by Howard Upton
Twenty minutes later, he watched a tall, lanky Latino walk into the Restaurante Oasis. He took notice of the man’s well-worn cowboy boots and long-sleeved yellow shirt neatly tucked into a pair of pressed Levi Straus jeans. With dark eyes and slicked back black hair, the man’s demeanor was one of a well-to-do loner. The same look a lot of the Mexican drug lords brandished. He gave his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the darker environment of the restaurant before walking to the table.
As the lunch crowd ebbed and flowed with tourists heading to and from the ancient Mayan ruins of Chichen Itza and Ek Balam, as well as many locals fortunate enough to have enough money to enjoy a hot meal prepared in a restaurant, the white man stood to greet his associate with a forced smile.
Spoken so others around couldn’t hear him, “It’s about fucking time you showed up. Be late to one more of my meetings and you’ll never have to worry about being late to another one, Rafael. Do I make myself clear?”
They both sat and pulled their chairs up to the table covered with a cheap white cotton cloth. The American adjusted his silverware on his right side then placed his napkin in his lap. The Latino followed suit. By all accounts, the two gentlemen were meeting for a casual business luncheon.
Rafael narrowed his eyes but then quickly softened his facial expression. “My apologies Señor Haden; I had some trouble finding this restaurante. I won’t let it happen again.”
Haden, his face neutral, replied sharply, “You’re fucking-a right you won’t let it happen again. And while we’re on the subject, I told you this job would require you to be inconspicuous, yet you waltz in here looking like you’re on the prowl for some dime store pussy at a two dollar strip club. Are you really that stupid?”
Rafael felt the heat rising to his face and had to fight to keep his composure. But more than that, he could feel something evil or dirty seeping through Haden’s aura, and decided that allowing his temper to get the best of him would be stupid and dangerous. Something about the man’s heavy gaze told him he would kill without remorse, and had done so many times previously.
Besides, this job would be a major score for him and he didn’t want to upset his employer any more than he already had. With some noticeable effort he put his emotions in check, poised himself, and offered a tight smile.
“Señor, dark-skinned people don’t like being in the sun. We don’t want to get any darker. I think if you look around, you’ll see other Latinos dressed just like me,” replied Rafael in his thick Mexican accent.
Haden shrugged Rafael’s response off as the waitress brought him his cold Sol beer and asked Rafael what he would like to drink. Rafael glanced at her and said he would have the same thing as his friend. The waitress realized nothing would come from flirting with these two, their demeanor said casual but their body language was screaming violence.
“Let’s get down to business, amigo. There is an item, native to this area that is of great interest to a special group of my friends. Its intrinsic value is not significant, but its historical value is tremendous within the world of collectors of antiquity. I have been asked to acquire it so that they might enjoy its natural beauty and ponder it privately.”
While Rafael listened intently, the skinny waitress brought him his beer. He nodded his appreciation and immediately took a long pull from the bottle, savoring the bitter flavor. His mind wandered to a much simpler time in his small village just outside Cancun, where American and European tourists were happy to throw him money for the easiest of chores. He thought about loading luggage at the airport or working at one of the many all-inclusive resorts found along the strip in Cancun. His skills eventually led him to some visiting “dignitaries” asking where they could score some good Mexican weed. Rafael happily made their purchases and deliveries...for a price. Subsequently, he found himself swimming in the seedy underworld of drugs and corruption, which landed him here with this big mouth American. Pinche cabron he thought. I’d like to pluck out his gringo eyes and eat them.
“Are you listening to me, boy?” Haden asked as he watched Rafael’s mind drift from the conversation.
Curtly, and at his emotional limit, Rafael responded, “Si, señor, I hear you. But I will warn you that I do not take kindly to being called a boy. I can deal with most of your insults, Señor Haden, but if you call me that again, you can go fuck yourself. Comprende?”
