Requiem for the Assassin (4 page)

Cruz could hear the carjacker screaming at the driver, threatening to shoot him if he didn’t get out of the car. The driver was opening the door when Cruz’s commanding voice boomed down the street.

“Drop the gun. Federal Police.”

The thug’s head swung around, searching for the source of the warning. He was younger than Cruz had initially thought, no more than a teenager, and the look of menace on his face transitioned into one of fear as he spotted Cruz bearing down on him, weapon steady in his hand. Time seemed to slow as a series of expressions played across the youth’s face, and then he sprinted away, ducking low as he dodged between cars. His companion darted to the far sidewalk and bolted, and as quickly as the street had become a war zone, it returned to normal, crisis averted.

Cruz arrived at the car, where the driver was still sitting with the door open, in shock. Cruz’s gaze followed the running gunman as he rounded the corner and disappeared, and then he turned his attention to the driver.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

The driver was nervous, his expression frightened, and when he answered, his voice was shaky. “Yes. Thank goodness.”

Cruz glanced at the man in the passenger seat – a clergyman – and shook his head. Nobody was safe anymore, even God’s anointed ones. He followed the driver’s eyes to his gun and quickly holstered it, aware that a man standing in the middle of the street at night in Mexico City clutching a Glock might not be the most comforting sight, even under the circumstances.

“That was a close one,” Cruz commented, shaking his head.

“Unbelievable. We were just minding our own business…”

“I know. I saw the whole thing.” Cruz paused. “Do you want to file a police report?”

The driver’s eyes widened. “No. It wouldn’t do any good, would it? I mean, they didn’t steal anything, and they’re already long gone.”

Cruz sighed. “It’s true. Sad, but true.” He felt in his pocket and found a business card. “Here. If you change your mind, call me. I can sign it as a witness.”

The driver took the card. “No, I don’t want any trouble. I’ll just chock it up to experience.”

“Driving an expensive car at night can be a dangerous proposition these days. It shouldn’t be that way, but there it is.” Cruz gave a parting look to the passenger. “You’re lucky. I hope your night calms down from here.”

The driver nodded. “Thank you, officer” – he peered at the card and then corrected himself, his tone respectful – “I mean,
Capitan
Cruz. It was our good fortune you were nearby.”

A car several back honked its horn, and then more of the cars joined in, unaware of what the holdup was but annoyed to be stalled, kept from important destinations. Cruz waved at the honkers and turned back to the driver.

“Are you okay to drive?”

“What? Oh. Of course. I’m just a little shaken up. That’s all.”

“Well, I’d tell you to pull over and relax for a few minutes, but after what happened, I’d suggest you get out of this area of town. Just be careful on the road.”

“Yes,
Capitan
. Good thinking. Thank you again.”

The driver closed his door, and Cruz stepped back. The BMW surged forward, and Cruz returned to his table, ignoring the black stares of the other motorists as they passed him. When he sat down, Dinah’s eyes were wide.

“I suppose that’s all in a day’s work for you, isn’t it? Chasing down gunmen…” she said.

Cruz smiled. “Hardly. The biggest danger I’m in most days is of overeating. Or getting a paper cut. I’m pretty sure it’s impossible to get much safer than behind my desk at headquarters.”

She eyed him skeptically. “You remind me of that American movie star. What’s his name? The one with the big gun? You know, ‘Make my day’?”

“Clint Eastwood? Hardly. Although I have been told I resemble him.”

Dinah held his gaze and then leaned forward and wiped an errant crumb from his mustache with her napkin. She raised an eyebrow and considered him gravely. “It’s uncanny. You could be twins.”

They both laughed like schoolchildren, and Cruz ordered another beer. Dinah picked at her final taco as he devoured the remainder of his
torta
and then paid the bill. They walked arm in arm back to where his car and driver were waiting around the corner, and he sighed contentedly. “I’m the luckiest guy in the world, you know that?”

Dinah pulled him closer. “I’m glad you feel that way. Me too.”

