Requiem for the Assassin (12 page)

“Really? I got the impression from something I read that you were part Mexican.”

“Um, no. Spanish, but we never spoke it at home.”

“Ah.” She paused. “So you like Baja. Do you ever get to Tijuana?”

He shook his head. “Not since high school. It was kind of a shithole then. I haven’t had any reason to go back.”

“It definitely has its low spots. Did they cover the death of Archbishop Bolivar in the American press?” she asked, watching his face for any trace of a reaction.

“Who?” His disinterest wasn’t faked. Perry had never heard of him.

“Oh, the head of the Church in Baja.”

“Mmm, no. I don’t read the papers much, though.”

Of course not. As the bright star in his universe, he wouldn’t. What could possibly be more interesting than the events in his own life?

“Well, Mexico can be a very hospitable place, Mr. Perry. You should try to spend more time there.” Carla’s smile could have powered a small city, her flirtation unmistakable.

Forty-five minutes went by, during which she learned little she didn’t already know. He was returning to Los Angeles on Monday morning, his schedule packed: the show on Tuesday; a charity dinner on Wednesday before flying to Australia on Thursday for preproduction on an independent film – a favor to one of his buddies, he said. Perry seemed nice enough and invited her to dinner, but she declined, not wanting to seem too eager to spend time with him.

“Maybe a cocktail after, if you’re around,” she suggested.

“I’m only supposed to be drinking celery juice or whatever this weekend. All part of the detox thing.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize. I’m just here because it’s exclusive and peaceful.”

“I do the whole program. You should really check it out. You’ll feel like a million bucks after two days of hikes and dieting and everything.”

“That’s good to know. Ah, well. I’m getting a little tender from the sun. If I see you this evening, I’ll buy you a juice,” she said, collecting her things. By the way he was devouring her with his eyes, she was confident she’d be running into him later.

“That’s the best invitation I’ve had all day.”

She slipped on her sandals and pulled a cover-up over her thong bikini and then gave the young actor a long, contemplative look.

“I’ll be at the bar around nine.”

Chapter 19

Mexico City, Mexico

The fair-haired man meandered down the sidewalk in the historical district, unremarkable amongst thousands of other pedestrians, his jeans, green soccer jersey and five o’clock shadow a kind of ubiquitous uniform for the city’s young males. Only his hair color might have stuck out, but it was tucked under the brim of a black baseball cap featuring the logo of an American sports team.

Vendors clogged the gutters, their carts laden with bags of nuts and candy, blissfully unconcerned by the dust thrown up by traffic. A squat woman with a surgical mask flipped hot dogs on a portable grill as customers waited, money in hand. The air was filled with the smell of cooking and exhaust as he turned a corner and moved onto a smaller side street. The pavement underfoot changed to cobblestones as he made his way toward the coffee shop, its sign already lit to compensate for the crepuscular glow in the sky, where he was certain his rendezvous would be waiting.

He pushed through the doors and saw his man sitting in a corner, looking like he’d been drinking battery acid. He approached and sat down across from him, the café empty at the late hour. A waitress appeared by his side, and he ordered a cappuccino, and the two men stared at each other wordlessly until she returned with the coffee and set it in front of the newcomer.

The fair-haired man took a cautious sip and set the cup down. “Delicious,” he pronounced softly.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying this,” the other man grumbled.

“When God gives you lemons…” He eyed the cup. “But perhaps you’re right. Let’s get to it. Give me an update.”

“The assassin’s in play. You saw the news about the archbishop’s regrettable accident. I’m confident that the other two names will be dispatched shortly.”

“Yes, we were amused by the creativity of the hit. Several of the smaller papers carried a few of the more lurid details before they were throttled by the archdiocese. Well done on that one.”

A pained smile. “I told you he was the best.”

“Let’s hope he continues to live up to your description of his skills. You’ve managed to keep the entire affair compartmentalized so far?”

“Of course. I’m the only one that knows this isn’t an official op. But as I said before, no secret remains hidden indefinitely, and the more time that goes on, the harder it will be to keep it quiet.”

