Night of the Assassin

by Russell Blake

  Chapter 12

  Sydney was unlike any place El Rey had ever been. From the time he got off the plane, his Qantas first class experience a welcome luxury on the fifteen hour flight from Los Angeles, he was struck by how clean everything was. It was as if someone had scrubbed every surface right before he got there – but the entire town, as far as he could see wandering around the downtown area, was like that.

  He took a cab from the airport to his hotel a few blocks from Sydney harbor and stowed his gear, locking his cash in the hotel room safe and unpacking his hygiene kit. After a few hours of sleep to get adjusted to the seven hour time difference, he set out to explore the town so he’d understand the layout. A four minute walk to the ferry terminal at Circular Quay quickly convinced him that the town was filled with tourists, so one more from Mexico wouldn’t stick out, which had been one of his fears. He never wanted to be memorable anywhere he went but there would be no such problem here – judging by the host of accents and languages he heard as he moved along the waterfront from the quaint shopping area called ‘The Rocks’ toward the opera house.

  El Rey approached the iconic theater, which sat on a point at the water’s edge, its aggressive shape unmistakable from almost every photo and postcard he’d seen. He kept walking towards the ocean and soon found himself in a verdant, well-groomed park, where he passed young lovers reposing on the grass, stealing moments together after school.

  The weather was the equivalent of late autumn in Australia, the seasons being reversed from the Northern hemisphere, but it was still relatively mild and sunnier than he’d expected. And so clean. Being used to Mexico, Sydney was a shock to his system in that it was so aseptic. Even as he made his way out of the park into an area that was supposedly seedier, it was as nice as some of the best neighborhoods back home. He stopped at a long pier with a sign out front that announced it as Finger Wharf and looked in at a hotel built over the harbor – the W Sydney – and felt immediately comfortable in the dimly lit, soothing, minimalistic contemporary lobby. It was deserted, save for a young woman working behind the desk and, based on the ambience and the solitary location, he decided right then and there that he’d be moving to the W the following day.

  Walking away from the harbor, he explored the area inland from the hotel. It quickly degraded into a run-down industrial district with warehouses alongside shabby lower-income housing. A few of the buildings looked as though they were about to undergo renovation but much of the area was desolate and he found himself the only person on the streets – mid-afternoon on a weekday. He made a mental note: this was perfect for what he had in mind. He’d begun the outlines of a rough plan on the plane, purely conceptual, but if everything panned out it could work well.

  After another hour meandering the streets adjacent to the waterfront he made his way back to the hotel, where he hailed a cab and asked the driver to drop him two streets away from the address where El Chilango now lived. They drove into an upscale area fifteen minutes from the city center, and the cab stopped in front of a small market a block from the harbor.

  The neighborhood was eclectic, exhibiting a hodgepodge of architectural styles coexisting in a dissonant manner. Everything from elegant multi-story turn-of-the-century Victorian mansions to post-modern contemporary could be found. It was certainly a prosperous area, judging by the cars and the trim on the houses. El Rey knew that waterfront homes anywhere in the world were always the most expensive – he figured that Australia would be no different. He bought a bottle of water from the bored shopkeeper and then strolled towards the target’s address, relieved to find that the sidewalks were empty. When he reached the T junction that dead-ended into the target street he deliberately avoided El Chilango’s house, preferring to make a left on the street that ran along the waterfront homes rather than a right. He knew that the former cartel chief’s home was four down on the right from the intersection where he made the turn, and he didn’t really need to see much more than he did by glancing down the street as though he was a stray sightseer who’d wandered into the area. He knew from the report he’d read on the plane that it was a two story, five bedroom waterfront home on a double lot, with security lighting at night activated by motion sensors on the sides of the house, as well as the street.