Chapter 6

El Rey
was greeted at the air charter terminal at Benito Juárez International Airport by Jorge Tovar, his CISEN handler, a field intelligence analyst who’d been assigned to run him following his earlier mission. The agency had left him alone for the last six months, only interrupting his solitude with his scheduled injection of the antidote for the neurotoxin with which they’d inoculated him in order to guarantee his performance. With any luck he only had one or two more of the semiannual injections to go, and then he’d be free – assuming the CISEN spooks had told him the truth about the agent.

The little man had reminded
El Rey
of a weasel when he’d first met him, and the impression was reinforced in this, their second meeting. Tovar led him to a waiting limousine, its opaque privacy glass raised so whatever was discussed wasn’t overheard by the driver. Tovar had a brief discussion with the chauffeur and then got in after
El Rey
, who sat facing him, awaiting whatever bad news Tovar was bearing.

“So. You made it. Water? Something stronger?” Tovar offered, taking in the assassin’s muddy, disheveled appearance without comment.

“No, thanks.”

“Very well. We have an assignment for you.”

“I gathered that. We’re still a few weeks off from my next injection.”

“It’s right up your alley.”

El Rey
nodded, his expression stony.

Tovar opened a slim ostrich-skin briefcase and removed a file. He handed it to
El Rey
and flipped on the interior dome light so he could read.

Inside were three photographs, each with a dossier attached.
El Rey
eyed the images and read each report carefully before closing the folder and handing it back to Tovar. The assassin sat back, thinking, and when he spoke, his voice was soft as velvet.

“Why?”

“I beg your pardon?” Tovar looked honestly surprised at the question.

El Rey
repeated it. “Why?”

“What do you care?” Tovar snapped, obviously irritated.

“Didn’t Rodriguez explain our arrangement? I think it would be best if I spoke with him.”

“I’m your control officer, not Rodriguez. You work for us. You’ll do what I say.”

El Rey
shook his head. “Not exactly. I reserve the right to ask questions, and if you leave anything out or I don’t approve of the sanction, I can decline. Perhaps you should make a call and get clear on this, to either Rodriguez or Bernardo.” Rodriguez was the assistant director of CISEN, Bernardo the head of section who’d taken over managing the assassin after the last operation.
El Rey
’s eyes darkened as he held Tovar’s stare. “And I’d caution you about your tone. You seem to have forgotten who you’re talking to. I’d advise you not to. I don’t tolerate insolence, no matter what the source.”

Tovar swallowed hard and lowered his gaze. The temperature seemed to have dropped twenty degrees while
El Rey
was speaking, and Tovar’s arrogant confidence had suddenly abandoned him. He cleared his throat and shifted.

“It wasn’t my intention to offend. Here’s what I can tell you. These men are part of a drug trafficking and distribution network that needs to be shut down. Obviously, based on the players, it’s much different than the typical cartel situation. These are untouchable players because of their prominence. It will require a delicate approach.”

“Drugs? That makes no sense. What could these three possibly have to do with drugs?”

“Admiral Torreon oversees the ports. He’s in charge of importation into Mexico. The archbishop is getting it across the border. And the American is coordinating the U.S. distribution.”

“Why not just take them out using your people? Or here’s an idea: build a case and prosecute them.”

“Due to their positions, they’d never see the inside of a jail cell. So that leaves us with no alternative. However, there is an important caveat: the sanctions must appear to be accidents or natural causes. And I don’t mean the sort of Wall Street ‘accidents’ we’ve seen where bankers shoot themselves in the head multiple times or throw themselves through unbreakable windows to commit suicide. There can be no hint of foul play.”

“That obviously increases the difficulty level.”

“And there’s a further element to consider. All three need to occur within a short time frame. If there’s latency between the deaths, it will open the door for the others to set up alternative partners, which defeats the purpose.”

El Rey
studied Tovar’s face. “Since when is CISEN in the antidrug business?”

“That’s outside of the scope of this assignment. But we’re in the do-whatever-the-president-says business, if that’s a broad enough hint, and the decision has been made, for whatever reason, that this group has to go.”

“Timing?”

“Within the next ten days.”

“Impossible. It will require careful planning. Can’t be done in that time. Sorry.”

