Night of the Assassin

by Russell Blake

  ~ ~ ~

  Mexico City’s sky was laden with hulking, dark clouds when El Rey pulled over the hills and into the infamously dangerous metropolitan traffic. The Toyota had run like a champ, was a pleasure to drive, softening the blows of the rutted patches between Culiacan and DF, or Distrito Federal, as the locals referred to Mexico City. He’d gotten the contact information of a man Valiente, his new patron and sponsor, had known since childhood. Valiente had made a phone call and proposed a relationship that his friend couldn’t possibly refuse. The man owned a pawn shop but he’d fallen into leveraging his contacts in the underworld and being a facilitator for extermination work – the human kind. It was a difficult role for him because he was basically a good and decent man, but the money was simply too attractive to turn down for a no-risk proposition. He had three contractors who handled domestic disputes and business disagreements, and he took twenty percent of the contract price to handle the money and vet the clients.

  El Rey needed someone trustworthy to launder his money and deal with the payments. If he was going to do this professionally, he needed a front office, so to speak – and professional representation. He could handle sourcing the jobs but he couldn’t haul around several million dollars in hundreds and be effective. He needed a banker and an accountant. Valiente’s contact seemed ideally suited for the role. And Valiente had warned his friend what he was dealing with, lest he get the bright idea to take El Rey’s money and run for the hills. In the cartels, if you vouched for someone and made an introduction, and then that someone screwed the person you’d introduced, you could expect to be held accountable for your recommendation’s actions. Valiente had seen more than enough of El Rey’s handiwork in a short period to know he didn’t want that coming after him.

  The narcotraficante chief had become El Rey’s biggest admirer and had promised to spread the word of his prowess in return for a commitment to never accept a contract on him. That seemed reasonable to El Rey, and Valiente was an up-and-comer in the most powerful cartel on the planet, so as sponsors go, he could do worse. His plan was to limit his activity to a few hits a year, but to steadily increase the fee he charged as well as the level of difficulty of the sanctions he accepted until he became the highest paid killer in the world. Mexico was the right place for that, given the amount of money flowing through the cartels, although he’d heard good things about Russia, too. Problem there was that he didn’t speak the language. He’d studied English in school and, of course, there was his Spanish. But that was it. So he wouldn’t be doing any work in St. Petersburg or Vladivostok.

  He merged toward the right lane and took an off ramp from the clogged freeway into an even more congested area of the city. After circling around for half an hour, he eventually located the pawn shop and managed to find a parking spot. He threw his black duffel bag over his shoulder and made his way two blocks to the store. The neighborhood was sketchy even by Mexico City standards, which was saying a lot, but then again, money lenders of last resort didn’t tend to be located in the ritziest areas.

  At the glass door to the shop, he noted bars everywhere, providing security against night incursions, as well as a roll-up metal awning that would completely seal off the storefront. With all the bars it seemed like overkill, but El Rey liked that – it hinted at a man who took precautions, and who over-engineered them. That was a careful man, which is what he needed. The establishment itself was modest by any measure, which suggested a lack of braggadocio or hubris. Again, strongly positive from El Rey’s position.

  He pushed open the entry door and walked into a small, somewhat shabby showroom with a few inexpensive glass cases showcasing the tarnished treasures of the impoverished and downtrodden. Silver infant cups, cheap watches, scarred gold chains, obsolete cameras. El Rey was liking this guy’s style more and more. This was the last place in the world he would expect to find a man who handled the affairs of high-end contract killers. Nothing about the shop spoke of money or success or high-rolling, which were usually hand in hand with cartel-related businesses. This just said boring.

  El Rey liked boring.

  He approached the barred window, which was fabricated out of inch-thick bullet-proof glass, and pushed the button next to it, listening as the buzzer echoed in the rear, behind the heavy steel door to his right. He studied the door: it was built like a bank’s, although it was probably heavier by the looks of the four massive hinge plates welded in place. He rapped a knuckle against the wall next to it – at least foot-thick reinforced concrete. A meager enterprise with security like a vault. Interesting.