Haden pulled deeply from his beer, never breaking eye contact with the Mexican, his face as stoic as ever. He took a deep breath, releasing the unseen tension from his shoulders and lungs. He smiled and said, “You have cajones, amigo, I’ll give you that, but if you want to get into a dick measuring contest with me you’ll find yourself woefully short. Now pay attention to what I’m telling you.”
Rafael didn’t respond, but took another drink from his beer and leaned forward to assure Haden that he was invested in the conversation.
“At the National Museum of Anthropology there’s an object called a cartouche. Have you ever heard of such a thing?"
Rafael’s silence confirmed what Haden already knew; he had never heard of the item.
“Specifically, it’s a Mayan cartouche and, as I’ve told you, my friends would like it for their private collection. The museum isn’t heavily guarded and I don’t think you will have much in the way of problems in acquiring it. Do you think you can handle this?”
Rafael had heard of the Museo Nacional de Antropología, but had never been to Mexico City to see it. The poor growing up on the streets of Mexico rarely had the opportunity or luxury to immerse themselves in ancient cultures or travel while trying to find their next meal or score.
“Do I think I can handle this? Si, I can handle most anything. But the question is how much does this job pay, Señor?” Confidence exuded from the Mexican. He reached for his beer and smugly took another swallow.
“Fifty thousand U.S. dollars,” Haden responded without hesitation. “But no mistake will be tolerated and absolutely nothing can jeopardize acquiring the cartouche.”
“I don’t know, Mr. Haden,” Rafael began as he switched to the English form of respect, “fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money, but it won’t help me if a Federali catches me with a stolen item in my pocket. I can’t do this for less than one hundred thousand dollars U.S. I need fifty thousand now and fifty thousand when I deliver this thing to you.”
Haden anticipated this amateur’s negotiation tactics, but pretended to ponder the counter offer. He took another long drink from his beer, swished the cold liquid around in his mouth and swallowed. He rubbed his chin, making a production of his self-deliberation before responding, “Done. But I will need the cartouche in my hands in short order. July twenty-second. That’s when you shall have it to me.” Two of his vertebrae popped as he leaned back in his chair. Glorious relief from the pressure the cheap furniture in the restaurant had passed to his aging back allowed a sigh to escape his lips.
Rafael offered a greasy smile, nodded his head and replied, “No problemo, señor. Two weeks I will have this...this cartouche to you. I need to know what it looks like and where it is stored so I can gain access.” His weathered hand reached for his beer and brought it to his lips. Lime and hops splashed across his tongue and the cold beverage cascaded down his throat. A thankful nod of appreciation for the chilled beer’s refreshing taste was the only acknowledgment he gave Haden.
“Of course,” smiled Haden as he slid a picture of a silver pendant with strange raised pictographs engraved on its surface. The pendant was oval shaped, approximately an inch and a half long and a half inch wide. The bottom of the strange looking charm flared to each side and was shaped in dual heads facing away from one another forming single toothed serpents on either side.
Rafael studied the picture for a few moments before sliding it back to Haden who quickly took the photo in his hand, folded it and put it in his shirt pocket. His eyes cut around the room without his head moving to make sure they weren’t being observed. Both men understood that a paper trail w
as not allowable, in the event the mission went awry, so the Mexican would have to commit the photo to memory.
“The cartouche is stored in the conservation lab of the museum. Standard cameras are in place both inside and out. Armed guards man each entry. Every artifact on display is monitored by a heat sensor, including the pendant.”
“How am I supposed to get this thing if there are heat sensors around it?” he asked.
“Simple,” he replied as he looked around to assure no one could overhear him. “In this bag I’m going to give you, you’ll find a small deflection device. It’s called a bi-morph opto-mechanical deflector. Bi-morph heat sensors have been around for quite some time, but this technology allows you to insert the deflector in close proximity to the desired object, then simply remove whatever item the sensor is protecting. But you must allow the deflector to calibrate to room temperature upon your arrival, as the material is stainless steel specially coated with applied rolled-on nanotechnology. This usually takes no longer than two or three minutes.
