The Face of the Assassin Part 20

"In exchange, he will give you everything: names, dates, relations.h.i.+ps, strategies . . . a thousand reasons never to sleep again. He will take you into the wilderness of killing where we have lived together for so many years."

Chapter 37.

The case of a dozen items that left the burning warehouse in the industrial zone in the northern colonias colonias of Mexico City was driven to Benito Juarez International Airport on the city's east side. Within an hour the case was airborne, traveling on a mixed cargo commercial jet headed for Chihuahua City, the capital of one of Mexico's northernmost states. of Mexico City was driven to Benito Juarez International Airport on the city's east side. Within an hour the case was airborne, traveling on a mixed cargo commercial jet headed for Chihuahua City, the capital of one of Mexico's northernmost states.

In Chihuahua City, it was off-loaded, along with several crates of bra.s.s, fibergla.s.s, and plastic stamp plates used in the manufacture of thermostat components for refrigeration units in one of the scores of maquiladoras maquiladoras on the edge of the city. At the on the edge of the city. At the maquiladora, maquiladora, everything was loaded onto a warehouse dock. The raw materials used for the thermostat components were eventually taken into the warehouse to be distributed, while the box of counterfeit product waited alone at one end of the dock. everything was loaded onto a warehouse dock. The raw materials used for the thermostat components were eventually taken into the warehouse to be distributed, while the box of counterfeit product waited alone at one end of the dock.

Within fifteen minutes, a panel truck pulled up to the dock. A man got out of the pa.s.senger side of the truck and loaded the box through the rear door, stacking it alongside twenty-three other boxes with identical markings. The truck drove away, and in another ten minutes its headlights picked up the highway sign the driver was looking for: Chihuahua State Highway 16. The truck turned and headed for the Mexican border town of Ojinaga, across the Rio Grande from Presidio, Texas.

The foreman on the loading dock at the Chihuahua City maquiladora maquiladora pocketed five hundred U.S. dollars for ignoring the cardboard box on the side of his dock for fifteen minutes. pocketed five hundred U.S. dollars for ignoring the cardboard box on the side of his dock for fifteen minutes.

It was a three-hour drive through the dark Mexican desert to the Ojinaga border-crossing station, and the van arrived at the tollbooth at 6:30 A.M. A.M. The guards on the Mexican side were used to seeing the Rivera Materiales Refrigeracion van that came through the border station twice a week from the The guards on the Mexican side were used to seeing the Rivera Materiales Refrigeracion van that came through the border station twice a week from the maquiladora maquiladora in Chihuahua City, and they waved the van through. in Chihuahua City, and they waved the van through.

On the U.S. side, it was another matter. One guard, a sour gringo who had the reputation of being one of the strictest inspectors at the station, was, in fact, on the smugglers' payroll. He could be bought off on any particular s.h.i.+pment so long as the contraband wasn't drugs. He wouldn't do drugs because he never knew when a drug-sniffing dog would be brought to the station on a deliberately unscheduled visit.

Now, in fact, there was a drug-sniffing dog on duty in these early-morning hours, and the guard expertly covered his anxiety as the animal and its trainer did their business, going over the twenty-four cases of sixteen-ounce cans of V-belt aerosol lubricant for commercial refrigeration compressors. The Rivera truck brought through a variety of products twice a week. When the dog lost interest, his trainer called him off, and the guard waved the van on. Then he poured another cup of coffee from his thermos and looked across the empty bridge to Mexico, satisfied that the serious sweat that he had expended during the last ten minutes had been worth the thousand dollars a minute that he had been paid.

Chapter 38.

Mazen Sabella left Hotel Palomari as abruptly as he had arrived, and in the midst of a downpour. The knock on the door didn't seem to surprise him, and when the door swung open and his men stood there soaking wet, it was time to leave.

"Wait a second," Bern said. "What . . . what . . ."

Sabella said something in Arabic, and his men stepped back out into the narrow, dreary hallway and closed the door. He turned to Bern.

"Just find out if they will do it," Sabella said. "We can work out the details later. And the sooner the better. There are . . . pressures on Baida that make this window of opportunity very small. When it closes, it cannot be opened again."

"And to get back with you?"

"The hospital. Same instructions."

