire a cherry-red glow to the tip of his cigar. The fragrant tobacco made Carter salivate. He wished David Hawk had such tastes. "I am a diamond merchant, Carter."

  Carter played on the man's vanity. "Yes, we know about that."

  Silver's left brow twitched in response. "There was a time when I was a diamond cutter, and I must say I was a rather gifted one, being an apprentice of my late uncle, one of the great European diamond cutters. But as in all things in this life, Carter, art is not enough. A diamond cutter can live well, but not so well as this." He spread his hand to indicate the shelves, laden with artifacts of turquoise, jade, obsidian, and ceramic. "Not with things in his house that once belonged to the great Hernan Cortez, eh?"

  "Is that how you know Piet Bezeidenhout?"

  "Right to the point, eh? You ask purposeful questions, Carter. Are you a lawyer?"

  Carter shook his head, then sipped his cognac. He was letting Silver's curiosity build.

  "Ah, then, some other kind of professional, eh?" He showed Carter a wide grin filled with irony and a great deal of costly dental work. "I think it only fair that you tell me what you do. Senorita Huerta suggested you have something to do with diamonds."

  "As you know, sir, the diamond cartel has a security force. Piet Bezeidenhout is a high-ranking member." He paused to drop his bomb. "I, too, am a high-ranking member of that organization."

  Carter watched Silver's reaction. He was guardedly curious.

  "All right. Since I have agreed to discuss the matter with you, let us begin, eh? Allow me to anticipate your first question: Piet Bezeidenhout was in this house two weeks ago with a gathering of perhaps twelve others."

  Puffing leisurely on his cigar, Robert Silver told of meeting Piet Bezeidenhout when he was learning the diamond trade in Brussels. The Afrikaner seemed always to have an eye for works of art that increased in value. Equally, he was always interested in the pleasures of the dining room and, of course, the bedroom.

  When Silver was transferred to Amsterdam to begin grading diamonds and actually marking the better stones for cutting by the top cutters, Bezeidenhout appeared again from time to time, and while Silver would not want to say they were fast friends, nevertheless, one becomes bonded to a person one has gone out drinking, dining, and whoring with over a period of time.

  "And so," Carter said, "as Bezeidenhout grew in power with the diamond security police, he began spending more time away from Johannesburg and Capetown and more time abroad, making sure the interests of the diamond cartel were strictly upheld. The two of you probably had occasion to meet in places like Paris, Rome, Antwerp, New York, and Beverly Hills, eh?"

  Silver watched Carter carefully.

  Using his excellent memory, Carter went on describing Bezeidenhout to Silver just as Bezeidenhout had been described to him in the dispatches left for him back in the private jet that had taken him from Toronto to Phoenix. The effect on Silver was unsettling.

  "Why are his own people so interested in him all of a sudden?" Silver asked.

  Carter made it a rule not to let someone he was interrogating take over the questioning. "Why do you think we're interested?"

  "He is a headstrong man. He has his own beliefs."

  "We are also headstrong," Carter persisted. "What did he talk about when he was last here, in this place?"

  Robert Silver furrowed his brow and swirled his cognac. "You want everything, eh, Carter? Piet spoke of the growing difficulties of protecting personal investments or fortunes. He reminded some of us that the same is growing true in Mexico as well. It is becoming more and more difficult to use barricades, fences, and barbed wire to keep out the poor. Do you have any idea how many there are here in the capital alone??

  "This is what he talked about? The poor?"

  "He talked about the need to keep incentives alive for those who were interested in advancing their goals of security."

&n
bsp; "Why do I have the feeling that you're speaking in generalities, Mr. Silver?"

  Silver took a large toss of his cognac. "Ah, yes, you would like it if I told you that Piet was talking about apartheid and perhaps even the purity of races. You'd like that, eh, Carter?" He stood abruptly. "Well, I'm not going to give you that. Piet is a businessman, not an ideologue. He was here discussing business."

  "You understand that his business is our business?"

  "Dammit, Carter, you go too far as it is. He did not discuss the diamond business."

  Carter was sure his time in the big house was coming to an end. "Did he extend an offer to you, Mr. Silver?"

  "That was your last question, Carter, and the answer is yes, he extended an offer to me and to all the others. I will have you shown out now. I have been more than hospitable. I have no idea what you will make of this or how you will proceed, but you leave with more than when you came and so my conscience is clear."

  "So is your devotion to Bezeidenhout," Carter said. "You should be careful in your dealings with him."

  "Is that a warning, Mr. Carter, or just an observation?"

  The Killmaster met him eye to eye. "A warning," he said. A moment later the maid came to see him to the main gate.

  * * *

  Carter headed for the square and a taxi back to the Zocalo, deciding that Silver had been disturbed by his questions. This probe had touched something tender.

  He'd gone only a block or so when he had the feeling of movement behind him and turned to note a cream-white Mercedes with tinted windows slowly moving toward him, drawing abreast of him, then stopping. The door on the passenger side was pushed open.