An Acceptable Sacrifice (4 page)

“And it’s even less fair when I’m thinking I may get laid, too.”

T
HURSDAY

The latter part of his plans did not happen, though Evans had come close.

But Carmella, the gorgeous young woman he met at a nearby bar, was a little too eager, which set off warning bells that she probably had designs to land a good-looking and apparently employed American husband.

In any event, tequila had intervened big time and the dance of your-place-or-mine never occurred.

It was now ten in the morning and, natch, hot as searing iron. No A.C., but Evans’s cough was gone.

Díaz examined his partner. “You look awful. Hey, you know that many of Charles Dickens’ most popular novels were first published serially and that he wrote in a style influenced by gothic popular novels of the Victorian era, but with a whimsical touch?”

“You’re fucked if you go in talking like that.”

“I going to read one of his books. Is Dickens translated into Spanish?”

“I think so. I don’t know.”

Evans opened an attaché case he’d bought yesterday and had rigged with a false compartment. Into this narrow space he added the Schiller he’d doctored last night and sealed it. Then he added receipts, price guides, scraps of paper—everything that a book dealer would carry with him to a meeting with a collector. The Dickens, too, which was packed in bubble wrap. Evans then tested the communications app on the iPad that Díaz would have with him—it would appear to be in sleep mode, but a hypersensitive microphone would be picking up all the conversation between Cuchillo and Díaz. The system worked fine.

“Okay.” Evans then checked his 9mm Beretta. He slipped it into his waistband. “Diversion’s ready, device is ready. Let’s do it.”

They walked down to the parking lot. Evans went to a huge old Mercury—yes, a real Mercury, in sun-faded Mercury brown, with an untraceable registration. Díaz’s car was a midnight blue Lincoln registered to Davila Collectable Books, which Señor Davila had quickly, almost tearfully, agreed to let them borrow.

According to the unwritten rules of times like these, the start of a mission, when either or both might be dead within the hour, they said nothing of luck, hope, or the pleasure of working together. Much less did they shake hands.

“See you later.”

“
Sí
.”

They climbed in, fired up the engines and hurried out of the lot.

As he drove to Cuchillo’s compound, Alejo Díaz could not help but think of the bus.

The people tomorrow, the tourists, who would be trapped and burned to death by this butcher. He recalled P.Z. Evans’s words yesterday and reflected that these people were also—to Cuchillo—acceptable sacrifices.

Díaz was suddenly swept with fury at what people like this were doing to his country. Yes, the place was hot and dusty and the economy staggered and it dwelt forever in the shadow of that behemoth to the north—the country that Mexicans both loved and hated.

But this land is our home, he thought. And home, however flawed, deserves respect.

People like Alonso María Cuchillo treated Mexico with nothing but contempt.

Of course, Díaz would have to keep his revulsion deeply hidden when he met Cuchillo. He was just a shopkeeper’s assistant; the drug lord was just another rich businessman with a love of books.

If he screwed that up, then many people—himself included—were going to die.

Then he was at the compound. He was admitted through a gate that swung open slowly and he parked near the modest front door. A swarthy, squat man who clearly was carrying a pistol greeted him pleasantly and asked him to step to a table in the entryway. Another guard gently but thoroughly frisked him.

Then the briefcase was searched.

Díaz regarded the operation with surprising detachment, he decided, considering he might be one minute away from being shot.

The detachment vanished and his heart thudded fiercely when the man frowned and dug into the case.

Jesus …

The man gazed at Díaz with wide eyes. Then he grinned. “Is this the new iPad?” He pulled it out and displayed it to the other guard.

His breathing stuttering in and out, Díaz nodded and wondered if his question had burst Evans’s eardrum.

“Four-G?”

“If there’s a server.”

“How many gig?”

“Thirty-two,” the Mexican agent managed to say.

“My son has that, too. His is nearly filled. Music videos.” He man replaced it and handed the briefcase back. The Schiller novel remained undiscovered.

Struggling to control his breathing, Díaz said, “I don’t have many videos. I use it mostly for work.”

