Russell Blake - King of Swords

The driver nodded and took the proffered cell phone from El Rey ’s outstretched hand.

Satisfied the men weren’t going to shoot him, he strode across the street, and then down a block; glancing back over his shoulder before turning the corner and disappearing from view. The men sat restlessly. A few minutes later the phone chirped.

“Go into the market. I left the antidote with the woman at the counter. Oh, and you owe her five hundred pesos for holding it. Let Don Felix know I’ll be in contact within forty-seven hours to confirm my successful closure of our contract, and to arrange payment for the second half. Again, be careful with the bottle of antidote, and no more than one tablespoon per person. Any questions?”

“No. I understand.”

The young man terminated the call and pulled his truck down the dirt road, snaking his way to the highway that would take him south, down the coast. He wondered if the cartel boss would figure out that the antidote was water with a little Viagra dissolved in it. Probably not. In the end it wouldn’t matter. Montanegro would be pleased his rival was executed, El Rey would have established his new price as a cool million, and he would only have to do one hit a year to live like a king. He suspected he’d actually have to raise his price again in a few years just to keep up appearances.

One thing that was for sure was that Montanegro would use him for any other high-importance executions he needed carried out, regardless of price. Money was nothing to the man. But having the absolute best in his pocket, deferring to him, with the tacit agreement he wouldn’t turn on him and fulfill a sanction against him? That was priceless.

As had been the look on Montanegro’s face when El Rey had concocted the story on the spot, about the mythical toxin.

He hummed as he pulled onto the toll road, headed for Ensenada.

Present Day, Mexico City Airport

Cruz stared at the little man, trying to decide whether he believed him or not. He rose and began pacing the room, as was his habit when he was thinking. Briones looked like someone had stolen his wallet.

“How do you know any of this, and more importantly, how can it help us find El Rey ?” Briones sputtered.

Moreno smiled, revealing a near absence of teeth. “I was the gardener that day. I was the one trimming the ivy. I worked at Montanegro’s compound for four years, until he was executed by the Sinaloa cartel. You probably remember that. It was a bloody assault even by Tijuana standards. Don Felix was always generous with me, but over the years I fell on hard times, and, well, you know the rest,” Moreno said.

Cruz finally stopped walking and returned to his seat. He fixed the prisoner with a harsh stare and fired a question at him.

“How do you know about the Viagra?” Cruz asked.

“I overheard it. Seems he sent the ‘antidote’ to San Diego for testing. He about blew a gasket laughing when telling his brother a few days later. I don’t think I ever saw him so amused. He had tears rolling down his face. I think that impressed him more than when he read about the Chiapas cartel boss being executed the next day.”

“So you’ve seen El Rey ? You could tell us what he looks like?” Cruz demanded.

“It’s been a very long time, but I think I could — but it will be what he looked like then. Time can change a man’s face, and I only saw him for a few minutes. I was working, and only glanced over occasionally. If you paid too much attention, it could be bad for your health,” Moreno explained.

“If we showed you some drawings, could you pick him out?” Briones asked.

“I can try. Only one thing. If I do, what will I get in return? I can wait for you to check my story if you want. You can look up the details of the death of the Chiapas cartel’s boss — and the date. That’s the only thing I can think of you can verify,” Moreno offered.

Cruz considered it. There was no way a man of obviously limited intellect and prospects could invent a story like that; not with so much detail. Cruz was willing to bet it was true.

“If you can help us, I’ll speak to Culiacan and ask that your charges be dropped. I’d also suggest that you stop burgling houses. You’re too old for that shit,” Cruz said.

“I believe you. And thank you, Capitan . Thank you so much,” Moreno said, close to tears with relief.

Briones opened his briefcase and spread the five drawings out on the table along with a few placebo drawings they’d had Arlen draw in preparation for the meeting. Moreno squinted at them for a few minutes, seeming undecided. Finally, he put his scarred index finger on one.

“This one’s the closest. He looks older here, and a little heavier, and there’s something about the nose and eyes that isn’t right, but this is the most similar to what I remember,” Moreno said.

They all looked down at the sketch Moreno had selected.

It was Briones’ vagrant.

~ ~ ~

Sarah Wilford checked her e-mail, intrigued when she saw the message from her brother-in-law, Bill Stephens. She racked her brain for the last time Bill had sent her anything and came up dry. This was a first.

She read the short introductory message, then opened the attachment, which was a formal meeting report with the Mexicans. Sarah skimmed it, and then a phone call distracted her. By now it was already five o’clock, and she needed to get going to pick up the kids from daycare. She thought about what to do with it, and then forwarded it to her boss, Carl Rugman, who would know better than she how best to proceed. Satisfied she’d done all she could, Sarah gathered her coat and purse and headed off to collect her darlings.

Carl was in a meeting with two communications specialists going over the latest satellite surveillance grids for Iraq, which took until six o’clock. He did a cursory scan of his messages and noted the one from Sarah. After a quick read, he picked up his phone and dialed his counterpart at Secret Service, who was out of the office, and left a brief message that he was forwarding on a report from the DEA. Next, he called a friend at the CIA, which also went straight to voice mail.

“Humphrey, this is Carl. I know it’s kind of late, but I just got a report from DEA I thought you might be interested in. It’s about a possible threat to the President, involving Mexican cartels. I’m forwarding it on. Hopefully, you’ll know who to hand it off to.”

After re-reading it again, he sent the e-mail to three other men within the NSA, and two more at the CIA. Between those contacts and the Secret Service, they should have the bases covered.

He switched off his computer and donned his jacket before flicking off his lights, tired after another grueling day of meetings and briefings. Keeping the nation safe from terrorism and whatnot took it out of a guy, especially at his age.

Three hours later, a phone rang in the private office of one of the most powerful men at Langley, an assistant director for the entire Middle East.

“I sent a report to your encrypted anonymous box. Read it and call me back. We have a problem.” The line went dead.

Kent Fredericks dutifully logged into his alternative mailbox — a blind address for sensitive matters he didn’t want on record — and carefully read the report before dialing the phone.

“We need to meet. Can we get together this evening?” Kent asked. He looked at his watch. “Maybe tell the missus that you need to have a cocktail with an important constituent?”

“Ten-thirty, at my club. I’ll see to it we aren’t disturbed. Shouldn’t be many people around at that hour.”

“I’ll see you there.”