Death Sentences Read online

  He ate some scone and launched the crumbs off his dark blue suit and light blue tie.

  A moment later a man sat down across from him. He had a Starbuck’s coffee, too, but it’d been doctored up big time—almond or hazelnut, whipped cream, sprinkles. The man was weasely, Billings reflected. When you’re in your forties and somebody looks at you and the word weasel is the first thing that comes to mind, you might want to start thinking about image. Gain some weight.

  Have a scone.

  Billings now said to Harris, “Evening.”

  Harris nodded then licked whipped cream from the top of his coffee carton.

  Billings found it repulsive, the darting, weasely tongue. “We’re at the go/no-go point.”

  “Right.”

  “Your man down south.”

  “Adam.”

  As good a code as any for Harris’s contracting agent in Hermosillo, presently dogging Alonso María Carillo, AKA Cuchillo. Harris, of course, wasn’t going to name him. Loud traffic on the streets of D.C. is like cappuccino machines, only loud. It masks, it doesn’t obliterate, and both Harris and Billings knew there were sound engineers who could extract incriminating words from cacophony with the precision of a hummingbird sipping nectar in a hover.

  “Communication is good?” A near whisper by Billings.

  No response. Of course communication would be good. Harris and his people were the best. No need for a nod, either.

  Billings wanted to take a bite of scone but was, for some reason, reluctant to do so in front of a man who’d killed at least a dozen people, or so the unwritten resume went. Billings had killed a number of people indirectly but, one on one? Only a squirrel. Accidentally. His voice now dropped lower yet. “Has he been in contact with the PIQ?”

  Person in Question.

  Cuchillo.

  “No. He’s doing the prep work. From a distance.”

  “So he hasn’t seen, for instance, weapons or product at the compound?”

  “No. They’re staying clear. Both Adam and his counterpart from the D.F.” Harris continued, “All the surveillance is by drone.”

  Which Billings had seen. And it wasn’t helpful.

  They fell silent as a couple at a table nearby stood and gathered their shopping bags.

  Billings told himself to be a bit subtler with his questions. Harris was on the cusp of becoming curious. And that would not be good. Billings was not prepared to share what had been troubling him for the past several hours, since the new intelligence assessment came in: that he and his department might have subcontracted out a job to assassinate the wrong man.

  There was now some doubt that Cuchillo was in fact head of the Hermosillo Cartel.

  The intercepts Billings’s people had interpreted as referring to drug shipments by the cartel in fact referred to legitimate products from Cuchillo’s manufacturing factories, destined for U.S. companies. A huge deposit into one of his Cayman accounts was perfectly legal—not a laundering scam, as originally thought—and was from the sale of a ranch he had owned in Texas. And the death of a nearby drug supplier they were sure was a hit ordered by Cuchillo turned out to be a real traffic accident involving a drunk driver. Much of the other data on which they’d based the terminate order remained ambiguous.

  Billings had hoped that Adam, on the ground in Sonora, might have seen something to confirm their belief that Cuchillo ran the cartel.

  But apparently not.

  Harris licked the whipped cream again. Caught a few sprinkles in the process.

  Billings looked him over again. Yes, weasely, but this wasn’t necessarily an insult. After all, a sneaky weasel and a noble wolf weren’t a lot different, at least not when they were sniffing after prey.

  Harris asked bluntly, “So, do I tell Adam to go forward?”

  Billings took a bite of scone. He had the lives of the passengers of the bus to save … and he had his career to think of, too. He considered the question as he brushed crumbs. He’d studied law at the University of Chicago, where the theory of cost-benefit analysis had largely been developed. The theory was this: you balanced the cost of preventing a mishap versus the odds of it occurring and the severity of the consequences if it does.

  In the Cuchillo assassination, Billings had considered two options: Scenario One: Adam kills Cuchillo. If he’s not the head of the cartel and is innocent, then the bus attack happens, because somebody else is behind it. If he’s guilty, then the bus incident doesn’t happen and there’d be no bus incidents in the future. Scenario Two: Adam stands down. Now, if Cuchillo’s innocent, the bus incident happens. If he’s guilty, the bus incident happens and there’ll be more incidents like it in the future.