  Comfortable with the feel of the neighborhood, he walked six blocks until he came to a major artery, and had a coffee shop call him a taxi while he enjoyed a cup of pungent green tea. Once back at his hotel, he did a quick calculation of the time back home before going downstairs to ask the concierge where he could get a cell phone. The pert young woman directed him four blocks away, and soon he was paying for the latest model Nokia with a three month prepaid service plan. As soon as it was activated, he fished a matchbook out of his pocket and dialed the country code and phone number he’d jotted down. Valiente’s voice answered.

  “I’m here. Do you have anything for me on a local contact?” El Rey asked.

  Valiente gave him a Sydney cell number.

  “You’ll want to ask for Victor,” Valiente said, then terminated the call, there being nothing more to discuss.

  He did as instructed, and a gravelly, Australian voice answered. El Rey told the man he was from out of town, and used Valiente’s name by way of entre. They arranged to meet an hour later at a café immediately in front of the ferry terminal. Victor would be wearing an orange T-shirt with a blue windbreaker and tan cargo pants.

  El Rey watched from his vantage point across the busy common as a man dressed as described entered the café and sat down by the window. After five minutes of scanning the quay to ensure there was no surveillance, El Rey strolled in and took a seat opposite him. Victor was in his mid forties and rail thin, with a heavily lined, sun-damaged face boasting the perennial flush of the habitual hard drinker, spectacularly crooked teeth, and thatches of salt-and-pepper hair pointing in all directions. He looked like nothing so much as an absentminded professor with a boozing problem.

  “G’day, mate. Name’s Victor. I was told to give yah whatever yah needed, and mum’s the word,” Victor started. El Rey couldn’t really make out what the man was saying, so instead began speaking in his quiet, calm voice. His English was passable from years of study, but still heavily accented with Spanish inflection.

  “I will need a boat with a captain tomorrow to take me around the harbor so I can look over some places. I have also made a list of items I will require. And I think I’ve found an area with some industrial space you can rent inexpensively. If not, I need a small warehouse in a quiet neighborhood where it will have no neighbors, good for privacy, yes?” El Rey handed him the neatly hand-written note with his requirements.

  Victor studied it, and nodded. “No worries, mate. Good as done – but it’ll run yah dear. My guess is twenty grand American at least, plus the boat tour. How many rounds you need for the rifle and the pistol?” Victor asked.

  “A hundred for the rifle and its magazines, and fifty for the pistol and its spares. Will the night vision equipment be a problem?”

  “Mate, none of it’s a problem. Just a matter of money. Give me two days and I’ll have the whole lot sorted,” Victor assured him. “Now in the meantime, what about yerself? Need any company? Interested in the ladies?” Seeing the vacant expression on the assassin’s face and intuiting a lack of interest, he tried again. “Or maybe the boys? A little Cage aux Follees, if yah catch my meaning? Whatever yer flavor, Victor’s the man…”

  “Just the items on the list, some warehouse space with no neighbors and a boat with a captain. Nothing fancy. Something that will blend in. I’d like to use it tomorrow for around four hours. And make sure it’s got some fishing equipment onboard. I’ll call you in the morning. Will that work for you?” El Rey asked, ignoring Victor’s offer.

  Victor assured him that it would, and they quickly parted ways, Victor to procure the necessary hardware and El Rey to have an early dinner and get some sleep.

  The following day, Victor had made arrangements for
a cabin cruiser to pick El Rey up at the pier marina that hosted the W Hotel and the adjacent condominiums and restaurants. He checked out of his current hotel and walked over to the W, taking a waterfront room for a week on the third floor. Once he’d unpacked, he grabbed a quick bite downstairs before heading out to meet the boat, a heavy set of binoculars around his neck. It was a thirty-eight-foot Riviera sports fisherman with twin diesel engines, and soon they were cutting through the chop at a fair clip. El Rey gave the captain GPS coordinates for the portion of the harbor he wanted to anchor in and fish. The man looked at him as though he was crazy.

  “Won’t catch much there but muck suckers, mate,” he advised.

  “That’s okay. I just like being on the water, enjoying the scenery and looking at all the beautiful houses,” El Rey explained.