The fair-haired man took another sip of his drink. “Given the paranoid nature of your organization, I’d think that this little adventure would stay confidential in perpetuity. Silent as the confessional, as it were.” He cleared his throat. “There’s no easy way to say this. While we’re happy with your performance so far, I’m afraid I have some less than good news.”

“What now?”

“There’s another name we’ll need help with.”

A long pause. “Absolutely not. We had a deal.”

The fair-haired man waited a few beats. “Yes, we did. But may I remind you that deals can change, just as this one now has. Don’t worry. We’ll compensate you for it.”

“You know I’m not doing this for the money. Don’t insult me.”

“Still, a quarter million dollars per sanction takes the sting out of it.”

“That money will do me no good if I get caught.”

“Then don’t get caught.” The fair-haired man studied his companion, taking in the stress showing around his mouth and the tightness of the skin below his eyes. “It’s regrettable, but you’re a victim of your own success.”

“Who is it?”

The fair-haired man whispered a name and title. The other sat back, an expression of shock on his face. “You’re insane. I know this man. He’s one of the most protected in the city. It’s impossible.”

“Seems your fellow specializes in the impossible. Before you get too upset, I’d remind you that it’s not I who has such a regrettable liking for…the little ones.” The fair-haired man sat back, his face impassive. They’d discovered that their CISEN contact had a large collection of child pornography on his home computer, which even in Mexico would land him in prison for a long time, given that much of it was homemade over a period spanning years and featured his unmistakable features in the lion’s share of the shots.

“You miserable shit.”

“Yes, well, that’s hardly news. And remember that your family’s lives hang in the balance.” He’d been instructed to increase their leverage by not only threatening to expose his perversions, but if he took his own life, as was a distinct possibility to avoid the fallout, that his nine-year-old daughter and his wife would be killed.

“How could I forget? You bastards have ruined me.”

“Hardly, with a cool million in an account in the Caymans.” He finished his coffee and settled back in his chair. “Relax. You look a little green. I’ll get you the details on the new target once your man’s finished up his little errands. Any idea on timing for the remaining two?”

“He indicated that it should be done by the end of the week, if all goes well.”

The fair-haired man stood and flipped a two-hundred-peso note onto the table. After looking around the small café a final time, he fixed the other with a cold stare. “Then you’d better hope it all goes well.”

He moved to the door and disappeared onto the darkening street, leaving his reluctant companion staring at the bitter dregs of his coffee, now cold, the hand holding the cup trembling slightly as he watched the younger man depart.

Madness. The entire thing was madness.

And at the rate things were going, he’d be lucky to get out intact.

Why had he kept the photographs? Why had he taken them in the first place? To memorialize his compulsions? All the children had been prostitutes, slaves to the underworld predators that preyed on society and catered to the most deplorable perversions, but nobody would care about their backgrounds if the photos were made public. It had been a stupid oversight – one that had placed him in an impossible position with his new master. The phone call had come out of the blue, on an afternoon like any other, the whispered words demanding a meeting like a knife to the heart.

How could they have known? How did they find out? It had to be the pimps, he’d realized too late. He was too well known in certain seedy circles, too regular in his urgency. He’d handed his enemies the weapon with which to destroy him through his own carelessness, and the irony was not lost on him. He stood, his legs shaky, and squared his shoulders. He was a tenured member of the intelligence community, a veteran with an impeccable record. There was a good chance that if he continued to do as directed, the whole sordid affair would pass with nobody the wiser. The fair-haired man was right about the tight control of information within the agency – there was every likelihood that neither his nor
El Rey
’s role in the mess would ever come to light.

But this new name changed everything, worsening those odds considerably.

His footsteps echoed off the colonial façades as he strode toward the larger street, lost in thought, brain churning furiously to find a way out of the trap his desires had placed him in. He didn’t even register the woman who took up after him, maintaining a discreet distance from the far curb, just another shadow as the last of the sun’s glow faded and the busy metropolis was overtaken by night.