  In other words, the hard and cold numbers favored going forward, even if Cuchillo was innocent.

  But the obvious downside was that Billings could be crucified if that was the case … and if he and Harris and Adam were discovered.

  An obvious solution occurred to him.

  Oh, this was good. He finished the scone. “Yeah, Adam’s green-lighted. But there’s just one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Tell him however he does it, all the evidence has to be obliterated. Completely. Nothing can trace the incident back here. Nothing at all.”

  And looking very much like a crossbreed, a weasel-wolf, Harris nodded and sucked up the last of the whipped cream. “I have no problem with that whatsoever.”

  Díaz and Evans were back in the apartment in a nice section of Hermosillo, an apartment that was paid for by a company owned by a company owned by a company whose headquarters was a post office box in Northern Virginia. Evans was providing not only the technical expertise but most of the money as well. It was the least he could do, he’d joked, considering that it was America that supplied most of the weapons to the cartels; in Mexico it is virtually impossible to buy or possess weapons legally.

  The time was now nearly five p.m. and Evans was reading an encrypted email from the U.S. that he’d just received.

  He looked up. “That’s it. We’re green-lighted.”

  Díaz smiled. “Good. I want that son of a bitch to go to hell.”

  And they got back to work, poring over data-mined information about Cuchillo’s life: his businesses and associates and employees, household staff, his friends and mistresses, the restaurants and bars where he spent many evenings, what he bought, what he downloaded, what computer programs he used, what he enjoyed listening to, what he ate and drank. The information was voluminous; security forces here and in the U.S. had been compiling it for months.

  And, yes, much of this information had to do with books.

  Weaknesses …

  “Listen to this, Al. Last year he bought more than a million dollars’ worth of books.”

  “You mean pesos.”

  “I mean dollars. Hey, you turn the A.C. down?”

  Evans had noticed that the late afternoon heat was flowing into the apartment like a slow, oppressive tide.

  “Just little,” Díaz said. “Air conditioning, it’s not so healthy.”

  “Cold temperature doesn’t give you a cold,” Evans said pedantically.

  “I know that. I mean, the mold.”

  “What?”

  “Mold in the ducts. Dangerous. That is what I meant, unhealthy.”

  Oh. Evans conceded the point. He actually had been coughing a lot since he’d arrived. He got another Coke, wiped the neck and sipped. He spit Handi-wipe. He coughed. He turned the A.C. down a little more.

  “You get used to the heat.”

  “That’s not possible. In Mexico, do you have words for winter, spring and fall?”

  “Ha, funny.”

  They returned to the data-mined info. Not only was the credit card data available but insurance information about many of the books was often included. Some of the books were one of a kind, worth tens of thousands of dollars. They seemed to all be first editions.

  “And look,” Díaz said, looking over the documents.
“He never sells them. He only buys.”

  It was true, Evans realized. There were no sales documents, no tax declarations of making money by selling capital items described as books. He kept everything he bought.

  He’d want them around him all the time. He’d covet them. He’d need them.

  Many people in the drug cartels were addicted to their own product; Cuchillo, it seemed, was not. Still, he had an addiction.

  But how to exploit it?

  Evans considered the list. Ideas were forming, as they always did. “Look at this, Al. Last week he ordered a book inscribed by Dickens, The Old Curiosity Shop. The price is sixty thousand. Yeah, dollars.”

  “For a book?” the Mexican agent asked, looking astonished.

  “And it’s used,” Evans pointed out. “It’s supposed to be coming in, in a day or two.” He thought for some moments. Finally he nodded. “Here’s an idea. I think it could work … . We’ll contact this man—” He found a name on the sheet of data-mined printouts. “Señor Davila. He seems to be Cuchillo’s main book dealer. What we’ll do is tell him we suspect him of money laundering.”

  “He probably is.”