  Footsteps approached, and then a small man with a beret and a graying goatee appeared at the window.

  “Yes?” he asked by way of greeting.

  “I’m here for an eleven o’clock meeting,” El Rey said.

  “Ah. Of course.” The steel door buzzed and El Rey rushed to grab the handle before it stopped. He swung it open and noted that he’d been correct. The steel slab was very heavy indeed, and the locking mechanism was industrial grade.

  “Nice door.”

  “Mmmm. Two one-inch steel plates with a titanium core. Custom made in Austria. Cost a bit, but worth it,” the little man said. He extended his hand. “Jaime Tortora, at your service. Please. Come back to my offices. Would you like anything to drink? Water? Coffee? Beer?”

  El Rey shook his hand. “No, thank you. I don’t drink coffee or alcohol. I’ll follow you.”

  Tortora walked down the dimly lit hallway and opened the door of his office. The two men entered and Tortora gestured to one of the chairs in front of his desk. He took his seat behind it and leaned forward, both hands on the surface, visible at all times. El Rey noticed this reassuring stance, and nodded almost imperceptibly as he sat, placing the duffle on the chair next to him.

  “A mutual friend of some distinction called and indicated there was an opportunity for us to help each other,” Tortora began, then hesitated. “You may speak freely. I have eavesdropping detection equipment in place, and if you were wired, I’d know. I also sweep the office once a week. Vocational paranoia, you could say.”

  El Rey fixed him with a tranquil gaze. “I am looking for someone who can help me; act as a back office and clearing system for my payments and due diligence on clients,” El Rey said.

  “Ah, yes. Well, that’s what I do. I take twenty percent if I source the clients, or ten percent if you do. I can deal with cash, although that’s an additional ten percent right off the top for the bank to handle. I prefer wire transfers or bearer instruments, and have an extensive infrastructure to accommodate those. Austria and the Caymans, with a second set of accounts in Panama and Lichtenstein. All owned by dummy front companies out of Hong Kong or Latvia.” Tortora reached over and took a sip of water from a glass near his computer monitor. “I can assist in setting up a structure for you, if that is necessary. My only advice if you intend to do so yourself is to hire a professional. The money trail is often the weak link.”

  “I’d be interested in having you set up a mechanism. I want money to wind up in Uruguay or Belize. I’ve read about setting up companies there, International Business Companies, where the ownership can be held via bearer shares, which are untraceable,” El Rey observed.

  “Yes, but there are some problems with that. I’d advise a more involved structure, where we first create a trust whose beneficiary is a Swiss corporation, and then have the trust’s attorney set up the IBC and the bank account. Do you need papers? Passports? Identity documents of any kind?” Tortora asked.

  “Now that you mention it, yes. I’ll need a Spanish passport, a Mexican birth certificate and passport, and a third passport, maybe from El Salvador or Peru. I’d like them all in different names and, if possible, legitimately issued – not forgeries.”

  “That can be done. But it will be expensive. Probably a couple of hundred thousand dollars. It would be way cheaper to have high quality forgeries created,” Tortora advised, glancing at the young man. “But fakes are no
t as bullet-proof, no pun intended.”

  “The money isn’t a concern. How long will it take?”

  “For legitimate documents? A month or two. I can get the Mexican paperwork faster, so if you have pressing travel plans, figure two weeks for that. The rest are more complicated,” Tortora explained.

  “All right. Get the Mexican one as soon as possible. Now let’s talk about how this will work. I have a large sum of cash I need washed so it can be transferred into a bank account once you have the structure set up. Why the ten percent for cash?”

  “That’s what I have to pay to circumvent the anti-money laundering laws at the bank. It’s the going rate. How much cash are we talking, anyway?” Tortora asked.