“It has to be.”

El Rey
shook his head, as if admonishing a child. “You’re asking the impossible, and I’m not going to rush into anything and get killed because of poor planning by clueless bureaucrats. I want to see Bernardo. If you don’t have the stomach to tell him he’s dreaming, I will.”

Tovar frowned, and then his tone softened, conceding defeat. “How much time do you think it will take?”

“I need to research the particulars. The admiral’s still in the hospital?”

“Yes. He has multiple gunshot wounds.”

“I saw something about that on the television. Was that you?”

“No. Apparently he has many enemies. The cartels included.”

“It was sloppy enough.”

“We agree on that.”

El Rey
opened the file and stared at the photograph of the admiral for several long moments. “Is there anything else?”

“I need your commitment.”

“As I’ve said, I can’t do it on your schedule, and I won’t know how long it will take until I’m able to do some research.”

Tovar looked unhappy, but nodded. “When can you let me know? Time is of the essence.”

“I’ll need a few days. And some logistical support.”

“Such as?”

“Access to your database. This will require as much information as I can get my hands on.”

Tovar considered the demand. “I can arrange for you to have remote access, but they don’t want you anywhere near headquarters. You don’t exist, and we don’t want to do anything to change that.”

“Yes, I can appreciate that if something went wrong and it were to become known I was connected with you…well, it wouldn’t play well.” He glanced out the window. “Drop me off two blocks up, on the right. There’s a Greek restaurant there. I’m hungry and tired. I’ll find my own way home.”

“Contact me tomorrow morning, and I’ll get you into the system.”

“I’ll call you in three hours. No point in delaying.”

Tovar depressed a button, activated the intercom, and instructed the driver to pull over at the restaurant.
El Rey
sat forward as the big car moved over two lanes.

“What’s the budget?”

“There’s no set figure,” Tovar said, his eyes darting to the side.

“Any time the sanction is international, it introduces expenses that are orders of magnitude greater than a domestic action, especially on a high-profile target.”

“We are not without experience in these matters,” Tovar snapped.

“Good. Then you won’t be surprised when I have costs calculated. There will be no negotiation. Whatever I think will be necessary will have to be provided without question. Is that a problem?”

“No. Within reason.”

El Rey
’s voice was almost inaudible as the car slowed.

“You want me to take out one of Mexico’s top naval officers, the archbishop of Tijuana, and a celebrity American film star, and do it without anyone suspecting anything. There’s nothing reasonable about that.”

“As I said, we understand what we’re dealing with. You’ll have whatever support is necessary.”

Tovar watched
El Rey
collect his bags and melt into the procession of pedestrians on the busy sidewalk near the restaurant. He waited until the car was moving again, slipped a cell phone from his pocket, and made a call, his voice a murmur as the limousine continued along the wide boulevard. The vague sense of unease the assassin’s presence inevitably caused lingered like the taint of ptomaine, and his eyes roved over the liquor bottles in the side compartment as he considered flushing the sour taste of fear away with a few swallows of liquid courage.

Chapter 7

Carla Vega strode across the busy floor of the network, nodding to several colleagues as she went, everyone in their usual mad scramble and too busy to slow down. She approached the corner office where a black-haired woman in a tailored cream-colored blouse and designer slacks sat behind an imposing desk in a glass-enclosed lobby.

“Good morning, darling. You look fabulous today. You have to tell me where you got that outfit,” Carla gushed as she greeted her friend Lupe, the receptionist for the network boss who ran the news division. They kissed each other’s cheeks, and Carla whispered to Lupe, “What’s this all about?”

“I don’t know. He just said he needed to see you first thing. Beats me. You know how he is.”

“Nothing more? Sounds ominous.”

“I wouldn’t be too worried. He worships the ground you walk on. You’re a ratings diva, as if you weren’t aware.”

“Well, we’ll see what the Gorgon wants.”

Carla took a seat on the contemporary leather slab sofa in the antechamber, prepared to wait the obligatory five minutes required for her superior to establish whose time was the most valuable, and was surprised when Lupe’s line buzzed and she looked up.