  They motored to the designated spot and dropped anchor. The captain dutifully got out two light-tackle salt water fishing rods and a bag of frozen bait. El Rey played along and allowed the man to drop a line into the water for him, then went inside the salon, where the heavily tinted windows blocked anyone from seeing in. He raised his binoculars and scanned the house, noting the neighbors’ homes, searching for anything that could afford him an advantage. He paid special attention to the shore area and the distances between the homes, which wasn’t much. Fortunately, El Chilango had built tall walls on either side for security and privacy, so he wouldn’t have to deal with neighbor issues once inside. As they sat there, bobbing in the wake of the boats cruising past them, he noted that there were three security men nosing around, not just the one the report would have led him to believe. So either the house had received some sort of warning, or the surveillance had been sloppy. Instead of a day man and a night one, there were six total: three and three.

  They spent two hours at anchor, the boat rocking gently, with El Rey mainly watching the house. By lunchtime, he’d seen enough. The target had been visible several times in his living room and bedroom, and it would have been a cinch to take him out with a single shot. Unfortunately, that wasn’t what he was being paid to do. Reconciling himself to the unpleasant reality that he’d have to do this the hard way, he announced to the captain that it was time to leave. Just then one of the two rods screamed as line tore off the reel – the skipper ran to tighten the drag. He set the hook and then offered the pole to El Rey, who shook his head – he had no interest in trying to fight the fish. After a few moments the line went limp; when the captain reeled it in, the leader had been bitten through.

  “Probably a shark,” he said.

  “Are there a lot of them around here?” El Rey asked, curious.

  “In the harbor, yah get some sand sharks and a few larger ones. Out in the ocean, there’s great whites, ya know. Frightful big buggers. One of em gets ya, yer day’s pretty much ruined. Don’t want to mess with one of those, I’ll tell yah,” he warned.

  “No. I’d imagine not.”

  That evening, El Rey had a phone discussion with Victor, and they arranged a meeting for the next day to look over the industrial space he’d gotten and inventory the hardware.

  In the morning, a blue Ford sedan pulled to the curb by the original hotel El Rey had stayed at. Victor grinned from behind the wheel, inviting him to get in. Soon they were motoring to the deserted area near the W, and after a few turns, they arrived at a bleak strip of old industrial warehouses. Victor got out and opened one of the heavy steel doors and they stepped into a dilapidated twenty-by-forty brick space that reeked of stale air and urine. El Rey tried the lights – two fluorescent bulbs flickered above as if struggling to stay lit, and then with a flash, suddenly illuminated.

  The assassin studied the shabby interior, his arms crossed, and then nodded.

  “This will do.”

  Glancing around the dank room a final time, El Rey dictated an additional list of items he’d need, based on his surveillance of the target and his appraisal of his new workspace. Victor scribbled furiously in a small notebook as El Rey ticked off the requirements. Finished, they eyed the overhead steel beams that supported the roof, before El Rey made two more requests. Victor nodded, and assured him that within forty-eight hours he would have the space outfitted, and then went to the car and removed a long duffle with the requested hardware and brought it inside the space. El Rey inspected each item carefully and nodded in approval. Perhaps Victor resembled a buffoon, but he’d gotten everything right on the first try. That was good. He hoped Victor did as well on the second round of stuff. None of it was that specialized, so he was confident the man would be able to get it all.

  Three days later, they returned to the warehouse. It had been completely transformed. El Rey was impressed. He’d spent parts of the last few days in the target’s neighborhood, driving around with Victor, studying the layout, and had a watcher confirm the number of guards at night, as well. El Chilango rarely left the house, so whatever his wine business was, you could apparently run it from home. That would make things somewhat harder – it would be far easier to stage something while a target was in transit, but you played the cards you were dealt, and El Rey was confident.

  Tomorrow would be show time, and he would either justify the considerable money he’d been spending over the course of his antipodean vacation – or die trying.