  “Two million dollars, mas o menos. And likely two hundred fifty thousand per job, couple of times a year. To start.”

  Tortora didn’t blink. “I can handle that. Do you have any questions for me?”

  “How many other contractors do you handle?”

  “Three. But smaller scale than what you’re doing. Fifty grand here and there.”

  “I’d like you to drop them. How much would I need to bring in to replace their income?” El Rey asked.

  “Depends. Will you be sourcing your own clients?”

  “Absolutely. All you’ll be doing is handling the money. I’ll even collect it most of the time, unless there’s a wire transfer, which is doubtful, given my clientele.”

  Tortora considered the question carefully.

  “One of the issues is that if you’re killed, I have lost my business and will have to start over.” Tortora said, then quickly punched some numbers into his desktop calculator.

  “I’m not planning on getting killed.”

  “Nobody does. But it’s a risk that needs to be adjusted for. I think that if we went fifteen percent up to the first million of income per year, then ten for anything above, I could cut my other contractors loose. But I’d need to see at least half a million gross per year of income to make it worth my while. That’s a lot of contracts,” Tortora said.

  “Not to brag, but soon that will only be two contracts a year, and then only one. So not that many.” The assassin sat back and studied Tortora’s face. “I accept your proposal. Fifteen of the first million, ten above that. Bank fees to come off the top, pre-split.” He lifted the duffel and placed it on the desk. “This is two million five hundred thousand dollars. Take the paperwork money and the fees to create the structure out of it. What will the structuring run, anyway?” El Rey asked.

  “Not that much. Maybe fifty by the time everything’s set up. Fifteen for the company formations, and the rest for lubrication and consultants and attorneys. Then maybe ten grand a year thereafter for filing fees.”

  “Okay. So call it two point two million cash after deducting for that. Minus ten percent for the banks, leaves us at an even two. I’ll give you fifty of that for your time, given that you haven’t done any heavy lifting beyond opening some accounts. Cut your other operators loose within six months. By then, I’ll be back and working,” El Rey instructed.

  “Do you have any questions of me? Guarantees about the safety of your money?”

  “Our mutual friend must have explained a little. I know you have an apartment upstairs and a home, with a daughter in university. I know everything about you. I can find you wherever you are, no matter how deep you think you’ve gone, so, no, I’m not too worried. Then again, you’d be stupid to try it, because over the next few years you’ll make a lot of money as my fee increases. And it will. I’m already at two hundred grand a hit, and that will move to two-fifty on the next ones.” El Rey wasn’t bragging or threatening. His calm, soft voice was merely stating fact.

  Tortora appraised him anew.

  “I believe you. My friend indicated that you’d done the impossible in no time. And he’s not an easy man to impress. If he’s singing your praises, you’ll have your hands full with work whenever you want it.”

  They discussed more details, such as names for the passports and logistics of contacting each other, and after an hour, concluded their meeting.

  El Rey liked the little man. He was perfect. Avaricious but old enough so he wouldn’t be a runner. Morally neutral on the issue of the business, and not squeamish. A good combination. The money would all accumulate in accounts only El Rey had signature authority over, using his new passports and names, so it would be in no danger once it hit his banks. As to the cash, he wasn’t worried about that disappearing. There were some things that just weren’t worth doing, and he got the sense that the pawn shop proprietor had quickly figured out that fucking him over was one of them.

  He had a spring in his step as he returned to his Toyota, one more problem dealt with. This was shaping up nicely, perfectly following the plan he’d had in mind since he was seventeen. He would become the highest paid assassin in the world within a few years, famous for meticulously planned sanctions that defied belief. He would become a sort of miracle worker. El Rey would be a name that cartel bosses used to frighten their kids at night, and it would be synonymous with a ghost, a phantom who could do the impossible. In a world where nobody got scared, an environment where violence and death was daily currency, there would be something that even the most hardened veterans would fear.

  The name of the beast.

  El Rey.