“Once you enter the museum, open the bag, or whatever you are carrying it in, and allow the room air to begin working its magic. By the time you arrive in the conservation lab it will be fully calibrated. Simply slide it in place and remove your prize when you see the deflector turn a slight shade of blue on its surface. It’s really that easy.”
Rafael thought about what he was being told and considered asking if there was more to this relic than someone merely wanting to add it to a personal collection. Stealing a country’s precious artifacts was a serious crime and Rafael wanted to know what, if anything, Haden was hiding. Rather than risking the ire of the hot-headed American, he kept his thoughts and questions to himself. Perhaps this cartouche could be leveraged in some way once I get it, he pondered.
For a moment it seemed as if Haden was reading his mind. The American eyed him warily then reached for his own beer. He sipped it, enjoying its coolness.
Haden slid the bag containing the deflector to Rafael, nodded at him and got up to leave. After glancing to his left and right, he once more locked eyes with his hired thief. “Remember,” he said in low breath, “don’t fuck this up. You have my number. Only use it to let me know when you have acquired my artifact.”
Haden dropped an envelope on the table with fifty thousand United States dollars. Rafael didn’t make any sudden move to grab it, a particular discipline Haden had to respect. He raised a brow at the Mexican and nodded at the envelope and Rafael nodded back ever-so-slightly, noticeable only to Haden.
He turned, put his hat on and walked out the door, careful to check the vicinity for anyone he might consider suspicious. A small, light blue Honda two-door passenger car passed him followed by a local teenager on an old bicycle. The local was wearing a backpack stuffed full of handmade crafts he would attempt to sell to visiting Americans and Europeans for ten times their actual worth.
The rented SUV Haden had parked across the street beeped as he pressed the remote he pulled from his pocket. He took out a pair of aviator sunglasses he had placed in a shirt pocket and put them on. Looking around once more to make sure no one had followed him, he climbed inside the four door Range Rover. As he drove east on Route 180 to Cancun, he replayed the meeting he had had with Rafael in his mind.
That stupid fucking wetback better get this damned charm out of that museum and have it to me in two weeks, or the pain he’ll feel for failing me will be like nothing he’s experienced. ‘Course, after he gives me the cartouche, I’m going to off him anyway, but he’ll save himself a hell of a lot of pain if he gets this right.
Haden chuckled to himself when he thought about killing Rafael. The look of surprise on the Mexican’s face would be priceless when Rafael finally realized his life was at an end.
His mind shifted to the cartouche and what it would mean to him once he had it in his possession. The secret it would reveal would be worth more money than he could imagine and his “buddies” in the CIA would reward him handsomely for it. Vast amounts of his time had been committed to researching and finding the relic, not to mention the financial investments he had made in doing so. They’d pay alright, and kiss his ass while handing over the money.
Palm, papaya and avocado trees zipped past as he continued driving, his mind not really focused on the road. Little traffic found its way down this stretch of highway, except for the buses carrying tourists from Cancun to the old Mayan ruins.
Fucking Christians in Action. God how I hate those guys, but they do pay well for things they want. And if they won’t pay, then some other country’s government will pay top dollar for the chance to rule an entire planet. With that thought he broke into another round of chuckles as he made his way to the all-inclusive Royal Sands resort where he had booked his stay. At least he would enjoy some decent food, air conditioning, quality liquor and the thoughts of finally having the cartouche in his hands. Hell, he might even rent a little pussy for the evening, but she would be high-class, not like that trashy waitress from the Restaurante Oasis, and she’d have some big-ass tits.
Mexico City, Mexico
July 9, 2013, 7:45 A.M.