  “And he’d pee his pants, thinking if we announce it, Cuchillo will … “Evans drew his index finger across his throat.

  “Do you do that in America?”

  “What?”

  “You know. That thing, your finger, your throat? I only saw that in bad movies. Laurel and Hardy.”

  Evans asked, “Who?”

  Alejo Díaz shrugged and seemed disappointed that he’d never heard of them.

  Evans continued, “So Davila will do whatever we want.”

  “Which will be to call Cuchillo and tell him his Dickens book arrived early. Oh, and the seller wants cash only.”

  “Good. I like that. So somebody will have to meet him in person—to collect the cash.”

  “And I’ll come to his house to deliver the book. His security man probably won’t want that but Cuchillo will insist to take delivery. Because he’s—”

  “Addicted.”

  The Mexican agent added, “I’ll have to meet him, not you. Your Spanish, it is terrible. Why did they send you here on assignment?”

  The reason for sending P.Z. Evans to a conflict zone was not because of his language skills. “I like the soft drinks.” He opened another Coke. Did the neck cleaning thing. He cleared his throat and tried not to cough.

  Díaz said, “We’ll need to get the book, though. That Dickens.” Nodding at the list.

  Evans said, “I’ll make some calls to my people in the States, see if they can track one down.”

  Díaz asked, “Okay, so it is that I’m inside. What do I do then? If I shoot him, they shoot me.”

  “Effective,” Evans pointed out.

  “But not the successful plans you’re known for, P.Z.”

  “True. No, what you’re going to do is plant a bomb.”

  “A bomb?” Díaz said uneasily. “I don’t like them so much.”

  Evans gestured to his computer, referring to the email he’d just received. “Instructions are nothing’s supposed to remain. Nothing to trace back to our bosses. Has to be a bomb. And one that produces a big honking fire.”

  Díaz added, “Always collateral damage.”

  The American agent shrugged. “Cuchillo doesn’t have a wife. He doesn’t have any children. Lives pretty much alone. Anybody around him is probably as guilty as he is.” Evans tapped a drone picture of the compound. “Anything and anyone inside?” A shrug. “They’re just acceptable sacrifices.”

  He liked his nickname.

  Alonso María Carillo was actually honored that people thought enough of him to give him a name that sounded like it was attached to some Mafioso out of a movie. Like Joey “The Knife” Vitelli.

  “Cuchillo”—like a blade, like a dagger: How he loved that! And it was ironic because he wasn’t a thug, wasn’t like Tony Soprano at all. He was solid physically and he was tough, yes, but in Mexico a businessman must be tough. Still, his voice was soft and, well, inquisitive sounding. Almost innocent. His manner unassuming. His temper even.

  He was in the office of his home not far from the upscale Hidalgo Plaza area of the city. Though the compound was surrounded by high walls, and sported a number of trees, from this spacious room he had a view of the city’s grandest mountain, Cerro de la Compana, if a thousand-foot jut of rock can be described thus.

  It was quitting time—he’d been working here since six that morning. No breaks. He put his work aside and went online to download some apps for his new iPhone, which he would synchronize to his iPad. He loved gadgets—both in his personal life and in business he always stayed current with the latest technology. (Since his companies had sales reps throughout Mexico and he needed to stay in constant touch with them he used the Cloud and thought it was the best invention of the last ten years.)

  Rising from his desk, declaring it the end of the day, he happened to regard himself in a mirror nearby. Not so bad for an old man.

  Cuchillo was about five nine and stocky and resembled Fernandez, Mexico’s greatest actor and director, in the businessman’s opinion. Though he was in scores of films, Fernandez was at his peak as Mapache in The Wild Bunch, one of the few truly honest films about Mexico.

  Looking over his face, thick black hair. Keen brown eyes. Cuchillo thought again, No, not so bad … The women still appreciated him. Sure, he paid some of them—one way or another—but he also had a connection with them. He could converse with them. He listened. He also made love for hours. Not a lot of 57-year-olds could do that.

  “You old devil,” he whispered.