"Yeah, okay."

"Stay here five minutes. Susana will stay in the pasteleria. pasteleria." Sabella took a step toward Bern, put his left hand on Bern's right shoulder, and gripped it. He was going to say something else, then changed his mind and turned and walked out of the room.

Bern turned to the window and looked down to the front door, over which hung the Palomari's anemic blue neon sign. Nothing. After a couple of minutes, they still hadn't stepped out into the thundering rain. But he knew they were gone.

He looked across the street through the screen of driv-ing rain and saw Susana standing close to the plate-gla.s.s window, looking up at him. He motioned to her that he was coming over. He saw her nod, and then he turned and headed for the door. Screw the five minutes-he wanted out of that hotel room.

He banged against the wall in the narrow stairwell, making the turn without even seeing his own feet. Suddenly in the foyer, he hardly registered that there was more to the astonished expression on the old man's face than merely being surprised by Bern. In a breath, he was across the white tile floor and out the Palomari's doorway. The rain was sweeping across the street at an angle, and he was completely soaked before he hit the sidewalk on the other side.

When he burst into the pasteleria, pasteleria, it took him only an instant to realize that the astonished faces and frozen postures of the two women behind the pastry counter had nothing to do with his arrival. He looked in stunned disbelief at the overturned table and chairs next to the plate-gla.s.s window, the splattered coffee running down the gla.s.s. The two women were still frozen, eyes wide, expectant. it took him only an instant to realize that the astonished faces and frozen postures of the two women behind the pastry counter had nothing to do with his arrival. He looked in stunned disbelief at the overturned table and chairs next to the plate-gla.s.s window, the splattered coffee running down the gla.s.s. The two women were still frozen, eyes wide, expectant.

Then he bolted out into the middle of the street, frantically scanning the rain-blurred sidewalks, looking everywhere at once. The downpour was deafening. But there were no cars. No people. Nothing. Just the rain.

He stood in the middle of the street in the driving rain as if he had been clubbed. He just couldn't think. And then when he could, all he could think of was Susana-what was happening to her right now, how she must feel, the fear, the panic, the wild confusion.

And he thought of what might happen to her if he wasn't ready when he needed to be ready, ready for whatever was going to come later, because he knew in his gut that something sure as h.e.l.l was going to come later. They weren't through with him. n.o.body was through with him. Everybody wanted something more, and he had a feeling that Susana was going to be used somehow, and he was going to have to be ready . . . for something.

All of this flashed through his mind in milliseconds, and then he started running toward Insurgentes.

He grabbed the first taxi on Insurgentes and told the driver to get to the Glorieta Insurgentes at Avenida Chapultepec as fast as he could. Maybe hoping for a big tip for his efforts, the driver pushed his way through the dense traffic as if his life depended on it. But Bern was oblivious of the driver's frantic efforts, his mind replaying what the two pastry shop clerks had described to him of Susana's abduction. As soon as the two men who were with her bolted from the shop and crossed the street, Susana went to the window and looked up. She stayed there until she seemed to catch someone's attention in the window of the hotel across the street, and then immediately two other men burst into the shop and went after her. There was a struggle during which she was slapped to the floor, and then the two men took her out into the rain and led her to a waiting car.

That was all they saw, all they knew, and after telling him about it two times, they wouldn't say any more. Bern played this scene over and over in his mind during the trip up Insurgentes. Just after the taxi driver crossed Alvaro Obregon, Bern told him to turn right on Durango, and suddenly the cab was at Plaza Rio de Janeiro. Bern grabbed everything he had in his pocket, flung it into the front seat, and jumped out of the taxi.

He ran across the dark, empty plaza, past the statue of Michelangelo's David, David, and bolted across the street and into the building on the corner. He was met at the foot of the stairwell by the man who had been smoking a cigarette outside the door when he and Susana had come here. and bolted across the street and into the building on the corner. He was met at the foot of the stairwell by the man who had been smoking a cigarette outside the door when he and Susana had come here.

"Hey-hey-hey!" the guy shouted at him as he crouched, his gun drawn and pointing at Bern, the other hand up, palm out.

"I need to talk to Kevern," Bern wheezed, sucking air. "Okay? I need to see him."

