Revenge of the Assassin

Chapter 5

“Jania — what’s wrong? What is it?” Antonio asked, as her voice trembled over the phone. It was morning, and she was calling twenty minutes before the shop was supposed to open. A first for her. She’d been as reliable as the rising sun…until now.

“It’s my uncle. Gustavo. He’s been murdered.” She choked on the final word, unable to go on.

“Murdered? Good Lord, Jania. What happened? Are you all right?”

“The police found him this morning and called me as next of kin. Someone broke in last night and killed him in his home office. Stabbed him with a letter opener. It’s horrible. The officer wouldn’t go into detail, but…”

“Oh my God. That’s unbelievable, Jania. I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do for you? Anything you need?” he offered.

“No. I don’t think so. It’s just…I mean, he was just an old man. What kind of sick bastard would kill a helpless old man?” Jania seemed confused by her question. Antonio knew better than to try to answer.

“Do they have any leads?” He stopped. “Is this kind of thing common in Mendoza?”

“No. I mean, there are robberies, of course. Just like anywhere. But a vicious murder like this in a good neighborhood…it’s very rare. I’ve never heard of anything like it,” Jania explained.

“So it’s a robbery gone wrong?”

“That’s what the police think. The officer was very nice on the phone. I’ll know more once I go down to the station. They want to take a statement from me. I don’t know how long that will take. That’s one of the reasons I’m calling — I don’t think I’m going to be in today. This is such a shock, and I have no idea what’s involved in claiming the body, or dealing with the cops…” Jania stuttered to a halt.

“Don’t worry about anything here. I can look after the shop in your absence. Take as much time as you need, and don’t come back to work until everything’s settled on your end.” Antonio paused. “I’m so sorry about Gustavo. He was a wonderful man.”

“Thank you. You don’t know how much that means to me.”

“Take care, and do what you need to do. I’ll be here when you’re done.”

Antonio carefully placed the handset back into the cradle and considered the front door of the shop, which was still locked.

So the police had found Gustavo murdered with a letter opener and suspected a robbery gone wrong.

Just as he’d hoped when he’d plunged the spike through the bastard’s chin and up into his brain, after kindly old uncle Gustavo had invited him over for a chat and a glass of wine. The topic had taken a turn for the worse when Gustavo had revealed his research into his true identity and concluded that he was an internationally notorious assassin hiding in Mendoza. The old man had laid out the evidence and given Antonio an ultimatum: either work for him in taking care of some problems in Buenos Aires with his criminal syndicate, or be exposed and the target of a manhunt.

At first he’d pretended surprise and shock, but the old man had been relentless. Ultimately, Antonio had agreed to do as Gustavo wanted after being assured that nobody else knew what he’d discovered. He had done his level best to appear amenable. It sounded like child’s play, actually, to terminate the chieftains who were skimming from Gustavo’s take. The only real problem was that he didn’t respond well to blackmail, or to anyone knowing his identity, even if Gustavo was an outwardly gentle soul who was just trying to get his needs met. And so El Rey had palmed the letter opener when Gustavo had sealed the arrangement with a proposal of a glass of rare Cobos Reserve Malbec and had leapt across his desk and skewered his brain when he’d swiveled around from the credenza to the desk with the bottle — which he’d caught with his free hand and had taken home with him, to be savored as an after-dinner treat.

He’d made short work of wiping Gustavo’s computer of any incriminating files and had painstakingly cleaned the handle of the letter opener, still protruding from the old crook’s chin, his eyes open in shocked surprise, staring off into oblivion as if regretting his ultimate misjudgment.

El Rey’s pulse hadn’t increased from the effort, nor had he been particularly upset over having to terminate his friendship so abruptly. It was nothing personal, just as the uncle’s researching his past hadn’t been personal. He’d done what he’d felt compelled to do, and El Rey had responded in kind. That was how the world worked. If you played with vipers, you shouldn’t be surprised when one bit you. It was the law of the jungle El Rey lived by, and the incident only served to reinforce why it was a good idea to never get too close to anyone, or too attached to any place or thing. Relative peace and safety could turn dangerous in a heartbeat, and it was foolishness to drop your guard.

Gustavo had been working on his project for over a week — he’d seen from the e-mail dates. Which meant that if he’d been telling the truth, he’d known, or suspected, for almost that long. El Rey could only hope that he’d kept the information to himself, which he believed was strongly likely. Anyone else knowing would have compromised the old man’s hoped-for hold over El Rey, and he was sure that Gustavo had leveled with him about his problem in Buenos Aires. His only miscalculation had been in believing that he could control the assassin and force him to do his bidding.

