T. Parker - The Jaguar

“Why of course?”

“The Caribbean imagination favors such constructs. A different world down there.” Finnegan smiled and tilted back his head and drew a deep breath. “Veracruz smells of centuries, and centuries fire the imagination. But to get to the point, Armenta’s Castle is home to a couple of dozen or so of his friends and family. Armed men guard the compound in eight-hour shifts. The off-duty guards live in a garrison back in the jungle. They rotate in and out, always fresh and well rested. Ten armed guards patrol the Castle and its immediate grounds. Then there are three gate guards staggered down the road. Three guards each. And four more men who prowl the perimeter of the property. There is only one road in. The property is not fenced. The jungle is extremely dense and some of it is precipitous. Often, when Armenta is especially fearful for his life, he will increase the number of guards or rearrange them according to his latest intelligence and fears. His eldest son is the head of security. His name is Saturnino.”

The name sent a shiver up Bradley’s back. Saturnino. He thought of Fidel’s wife and two children and of Erin, now in Saturnino’s hands. Killer. Rapist. Skinner.

Bradley read the coordinates off the matchbook and committed them to memory. “There are twenty-four of us. We’d be up against at least twenty-three armed men who know the Castle and the jungle around it.”

“Don’t forget to count Armenta himself, and his personal bodyguards, his son, and their closest associates. Figure ten more men, conservatively.”

“How did you get this information?”

“Contacts.”

“Can we get word to her?”

“Possibly.”

They continued up the boardwalk. Bradley looked across the harbor to Fort San Juan de Ulua. Even at this distance and in the failing light it looked unassailable. He imagined Armenta’s Castle and it too looked unassailable with its armed patrols and Erin being held God only knew where.

“The Spanish built it to guard against pirates,” said Finnegan. “That was in fifteen-eighty-two. Veracruz had already been here over sixty years, if you can believe that. Cortez himself founded it, the first settlement on the American mainland. Sorry if I sound like a seventh-grade history teacher but I love this city-the Maya and the slave trade and the pirates and the drastic attitudes of the Spanish conquerors. What a rich, mad blend. Coming here suggests so much to me.”

“Can we get word to Erin or not?”

“What word would it be?”

“Can she get out and come to us, or do we need to blast her out?”

“You can’t blast her out. The chances of her being hit by a bullet are far too great. We can’t let her or your son or you, Bradley, expire in such a small and pointless way.”

“That’s why we need a way to communicate. What if she can slip away? I don’t know-through a window or a door when the guard takes a break. Or, maybe your contact can create a diversion or knock somebody cold for a few minutes so Erin can get out.”

“Yes, good. Now, during the nineteenth century, Fort San Juan de Ulua was a military prison. Some of the dungeons have walls twenty-four-feet thick in places. Imagine the hopelessness! They had nicknames for the hottest and darkest of them-‘Purgatory,’ and ‘Hell’ and other rather unimaginative names like that.”

“Surprise is what we have, Mike. We can surprise them but we can’t overwhelm them.”

Finnegan stopped and looked up at Bradley. “It’s all you have.”

They found the Taberna Roja near the port on a cramped eighteenth-century side street intersecting Zaragoza. The weather-beaten wooden sign hanging out front featured a plump man in sandals and a poncho running with a grin on his face and a tray of booze bottles held high overhead. Inside it was cool and damp but very crowded and thick with smoke. Bradley saw that several arguments in several languages were taking place throughout the dark, high-ceilinged room. The patrons were almost all men, stevedores and sailors and perhaps fishermen. He and Mike took a small high table in the back. A moment later one of the barkeeps arrived with a bottle of rum and a dish filled with lime and lemon wedges and bucket of ice and two lowball glasses on a tray.

“Welcome, Mr. Fix. How are you?”

“ Perfecto , Pao. Perfectly perfect now that I’m here!”

Pao spooned the ice into the glasses and opened the bottle and set it beside the fruit dish. “Salud.”

Mike smiled and Pao nodded curtly, then disappeared back into the noisy throng at the bar.

“Fix?”

“I like it,” said Mike. “Uncommon and descriptive. In Spanish I’d be Reparar. ”

Bradley shook his head and smiled. Whenever he thought he’d had enough of the little man, Mike would do something amusing. He wondered if that was how Mike had gotten through his life.

Now Mike lifted one of the heavy book bags to his lap and dug out three volumes and put them on the table. “People tell me all the time that I’m old-fashioned.”

“You told me that yourself when you knifed me.”

“But try downloading these to your reader!”

Bradley looked at the covers of the tattered old books but he couldn’t read a single word of the titles.

“Taki-Taki, Papiamento, Quiche,” said Mike. “Ancient languages, poorly understood. These are academic attempts. There’s a dealer here in Veracruz, one of the Naval Museum curators. He must be two hundred years old. I don’t know how he finds this stuff or who buys it except for me.”

“Explain something,” said Bradley. “Ever since you cut me, the skin won’t heal. But it doesn’t hurt and it’s not inflamed. Did you dip your knife in venom or the plague or something?” He held out his hand and lifted the bandage and Finnegan studied the open gouge.

“This is just a common topical infection, Bradley. Any over-the-counter remedy will defeat it.”

“I’ve been using one.”

“Maybe try another.”

“How’s yours?”

“Oh, I’m a tough old guy.” Mike unfurled his hand and looked down into it and Bradley saw the faint pink line of the cut healed over with new flesh. “But here, this is what I wanted to show you.”

Mike set the books back into the bag, then pulled out a thin leather folder and handed it to Bradley.

He opened it and looked down at a drawing. It looked like a landscape architect’s site plan, an aerial view with buildings represented by rectangles and trees by circles and elevations by shaded cross-hatching.

“Armenta’s Castle, ” said Bradley, his breath catching. “Where did you get this?”

“Some of the source material came from the state of Quintana Roo. I can assure you it wasn’t easy to get. American bureaucracy is nothing compared to Mexican bureaucracy. In Mexico, the government is very deep but also very spotty. For instance, things suddenly disappear or are suddenly found or suddenly change. The person of authority on one day is not in authority on another. It can take as many as five people to do something as simple as collecting a completed form, filling out a receipt, and handing the receipt to the applicant. Luckily I was able to find the original construction drawings in a dusty museum collection in San Francisco. And able to cobble this together for you.”

“Is it accurate?”

“Of course it’s accurate. I wouldn’t risk the life of Erin McKenna on a slipshod rendering. The map below it is an area view, putting the castle in a larger context.”

Bradley studied both of the maps. “Where is the electronic security, the alarms and sensors?”

“None. Low tech. Macho. Men with guns.”

“Telephone land lines?”