The guy produced his cell phone, pushed a b.u.t.ton. "Bern's here . . . in a hurry." He slapped the phone closed and frisked Bern, then said, "Come on," and they ran up the stairs together.

Kevern and the two women were waiting as they pushed through the door, faces registering controlled alarm.

"What's the deal?" Kevern growled, his face hard, antic.i.p.ating bad news. The two women's eyes were devouring him.

The rooms reeked of the leftovers of old take-out meals and lack of circulation. They got him a chair, but he wouldn't sit down, couldn't stop pacing.

Suddenly, he was light-headed, too much running for an elevation stingy on oxygen, and he had burned more than was available. Dizzy, he must have swayed a little, because the guy behind him helped him into the chair, where he sat, heaving like an asthmatic. The Mexican woman stepped into the other room and came back with a plastic bottle of water. Twisting off the cap, she handed it to him. He nodded to her and then gulped a few mouthfuls from the bottle, staring at the floor. His thoughts were bouncing all over the place. He decided to go to the heart of it.

"I've just finished a meeting with Mazen Sabella. Baida wants to defect . . . for protection." He was looking at Kevern, whose mouth actually dropped open.

"Jeee-susss," Kevern said.

"After the meeting, I crossed the street to a . . . uh, pastry shop, where Susana was waiting with two of Sabella's men. The place had been wrecked. Two women there said that two men ran into the place, grabbed Susana, who put up a struggle, and left with her."

The strawberry blonde wheeled around and looked at the monitor.

"Her GPS is dead," she said to the others without looking at them.

"Sabella said Baida wanted to defect?" Kevern rasped.

Bern gulped another couple of mouthfuls of water and nodded.

"How long's it been?" Kevern snapped.

Bern shook his head. "Ten, fifteen minutes."

Without taking his eyes off Bern, Kevern reached out, dragged over a chair, and sat down.

"Let's hear the story."

Chapter 39.

"The hospital" was how they referred to this dirty building on a dark street in a forgotten colonia colonia near the Benito Juarez Airport. It was a favorite interrogation location for Quito's men, because at night everyone went inside and locked their doors against the things that happened in the dark. In the deep hours of the night, the featureless street, which always smelled of smoke from G.o.d knew where and constantly rumbled with low-flying jets that sprayed their spent lubricants over the near the Benito Juarez Airport. It was a favorite interrogation location for Quito's men, because at night everyone went inside and locked their doors against the things that happened in the dark. In the deep hours of the night, the featureless street, which always smelled of smoke from G.o.d knew where and constantly rumbled with low-flying jets that sprayed their spent lubricants over the colonia colonia's flat rooftops, became a wasteland.

Making a tight turn at a narrow intersection of three streets, Mondragon's driver pulled to the curb under a dying pirul pirul tree and left the engine running. Mondragon stared through his mask at the grim warren of hovels that stretched into the darkness in every direction. He gazed at the dull jaundiced light in the windows of the building across the street while a jet lumbered low overhead, a prolonged whistling, throbbing explosion that made the raw flesh on the front of his head tingle with vibrations. tree and left the engine running. Mondragon stared through his mask at the grim warren of hovels that stretched into the darkness in every direction. He gazed at the dull jaundiced light in the windows of the building across the street while a jet lumbered low overhead, a prolonged whistling, throbbing explosion that made the raw flesh on the front of his head tingle with vibrations.

When it was gone, Mondragon opened the door, got out of the car, and crossed the street to a murky doorway. One of Quito's guards met him and silently led the way through a junky corridor littered with empty butane tanks, electrical parts, crumpled plastic bottles, and a pile of discarded car batteries that were leaking puddles of acid onto the gritty floor.

They entered a bare room, where Quito and several men were standing around smoking and drinking beer. They were sweaty, taking a break. The only light was a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, a newspaper shade taped around the cord just above it. The yellow paper threw a stale light through the layers of cigarette smoke that hung in the stuffy air.

Quito stepped aside with Mondragon and led him out another door. Quito's men were well trained, and they ignored Mondragon as if he were the Invisible Man. They stepped into a kind of breezeway that led into another hallway. On either side of the hallway were two rooms, doors slightly ajar. The light in the rooms, though dim, was lighter than in the breezeway, and Mondragon could see people moving around.