It was a pity — it was hard to find friends these days. But it was also unavoidable.

El Rey had two choices. He could disappear, hoping to elude any pursuit, or he could stay put and see what happened. But he didn’t want to trip any alarms and a sudden departure immediately after the murder of his chess partner might trigger the exact sort of manhunt he was hoping to avoid. After much thought, he decided to wait and see rather than running. He liked Mendoza more than anyplace else he’d been, and he wasn’t anxious to leave if he didn’t have to. So he’d gathered up his passports and double-checked his escape kit, which he’d stowed in the large safe behind a paneled section of his home study, and resigned himself to being patient and waiting it out. Nothing was ever gained by making rash moves.

Jania had sounded genuinely surprised and shocked, so Gustavo hadn’t told her anything. That was good. He would have hated to have to kill her over that sort of indiscretion. On balance, then, it wasn’t a bad start to the day. She would get to live.

He hummed to himself as he walked to the glass front entry, silently debating not opening, and then dismissing the idea. Better to go about his business as though nothing had happened — which in a way, it hadn’t. His shopkeeper’s uncle had been the victim of a failed burglary attempt, or alternatively, had been killed by some of the unsavory elements from his murky past. Either way the police looked, they’d encounter a dead end. There was no trail to him, or the shop, to follow.

He flipped the sign over from closed to open and unlocked the door. If today was like any other weekday, he’d be lucky to see five customers before dinner time.

El Rey brought his notebook computer from out of the back office and settled in behind the counter on the high padded stool where Jania spent most of her time. Peering at his watch, he mentally calculated how many hours he’d be on this lonely duty and sighed resignedly as he moved the cursor to his favorite web browser to surf the web.

El Rey closed at two o’clock for the customary two hour lunch break that all of Argentina took. Sometimes it was extended to three hours on slow days, which today, given the two customers so far, he felt qualified as such. He walked a block to his favorite lunchtime restaurant, a small Italian place on one of the main streets, and ordered a salad and some duck ravioli. Following his meal, he opted for an hour and a half at the gym.

Refreshed from the exercise, he stowed his gear in the locker he rented by the month and made his way back to the shop. The usual sprawl of students was lounging around, carousing on the promenade in front, but other than that, he saw nothing of note. He grudgingly opened the door, propping it open to lure tourists in, and remounted the stool, waiting for closing time to come.

At six, two men in trench coats entered, removing their fedoras, and Antonio instinctively stiffened, their bearings unmistakable. The taller of the pair approached him — a rough-looking man in his early fifties whose baby face had long ago succumbed to the effects of wine and gravity, and whose day-old stubble was laced with gray.

“Senor Balardi? Antonio Balardi?” he asked officiously.

“Yes. How can I help you?” Antonio answered in a modulated, quiet voice.

“I’m Detective Rufio Starone, and this is Detective Franko Lombardetti. We’d like to ask you a few questions,” the taller man responded.

“Certainly. Would you mind showing me some identification?” Antonio asked reasonably.

The request seemed to annoy the two men, but they flipped out their badges, which Antonio studied over the rims of his glasses and then nodded.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

“We’re investigating the murder of Gustavo Peralta Malagro. We got your name from his niece, Jania.”

“Yes. She called this morning. A shocking crime. He was a wonderful man. But I’m not sure how I can help you…”

“We’re following up with everyone he knew, to see if there was anything suspicious or worrisome about him in his last days. Let’s begin with you telling us how well you knew him,” Starone said.

“Not particularly well. He and I would play chess a few times a month. I’ve only known him for maybe four months, through Jania. He’d come by, we got to talking, and it became somewhat of a ritual — a way to kill time,” Antonio explained.

“When did you last see him?” Detective Lombardetti asked.

“Oh, it must have been four days ago. We sat over at the little French bakery and played a game of chess, as was our custom.”

“Did he seem preoccupied or concerned? Did he mention anything worrying him?” Starone inquired.

“No. Not unusually so. I mean, he would complain about things sometimes, but just routine stuff, nothing dramatic. Why? I thought Jania said that this was a burglary? Isn’t that the case?”

Starone ignored the question. “What kind of routine stuff? Give me some examples.”

“Well, let’s see. He griped about the cost of gas and energy a lot, and about international banks robbing the country blind, and about how the economy sucked and the government was incompetent…”

“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.”

He watched as his quarry jaywalked, a car honking angrily as it nearly missed him. The target seemed unfazed and picked up his pace past the street vendors at the park entrance. The light turned green, and he joined the crowd in crossing to the verdant expanse, trying to maintain a fix on the target’s trajectory.