Chapter 20

Sedona, Arizona

El Rey
helped Sam with the stones he’d heated in the fire and carted them into the sweat lodge, taking care to place them in the central pit exactly as Sam indicated. He and the old man had bonded again at the bar the prior evening. Sam had regaled him with stories, many likely invented or heavily embellished, all the while knocking back drinks, and tonight he was still hungover – not surprising given his age or the amount he’d put away. Today’s nature hike had been a Bataan death march for the Indian, and
El Rey
had been hard-pressed not to smile as he’d watched the man sweat eighty proof as he directed the tourists along trails and told tall tales about the eagle’s watchful eye and the power of the wild creature’s spirit.

Upon their return,
El Rey
had done a run to the market and returned with a pint bottle of whiskey to help Sam fend off the worst of the shakes as the sweat lodge ceremony approached. The bottle’s level had steadily dropped as the afternoon stretched on, and a second had been deemed necessary for the proper ceremonial spirit to flow.

El Rey
returned with the half pint as Sam settled onto one of the logs that had been carved into benches by the fire and, after taking a seat nearby, had told him about their night’s guest.

“He’s some hot-shit actor. We’ve done this deal together a half dozen times over the years. Big tipper, so be nice.”

“He’s the only one tonight?”

Sam nodded. “He likes his privacy. I had no idea who he was, which I think was part of the appeal – he told me once that he couldn’t go anywhere without being recognized, and he liked that I wasn’t impressed. Which is pretty easy considering I don’t own a TV and haven’t been to a movie since John Wayne was alive.”

“You haven’t missed anything.”

“Have you got that second bottle?”

“Yeah. Hey, is that our boy?”
El Rey
asked, nodding in the direction of an approaching figure swaddled in a white cotton terry-cloth robe.

“Yup. You have everything ready?”

“Just like you showed me last night. The peace pipe’s a nice touch.”

Sam smirked. “Powerful wampum in these hills.”

They chuckled, and Sam struggled to his feet. The embroidered figures on his ornate cloak danced in the darkness as the fire crackled and flickered.
El Rey
glanced down at the robe he was wearing, one of Sam’s extras, and hoped he looked convincing.

The actor drew near and smiled. “Well, you ready to do this? I need some purging and cleansing, Sam. I’ve been a very bad boy since you last saw me.”

Sam could have been carved from wood. “Your magic is strong. A young buck needs room to roam.”

“Damn if we don’t agree on that.” Perry sniffed. “You guys been sharing a cocktail while you waited for me?”

Sam ignored the question. “Come. The moon will be up soon. It is a good night for this. A powerful night.”

Sam led the actor into the sweat lodge,
El Rey
trailing them with the long wooden pipe in hand and a satchel with shrubs Sam had selected for the occasion. Perry took a seat on the wooden bench that ringed the interior of the lodge and fidgeted with his robe. Sam chanted for a half minute, reciting what could have been his recipe for a Bloody Mary for all either the assassin or Perry could tell, and then bowed slightly from the waist and motioned for
El Rey
to draw near. He removed a handful of vegetation from the bag and tossed it onto the stones while humming an atonal dirge, and the small chamber filled with the pungent scent of smoldering leaves. Sam then poured water onto the stones from an earthenware pitcher by the door, and steam filled the space.

El Rey
’s final act was to light the pipe, filled with a special blend Sam had provided, and hand it to Perry, who took long drags, held the smoke in his lungs as long as he could, and then exhaled noisily. When the pipe had gone out, Sam led the assassin to the wood plank door and peered in the dim light at the actor.

“Enjoy. I’ll be right outside if you need anything,” Sam assured him.

Perry waved at him with a limp hand and leaned his head back against the clay wall.

Sam closed the door behind him and moved to the fire. “That’s three hundred of the easiest bucks this place will ever see. He usually tips me a hundred, so tonight I’m buying.” Sam coughed and spit on the dirt. “Now where’s that damned bottle you’ve been holding out on me?”