"We found the girl at Domingo Huerta's," Quito said. His tie was undone, and his expression was sober with the business of the evening.

"What the h.e.l.l was he doing?"

"Jude had given Huerta's girls copies of the pictures of Baida that he had drawn, and he had them asking if anyone had seen this man. These girls were doing this through their family connections, circling several particular families-"

"The de Leons, the Carballidos, the Marmols, the Zubietos . . . all the people we were in school with."

Quito nodded.

"And then he gave this piece of paper to Bern."

Quito nodded again. "And it said, 'Estele de Leon Pheres.'"

They both paused while another jet lunged off the tarmac, the sound so deafening that it made their hair vibrate. It seemed to go on forever. Quito dragged on the last of his cigarette and flicked it against a wall. Mondragon stepped over and peered past one of the slightly opened doors. In this room, they had been questioning the girl found at Mingo's. He saw the naked legs and bare shoulders of the young woman tied to a straight-back wooden chair. Her head was thrown back, and she appeared to be unconscious, her long dark hair hanging down over the back of the chair. A guy with an ice pick was walking around, head down, talking to himself.

As the roar began to subside, Quito lighted another cigarette, and Mondragon came back, glancing at the men in the room he had come through a moment ago. They were talking again, one of them tapping his leg with a beer bottle, his middle finger jammed into its long neck to hold it.

Mondragon knew what the girl had been through. With these men, some things were inevitable during the questioning of a woman.

"Estele?" Mondragon asked.

Quito gestured with his cigarette to the other door.

Mondragon stepped over and peered through the slight opening. He hadn't seen Estele in six or seven years, hadn't spoken to her in maybe ten. She was handsome, as she had always been. Being older hadn't changed that.

She was sitting on a wooden bench in the middle of the bare room. Above and just to one side of her dangled another single dingy lightbulb covered with another yellowing newspaper shade. She wore a dark cotton jersey-knit dress, belted at the waist, the tight sleeves pushed back slightly from her wrists. Her dark hair was not long, as if she thought that a woman of her age should not pretend to s.e.xy locks cascading over her shoulders, but the manner in which she wore it was stylish, the sides swept back to accent the graying at her temples. She sat with her legs together and angled to one side, ankles crossed, hands folded in her lap.

Mondragon put his hand on the doork.n.o.b, opened the door, and went in, his emotions well cauterized in antic.i.p.ation of her reaction. She turned around while Mondragon was still in the dark shadows at the edge of the room, and as he approached, she watched, her face changing from curiosity, to consternation, to shock, to repulsion, and then to fear, a sequence of changes that Mondragon had seen over and over during the past two years.

He grabbed the only other chair in the room, a rusty chrome kitchen chair with a cherry red vinyl seat and back. He put it in front of her, but at the edge of the pool of jaundiced light. Then he sat down.

She stared at him in horrified amazement, which even her rigid social correctness could not conceal.

Crossing his legs and then crossing his arms in his lap, he looked at her and modulated his voice in the unlikely event that she might recognize it.

"Do you know why you are here?" he asked.

"Apparently, I've been kidnapped," she said, her voice a mixture of uncertainty and defiance.

Mondragon could almost see her gather her resolve to look directly at him, willfully resisting the natural repulsion she felt. But he saw, too, that her curiosity compelled her to try to figure out what exactly it was that she was seeing in the shadows at the edge of the pool of light.

"Do you remember last week, or the week before, that a young woman visited you and showed you a picture, a drawing, of a man that she was trying to locate?"

There was no hesitation. "Yes, I do."

"You recognized him."

"Yes."

"Who is he?"

She hesitated. "Why?"

"You may not ask me questions," he said. He knew precisely the right tone to use, and saw its effect in her rigid reaction, as if he had slapped her. Mexico City's culture of violence made intimidation easy for men like him. People were quick to believe that their luck had finally run out and that they had at last been caught up in the city's notorious grotesquerie of crime.

"Who is he?" Mondragon repeated.

"Daniel Spota."

"And . . ."

"He is the man seeing my sister Carleta."

"How long has she been seeing him?"

"Off and on for maybe a year."

"He lives here?"

"He lives in Bogota."

"You've met him? Talked to him?"

"Three or four times."