The young man was now a good hundred and fifty yards ahead of him, and he watched as the distant figure cut through a line of people waiting to enter the small underground theater that was the central hub of the park. He could just make out the lights and distinctive white facade of the Park Hyatt hotel across the far street and knew his men would take over once he’d crossed that street. If the man made a right or a left, they could still track him, but it would be more obvious. It wasn’t a perfect scenario, but it was the only one they’d been able to improvise on short notice.

A few lights glimmered dimly in the area he was walking towards, which could work well for them. The target seemed to have no idea he was under surveillance, so it would be straightforward enough to corner him. He wished he could still see him, but the theater crowd was now in his line of sight as he moved past the massive fountain.

He wasn’t worried. It would be over shortly.

El Rey could just make out the pair of shadows lurking beneath one of the large tree trunks twenty yards from the path he was on. A pair of teenage lovers lay sprawled on a darkened park bench, exploring each other’s charms with single-minded intensity, oblivious to anything but their passion as he hurried past. An old woman moved out of his way, clutching her purse tightly as if afraid he’d assault her. He nodded as he walked by, offering a non-threatening look.

At the street, he made a split-second decision, and instead of crossing straight over as he normally would, he instead moved diagonally across the empty thoroughfare to the far block. He registered the two shadows beneath the tree begin their pursuit and considered the desolate sidewalk he was now on. There were a few construction projects over the next two blocks he’d seen while wandering the neighborhood, one of which was a large remodel of a turn of the century building. That could provide exactly the cover he was looking for.

He slowed to give his followers a chance to get closer, and judging the timing, turned the corner onto the smaller street — empty now that the business district had closed down. He spotted the building he’d remembered and smiled to himself. The old habits came back easily. Like riding a bicycle.

The pair watched as their quarry rounded the block and momentarily disappeared from view. They exchanged worried glances and increased their speed. The last thing they needed was to lose him now that they were this close. One of the men pulled a stun gun from his jacket pocket in preparation for taking him down. With any luck it would be over within a few minutes, on the outside.

They turned the corner and found themselves on an empty street. There was no sign of him.

The shorter of the two hastily stabbed at his cell phone and muttered into it, “We should be on top of him, but when we made the turn, he disappeared.”

“Could he have entered one of the buildings? Maybe he lives there.”

“Anything’s possible. What do you want us to do?”

“Keep walking and see if you can spot him on the far street. Worst case, if you can’t, watch the buildings for a light going on in one of the windows. He couldn’t have gotten too far, so either he ducked into one of the buildings or he ran for it. I think we can assume he spotted you. Get moving. No need for subtlety now,” the shoelace tier instructed. “I’m right behind you, maybe forty-five seconds. Move.”

They increased their speed to a near jog. As they passed the construction site, a shadow burst from the depths and hurtled past them.

The first man clutched his midsection in disbelief, as though he could hold his organs in with his hands now that his stomach had been slit open, sliced below his ribcage through the abdominal wall. He crumpled as his intestines spilled out onto the sidewalk in a wet puddle. His partner collapsed simultaneously, dropping the stun gun to the ground, the femoral artery at the top of his leg severed, the outpouring of blood causing an immediate drop in blood pressure. He quivered as he feebly pushed against the gash in his thigh, consciousness fading almost instantly as his life seeped from him.

El Rey kicked the stun gun into the darkness and then silently moved back into the bowels of the gutted building, carefully avoiding the blood that his interaction with the first two had created. He listened for footsteps and was rewarded by the clumping of shoes approaching from around the corner, which stopped, as anticipated, in front of the two dying men. He slid out of the far side of the building and circled back soundlessly on his pursuer.

The man never saw him coming. The next thing he knew, a bloody straight razor was at his throat, millimeters from severing his carotid.

An eerily calm voice whispered in his ear, tender as a lover, “Who are you?”

The man swallowed and allowed his body to go slack, signaling submission to his assailant.

“Please. Don’t kill me. I’m here from Don Aranas. He sent us to bring you back. He needs your help.”

Aranas? The name instantly caused a flood of images. The head of the Sinaloa cartel was as legendary as he was elusive. He was as much of a ghost as El Rey and had defied decades of concerted manhunts to bring him to justice. El Rey had never met him, but he’d performed hits for his syndicate, taking sanctions against the Gulf and Juarez cartels. He’d delivered flawlessly on the contracts, and Aranas had always been punctual in payment. But how…?

“I need more than that. How did you find me? You have five seconds to convince me not to slit your throat.”

“There was an inquiry through Interpol from the Argentine secret service. One of Aranas’ contacts in the Federales alerted him, and we traced the origin to a man in Mendoza. A man who was found murdered this morning. Our sources in the police department here gave us the list of possible suspects. You were one of the names.”