  Then he gave a wry grin at his own vanity and left the office. He told his maid he’d be staying at home for dinner.

  And he walked into his most favorite place on earth, his library. The building was large: sixty feet by forty, and very cool, as well as carefully humidity controlled (which was ironic in Hermosillo, in the heart of the Sonoran desert, where there were two or three rainy days a year). Gauze curtains kept the sun from bleaching the jackets and leather bindings of the books.

  The ceilings were thirty feet off the ground and the entire space was open, lined with tall shelves on the ground floor and encircled with levels above, which one could reach by climbing an iron spiral staircase to narrow walkways. In the center were three parallel shelves ten feet high. In the front of the room was a library table, surrounded by comfortable chairs and an overstuffed armchair and a floor lamp with a warm yellow bulb. A small bar featured the best brandy and single-malt scotches. Cuchillo enjoyed Cuban cigars. But never here.

  The building was home to 22,000 titles, nearly all of them first editions. Many, the only ones in existence.

  On a night like this, after a long day working by himself, Cuchillo would normally have gone out into the relatively cool evening and eaten at Sonora Steak and then gone to Ruby’s bar with his friends and—of course—his security. But the rumors of this impending attack were too real to ignore and he’d have to stay within the compound until more was learned about the threat.

  Ah, what a country we live in, he reflected. The most philanthropic businessman, and the most hardworking farmer, and the worst drug baron all are treated equally … treated to fear.

  Someday it will be different.

  But at least Cuchillo had no problem staying home tonight, in his beloved library. He called his housekeeper and had her prepare dinner, a simple linguine primavera, made with organic vegetables and herbs out of his own garden. A California cabernet, too, and ice water.

  He turned on a small high definition TV, the news. There were several stories about the ceremony in the D.F. on Friday, commemorating the latest war against the cartels. The event would include speeches by the country’s president and an American official from the DEA. More drug killings in Chihuahua. He shook his head.

  In a half hour the food arrived and he sat down at the table, removed his tie—he dressed for work, even whe
n staying home—and stuffed a napkin into his collar. As he ate, his mind wandered to the Dickens that his book dealer, Señor Davila, would be delivering tomorrow. He was delighted that it had arrived early, but pleased, too, that he was getting it for a lower price than originally agreed. The seller whom Davila had found apparently needed cash and would reduce the price by five thousand if Cuchillo paid in U.S. dollars, which he immediately agreed to do. Davila had said he would reduce his percentage of the finder’s fee accordingly, but Cuchillo had insisted that he receive the full amount. Davila had always been good to him.

  There was a knock on the door and his security chief, José, entered.

  He could tell at once: bad news.

  “I heard from a contact in the Federales, sir. There is intelligence about this bus attack on Friday? The tourist bus? The reports are linking you to it.”

  “No!”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Dammit,” he muttered. Cuchillo had uttered only a few obscenities in his life; this was usually the worst his language got. “Me? This is absurd. This is completely wrong! They blame me for everything!”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  Cuchillo calmed and considered the problem. “Call the bus lines, call the security people, call whoever you have to. Do what you can to make sure passengers are safe in Sonora. You understand, I want to be certain that no one is hurt here. They will blame me if anything happens.”

  “I’ll do what I can, sir, but—”

  His boss said patiently, “I understand you can’t control the entire state. But use our resources to do whatever you can.”

  “Yessir, I will.”

  The man hurried off.

  Cuchillo finally shrugged off the anger, finished dinner and, sipping his wine, walked up and down the aisles enjoying the sight of his many titles.

  22,000 …

  He returned to his den and worked some more on the project that had obsessed him for the past few months: opening another auto parts fabrication plant outside of town. There was a huge U.S. automobile manufacturer here in Hermosillo and Cuchillo had made much of his fortune by supplying parts to the company. It would employ another 400 local workers. Though he benefitted from their foolishness, he couldn’t understand the Americans’ sending manufacturing away from their country. He would never do that. Business—no, all of life—was about loyalty.