Russell Blake - Revenge of the Assassin

They discussed the economics of the trade, and the shifting product mix — heroin was down with the worldwide glut since the U.S. had invaded Afghanistan and production was booming. Cocaine demand was down five percent, but methamphetamines were up fifteen. It was a volatile market, but one they understood innately.

Mareli provided more than simple protection. He was also instrumental in cementing the banking relations that allowed Aranas to launder his funds. He’d set up several companies in Panama to handle cash deposits moved through their casino operations and had interests in numerous banks in the region, as well as in Texas and Miami. It was a seamless mechanism, where the cash that didn’t hit Mexico would get deposited in his banks in the States, and the Mexican money moved to Panama. From there, it was scrubbed and could be converted into legitimate funds — for a ten percent fee, of course.

An hour after he arrived, their meeting was over, and Mareli sank into the soft leather of his Mercedes limousine’s rear seat with satisfaction. Once they were underway, he made a series of calls, arranging for his jet to be ready to take him to the U.S. that afternoon. He’d stop at his hotel for his passport and to close out the bill, and then be on his way.

The final call was to a U.S. number, using a different phone — with a state-of-the-art attachment that would scramble it with military-level encryption, rendering it indecipherable to eavesdroppers. The odds of a call being intercepted were remote, however it was protocol and, as such, not to be ignored.

The odd ring of the secure line in Virginia sounded, and after switching through a series of relays, a familiar voice answered.

“How did it go?” Kent Fredericks asked, sounding like he was two feet away.

“Good, good. It was as expected. He needs another gun runner.”

“Maybe he shouldn’t have put a bullet through the head of the last one,” Kent observed. His division in the CIA had gotten a report on the killing almost in real time.

“Apparently, our boy was playing both sides of the field. The man found out and took action.”

“I thought he was selling to everyone? What’s the big deal?” Kent asked.

“He double-crossed the wrong guy, is what happened. Now we need another reliable source. I’m hopping on the plane and will be there in time for dinner. You free?”

“For you? I’m always free. Pick you up at the airport?”

“You bet. I’ll fill you in on the rest when I get in.”

“10-4.”

Ramirez stood with his hands on his hips, his dirty coveralls stained with mystery fluids, a cigarette twitching between his lips as he stared at a bank of red clay planters and debated his options with his assistant, Paolo.

“How the hell would I know what happened? Sometimes the damned things die. That’s how nature works. You live, you die,” he exclaimed, drawing a lung full of smoke.

“It looks like something killed them. Maybe pollution?” Paolo speculated.

“I doubt it was the smog. They’re Mexican plants. They were raised on this stuff,” Ramirez rasped, before succumbing to a phlegmy coughing fit for thirty seconds. When he was done, he dabbed his eyes and resumed smoking, with a wary glance at the offending cigarette.

“So what do we do?”

“We call someone, and they bring new ones. These have had it.”

Ramirez glared at the dead shrubs as though they’d committed suicide for the sole purpose of complicating his life. This couldn’t have happened at a worse time. They were only two days away from the president’s speech, and the plants on either side of the east doors to the legislative meeting hall, at the top of the massive stairs leading up to the distinctive facade, with its huge mural depicting an eagle clutching a snake, had chosen this moment to give up the ghost. It wouldn’t do to have dead vegetation marring the entrance of the Mexican congress and spoiling the photo opportunity. Wouldn’t do at all.

That evening, workers appeared with hand trucks and dutifully hauled away the planters that housed the palms, replacing them with healthy new examples. One of the employees, in particular, seemed especially enthusiastic about the duty — no doubt because he was new and somewhat of a dimwit. The others griped about having to work late with no overtime pay, but he just smiled his idiotic grin and adjusted the flat-brimmed company baseball hat he’d been issued as he whistled, rolling the heavy planters up the ramp on the side of the stairs.

The workers’ supervisor approached once the crew chief had made a call, and the small group of laborers stood by the delivery truck as the boss inspected their work.

“This one is crooked,” he said, pointing to a planter on the right side of the door. The crew chief waved for the men, and two of them trotted up. “Straighten it out,” he ordered.

A few minutes later, the supervisor nodded, and the task was completed.

The men piled into the back of the truck, happy to finally be going home after another hard day of earning their living with their backs and their hands.

Cruz got the call the next morning as he was settling in behind his desk at headquarters.

“They found a bomb,” Briones announced.

“Where are you? Who found a bomb, and where?”

“I’ll be right in. Give me two minutes,” Briones said and hung up.

Cruz fixed him with a curious stare when he sauntered in five minutes later, munching on a muffin. He took one of the seats at the meeting table and leaned back before speaking.

“Bad day for SenorEl Rey . The bomb dogs found his device this morning on a sweep of the building.”

“What? At the congress?” Cruz exclaimed. The president’s speech was that afternoon.

Briones nodded. “One of the planters by the mural, not thirty feet from where they were setting up the podium. It was buried in it, with a triggering device. Remote controlled. Enough Semtex to take out everything for a hundred yards. He’d wrapped it in ball bearings inside a protective plastic sheet to keep it from being damaged if they watered the plants. Clever. About the size of two footballs. It would have killed everyone on the platform.”

“The same basic approach as he used the last time,” Cruz mused.

“Yes. That’s what I was thinking. But thanks to a sedulous beagle, he’s been foiled,” Briones said with glee.

Cruz got up and poured himself a cup of coffee and then sat opposite Briones at the table.

“Doesn’t that seem kind of sloppy to you?” Cruz asked.

“Not necessarily. They were lucky to have found it. He probably figured it would be the typical lackadaisical approach, and nobody would notice. As it was, it took them three tries to figure it out. One of my buddies was on duty there doing backup security for the president’s advance detail, and he said the handler thought the dog was interested in the planter because he had to go.”

They both chuckled at that, and then Cruz became serious again.

“It just seems too easy. When have we ever dealt with anything related to El Rey where it was easy?”

“But it wasn’t. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. The odds favored him getting away with it. He might well have. It was just lucky that the dog was persistent, and that we put the president’s staff on high alert. Maybe if they hadn’t been, the bomb squad would have pulled the dog away and never thought twice about it. I think this was a victory for the good guys, sir,” Briones concluded.

“I hope so. But I’m skeptical. Nothing he’s ever done has made it easy for us,” Cruz said stubbornly. “No matter. Maybe you’re right. Today is a win.”

That afternoon, Cruz and Briones signed in and went through the security cordon around the congress site, where they watched the combined efforts of the soldiers and the president’s guard to sanitize the area. Cruz had to admit that the display of force presented an impressive deterrent. Still, Cruz and Briones were on alert, second-guessing every precaution and watching for any possible weaknesses in the security. They walked around the entire compound, noting that all the steps they would have taken, had been. The park across the way from where the president would issue his state of the union address had been closed to all but spectators who were being methodically searched, and the apartments beyond it were under watch. The freeway would be closed a few minutes before the president arrived, and kept closed for a half mile in each direction until it had concluded. Cruz had to concede that there seemed to be little chance for an assassin to try for the president, although he still had a nagging feeling that they’d gotten off too light.