“How did you know it was me?” El Rey whispered.

“We didn’t. I have five other men in town — now that these two have been taken out of the game. They’re watching other targets.”

“That doesn’t explain how you knew I was your likeliest objective.”

“You don’t look that much different than your photo, if you know what to look for. It’s a good disguise, but nothing’s foolproof. You should know that.”

El Rey felt the man’s pockets for weapons. He had a pistol — a Remington 1911 R1.45 caliber, no silencer. El Rey took it and removed the razor from his neck, pausing to wipe the blade on the man’s jacket.

“Turn around. Slowly. Face me, and then back into the construction site so we can have some privacy. Don’t make a sound or you’re dead. We don’t have a lot of time, so do exactly as I say.”

The man did as instructed, raising his hands over his head and moving into the shadows. El Rey trained the gun on him, the barrel steady, almost casual.

“What does Aranas want with me? Why search halfway around the world for someone who has gone out of his way to disappear?”

“Aranas has an offer for you — a job. He was insistent. Money is no object to him, and he wants the best.”

“I’ve retired.”

“I don’t think so. With all due respect, if Aranas wants you that badly, it’s time to come out of retirement just this once. You know the power he wields. Don Aranas is not a man to refuse. I mean no disrespect in telling you this.”

El Rey thought about it. This was a very strange situation, and not at all what he’d envisioned. He’d been expecting almost anything, but not a job offer. He regarded the man, who was clearly extremely tough. This was a man who had faced death many times, you could tell. He was afraid of El Rey killing him, but he was also resigned to it, if that was how the night would end. Better dead than to let down his master. El Rey knew the kind. He gestured with his weapon.

“I’ll consider it. Give me a phone number to call, and when I’m ready, I will get in touch,” El Rey instructed.

“My orders were to have you accompany me. We have a Gulfstream V waiting at the airport that can hit Mexico without refueling. I urge you to reconsider.”

“I don’t care what your orders were. I am retired. If I decide to meet with Don Aranas, it’s out of respect for his position, not because of any orders. Give me a number, and if I decide to, I will call and arrange a meeting within a week. It will be just the two of us. Nobody else. And the price will be very high. Twenty million U.S.. There will be no negotiation. That’s what it will take to bring me out of retirement if I choose to do so. If I decide not to, I won’t call, and you can tell Don Aranas that I have respectfully declined.” El Rey motioned with the gun. “You are still alive for one reason. I want you to take that message back to him. If you’re unwilling to, say so, and I can arrange for you to join your men in the gutter.”

The man nodded and then slowly reached into his jacket pocket for a pen and a scrap of paper — a parking stub. He watched El Rey studying him, and then, after considering it for a few moments, scrawled a number on the back of the ticket. He replaced the pen in his jacket and then held the slip out to El Rey.

“Place it on the ground and then turn around and walk out of here. Keep walking until you get to the main street and then cross into the park. Walk to the far side, and from there, do whatever you want. But be assured of one thing. If I ever see you, or any of your men, again, I will kill you like a dog, without hesitation. Nothing personal. You know how it is,” El Rey said, speaking softly, as was his custom.

The man nodded. “I’ll take him the message.”

He bent down and placed the parking ticket on the ground and then turned as instructed. El Rey slammed him in the base of the neck with the heavy steel pistol, and he tumbled to the ground. Picking up the stub, he calculated that the man would be out for at least fifteen minutes — plenty of time to get to his apartment, grab his gear, and disappear forever.

When the man came to, he was being shaken awake by a uniformed police officer. A blue glow flickered on the street from the roof lights of the squad cars. A harsh glare illuminated the building’s battered facade from the headlights of the four gathered cars. A huddle of cops stood outside by the two corpses, which had been covered with a tarp. El Rey was gone.

He told the police that he’d been assaulted and mugged, and that the last thing he remembered was being told to move into the building. He knew nothing about the two dead men — perhaps they’d happened along and tried to help him. He didn’t know. He’d been unconscious throughout whatever had happened and vaguely remembered a pair of large men, rough-looking, perhaps homeless — he struggled to give as good a description as he could muster, but it was all blurry and had happened so fast.

Unfortunately, he didn’t have his wallet — not surprising, given that he’d just been robbed; but he could get his passport brought to him with a phone call to a colleague at the airport. The officers took him into the precinct and processed his statement, and a doctor checked him perfunctorily. No concussion — just a sore neck and a bad headache. He was allowed to make his call, and within a few minutes the shift chief got a phone call from the head of the Mendoza police force.

Four hours later, the Gulfstream lifted into the night sky and banked north, paralleling the Andes on its way up the coast.