Russell Blake - Revenge of the Assassin

“Basically what everyone in Argentina talks about,” Starone remarked.

“Yes. That’s what I mean about routine.”

“Did he ever mention his past?” Lombardetti interjected.

“His past? No, not really. He mentioned that he had been with the government, but he made it sound like a bureaucratic function. All due respect, I wasn’t all that interested. He was a nice old man I played chess with. I wasn’t thinking about dating him,” Antonio explained.

“Yes, well, he was a little more than a low-level flunky. He was actually fairly high up in the intelligence service for much of his career. He made a lot of enemies, I’m sure. Those were difficult times for our country. Dark times.” Starone paused, studying Antonio’s face. “So what’s your story, Antonio? I see by your records that you have been in Argentina for eight and a half months. What brought you to Mendoza?”

“Oh, you know. I was tired of living at home, in Ecuador, and wanted a change of scenery. I inherited a little money when an uncle died, so I decided to see the world. I wound up staying here after falling in love with the place. I’m hoping this business takes off and I can make a go of it. Things could be better, with the economy still in the toilet and tourism off so much,” Antonio complained, convincingly, he thought. But he didn’t like the direction the questions were turning.

“Yes. It’s been a tough few years. And what did you do in Ecuador?” Starone probed, while making a few notes in a small pad he’d extracted from his coat. “What part are you from?”

Antonio launched into his carefully rehearsed cover.

“Quito. The capital. I helped my parents with a little store off the Plaza Grande , by the cathedral. Cell phones and consumer electronics. But there’s not a lot of opportunity there, and I got bored, so I set out for somewhere new once I got some money. I love Mendoza, and I’m hoping I can succeed with my business here,” he gestured at the shop.

“Who’s president of Ecuador now? I don’t follow those things,” Starone asked.

“Rafael Correa. He’s on his second term,” Antonio said without hesitation. He was getting really uncomfortable, but outwardly his demeanor didn’t change, and he continued to project polite concern and worry over Gustavo.

“Isn’t he ex-military?” Starone countered.

“Mmm, I don’t think so. He’s an economist. Economic reforms are the basis of his government, and he pissed-off a lot of the country’s creditors when he declared the national debt invalid due to having been accrued due to corruption. Argentina could learn from that and take a page from his playbook,” Antonio fired back.

Apparently satisfied, Starone closed his little book and gave a smile that was more a grimace. “Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt your friend, Gustavo? The reason I ask is because in our routine discussions with the neighbors this morning, one thought she saw a younger man with longish hair. Very much like yours. Do you know anyone like that?” Starone delivered the body blow with quiet sincerity.

Antonio’s mind raced, but he didn’t even blink. The cop was probably bluffing, doing some fishing, otherwise he wouldn’t have said anything. He was almost sure of it. Almost.

“Everyone seemed to like him, but as I said, I didn’t know him beyond playing some chess a few times a month. But I hope you get the bastard who killed him. Too bad this haircut is so popular — that description only narrows it down to a third of the males in Mendoza. But if I think of anything, I will absolutely give you a call. Do you have a card?” he replied.

The detective’s eyes narrowed, just a little, and he fished a business card out of his pocket and put it on the counter as he looked around the small shop. “What do you sell the most of?” he asked conversationally.

“The steak knives are very popular, as well as the leather goods. But it’s a tough time of year. Nothing’s moving as much as I’d like,” Antonio lamented.

“Well, you’re not alone in that. Please do call if you think of anything.” Starone appraised him. “Have a nice day.”

The two policemen shuffled to the door and disappeared into the fray. Antonio considered the discussion and felt a tingle of alarm. He didn’t think the taller detective had bought his story, or rather, the cop seemed to sense something off about him. That might have been stylistic — a technique to make potential suspects squirm — but it hadn’t had any visible effect on ‘Antonio’. Still, a small part of him elevated his threat level assessment up a notch. He hadn’t anticipated a visit in Gustavo’s killing. That was stupid, and lazy.

His brief days of relaxed, worry-free existence were officially over, all thanks to the meddling old man. It wasn’t a crisis yet, but if they really did have a witness, it could be difficult. He hadn’t worn his glasses that night, and his clothes had been unremarkable, but it was an unknown, and he didn’t like unknowns.

Perhaps it was time to move on to somewhere even more remote than Mendoza. A pity, but things changed, and a smart man changed with them.

Chapter 6

When El Rey closed up that night he took his laptop with him in its shoulder bag, along with a few items from the store that might come in handy. He wasn’t sure he’d ever see it again; he was back to his old self now, no longer Antonio — and El Rey always expected the worst, and planned for it.

Reality was that he’d been borderline delusional believing he could ever live normally — whatever that meant. Like a shark, he needed to keep moving, or he’d die. There was no point in wasting any time wishing things were different — his life to date had been extraordinary, and he’d just need to continue down whatever path he found himself on. Gustavo had set a course in motion, and he’d reacted in the only way that made sense — he’d neutralized the threat. Now the police were sniffing around, and while there probably wasn’t anything to worry about, probably wasn’t good enough. Probably got you caught, or killed. Probably was for others.

As El Rey pulled down the steel grid security door he surreptitiously scanned his surroundings. He knelt and padlocked it into place, noting that there were a lot of people on the promenade — so it was hard to be sure he was clean, but what he was looking for was anything atypical — something that didn’t belong. He didn’t immediately detect anything, but that didn’t mean he was safe — taking the long way home would indicate whether there was a problem.

He ambled slowly towards the park, moving with the flow of the pedestrian traffic, mindful of potential surveillance without giving any outward appearance of being on guard. He stopped abruptly across the street from the stock exchange building and examined a jacket in a display window — its reflection revealed a figure fifty yards from him had stopped to tie his shoe. It would have been innocent, except that with an eighth of a second glance he confirmed that the man’s laces were still tied. Sometimes it was the small things that gave you away.

Confident he was being followed, he now needed to decide how to deal with his pursuers. He didn’t think it was police. They would have no reason to sneak around. Rather, they’d walk through the front door, as they had earlier, and pick him up. No, this was someone else, which was worse. Probably Gustavo’s crew. Perhaps the old man hadn’t been entirely truthful with El Rey . Yet another of life’s small disappointments. Sometimes people weren’t completely honest.

The shoelace tier resumed his casual following once the target made for the street that separated the park from the pedestrian thoroughfare and murmured into his cell phone, “He’s crossing into the park. If you get into position on the far side, you’ll be able to pick him up as he exits. He’s wearing a dark blue long coat and has longish hair and glasses. Black pants. I’ll stay on him, but lay back. He’s all yours. But remember. He’s extremely dangerous, so be careful.”