Rafael had taken his time driving south and west from the Yucatan. His desire to avoid unwanted attention from any local police or Federalis on the take forced him to drive off main highways for the majority of the trip and spend the night at a hotel that hadn’t changed the sheets on the bed in quite some time. The room smelled like cheap cerveza and even cheaper sex. Still, it provided him with the cover he sought, as few “law enforcement” types frequented the place, unless there was a murder to investigate or they were spending time with a girlfriend or whore they had just arrested. Sometimes a girl turning a trick with a man of the law prevented her from going to jail or having to use her hard earned money as a payment to the cop that had just arrested her.
The extra time had also given him plenty to consider since meeting with Haden. Why was he so interested in this particular pendant? What was its value? He took the time to perform an internet search on his phone and discovered the cartouche was not much more than a charm worn on a necklace. Not far from the beaches of Cancun, rip-off artists made “authentic Mayan cartouches” to sell for American dollars, and naïve tourists lined up by the droves to purchase one after a tour of some ancient Mayan ruin.
Ironically, Rafael had never heard of these ornaments. He supposed street life and scraping to get by trumped learning about some odd piece of jewelry he couldn’t afford anyway. But he wasn’t a stupid man by any means. As a matter of fact, he knew a man like Haden wouldn’t concern himself with some relic unless its value was weighed in more than United States currency.
He sat at the ratty table in his hotel room and drank the disgusting coffee he had brewed. As he raked his long black hair from his eyes, he stared at his coffee cup and thought about his association with Haden.
Rafael’s services had been procured by Haden almost exclusively for the past three years. In most cases it was simple thievery of items brought into port areas on either shore of Mexico. Usually, he intercepted small arms for him. Somehow Haden would know when shipments were being made to the rogue nation. Stealing them was pretty easy, as these “imports” weren’t controlled by the government, but by other thugs trying to make a quick dollar. He suspected these smuggled guns were from American cities, procured by renegade cops and sold for cash to some dealer.
Haden paid him well enough and he was able to live comfortably in a country where earning pesos meant living in squalor for most of the country’s citizens. He owned a small house and horded the extra money he earned; he didn’t want to draw the notice of thugs hungry for his small fortune, nor did he want the government snooping around in his business. When he wasn’t doing work for Haden, he found employment with other foreigners interested in the drug and arms trade. Most were interested in simply moving the items through the country to drops in the United States. Moving the drugs and guns beyond Mexico’s borders was someone else’s responsibi
lity, as Rafael didn’t want or need the wrath of the United State’s federal government coming down on him, so he would arrange for pickup close to the border, yet far enough away to avoid prying eyes.
He had also been a gun for hire when the situation called for it, and the price was right. In his mind he separated the value of human life from what he considered “work.” He wanted to hang on to what humanity he could, and while his upbringing had been on the seedy streets of eastern Mexico, he still felt compassion for his people, especially the poor, so revenge killings were something he refused. Justifying murder was a tricky thing, but killing another mercenary made it tolerable. Murdering someone not involved in his usual line of business was something he simply wouldn’t do, primarily because most of the jobs he turned down involved an unfaithful husband or wife, or some such nonsense.
He took another sip of his bitter coffee and pushed thoughts of the jewelry’s value and his relationship with Haden from his mind. He needed to focus on the task at hand, which included a more elaborate thievery than he’d been part of in the past. Certain that attaining the item wouldn’t be overly difficult, otherwise Haden would have hired a professional thief, he figured he would shower, change clothes and do some reconnaissance work around the museum.
After finishing his java and morning preparations, he checked the time – it wasn’t quite 8:00. He headed west down the Chapultepec Avenue into an already heady amount of traffic. He navigated the ever-growing presence of eighteen-wheelers and commuters trying to get to their jobs until he found Sevilla Street and turned right. Sevilla merged into one of the hundreds of roundabouts found throughout the metropolitan area. He exited onto the third ramp leading to the museum on the Avenue Paseo de la Reforma. The flow of traffic on Reforma was mercifully lighter than the other major thoroughfares as the morning sun shined brightly in Rafael’s eyes. Delicious smells from street markets wafted through his rental car’s air conditioning system, which served as a reminder that he had not eaten anything since his supper the night before.