A few minutes later he was led into the living room. He declined water or any other beverage. Alone, the Mexican agent sat with the briefcase on his lap. He opened it again and smoothly freed the Schiller and slipped it into his waistband, absently thinking about the explosive two inches from his penis. The open lid obscured prying eyes or cameras if there were any. He extracted the Dickens and closed the case.

A moment later a shadow spread on the floor and Díaz looked up to see Cuchillo walking steadily forward on quiet feet.

The Knife. The slaughterer of hundreds, perhaps thousands.

The stocky man strode forward, smiling. He seemed pleasant enough, if a bit distracted.

“Señor Abrossa,” he said—the cover name Davila had given when he’d called yesterday. Díaz now presented a business card they’d had printed yesterday. “Good day. Delighted to meet you.”

“And I’m pleased to meet such an illustrious client of Señor Davila.”

“And how is he? I thought he might come himself.”

“He sends his regards. He’s getting ready for the auction of eighteenth century Bibles.”

“Yes, yes, that’s right. One of the few books I
don’t
collect. Which is a shame. I understand that the plot is very compelling.”

Díaz laughed. “The characters, too.”

“Ah, the Dickens.”

Taking it reverently, the man unwrapped the bubble plastic and examined the volume and flipped through it. “It is thrilling to know that Dickens himself held this very book.”

Cuchillo was lost in the book, a gaze of admiration and respect. Not lust or possessiveness.

And in the silence, Díaz looked around and noted that this house was filled with much art and sculpture. All tasteful and subdued. This was not the house of a gaudy drug lord. He had been inside those. Filled with excess—and usually brimming with beautiful and marginally clad women.

It was then that a sudden and difficult thought came to Díaz. Was it at all possible that they’d made a mistake? Was this subdued, cultured man
not
the vicious dog they’d been led to believe? After all, there’d never been any hard proof that Cuchillo was the drug lord many believed him to be. Just because one was rich and tough didn’t mean he was a criminal.

Where exactly had the intelligence assigning guilt come from? How reliable was it?

He realized Cuchillo was looking at him with curiosity. “Now, Señor Abrossa, are you
sure
you’re the book dealer I’ve been led to believe?”

Using all his willpower, Díaz kept a smile on his face and dipped a brow in curiosity.

The man laughed hard. “You’ve forgotten to ask for the money.”

“Ah, sometimes I get so caught up in the books themselves that, you’re right, I
do
forget it’s a business. I personally would give books away to people who appreciate them.”

“I most certainly
won’t
tell your employer you said that.” He reached into his pocket and extracted a thick envelop. “There is the fiftyfive thousand. U.S. “Díaz handed him the receipt on Davila’s letterhead and signed “
V. Abrossa
.”

“Thank you …?” Cuchillo asked, lifting an eyebrow.

“Victor.” Díaz put the money in the attaché case and closed it. He looked around. “Your home, it is very lovely. I’ve always wondered about the houses in this neighborhood.”

“Thank you. Would you like to see the place?”

“Please. And your collection, too, if possible.”

“Of course.”

Cuchillo then lead him on a tour of the house, which was, like the living room, filled with understated elegance. Pictures of youngsters—his nieces and nephews who lived in Mexico City and Chihuahua, he explained. He seemed proud of them.

Díaz couldn’t help wondering again: Was this a mistake?

“Now, come to my library. As a booklover, I hope you will be impressed.”

They walked through the kitchen, where Cuchillo paused and asked the housekeeper how her ailing mother was doing. He nodded as she answered. He told her to take any time off she needed. His eyes were narrow with genuine sympathy.

A mistake
…?

They walked out the back door and through the shade of twin brick walls, the ones protecting him from sniper shots, and then into the library.

Even as a non-book lover, Díaz was impressed.
More
than impressed.

The place astonished him. He knew the size from the drone images, but he hadn’t imagined it would be filled as completely as it was. Everywhere, books. It seemed the walls were made of them, like rich tiles in all different sizes and colors and textures.

“I don’t know what to say, sir.”

They walked slowly through the cool room and Cuchillo talked about some of the highlights in the collection. “My superstars,” he said. He pointed out some as they walked.

The Hound of the Baskervilles
by Conan Doyle,
Seven Pillars of Wisdom
by T.E. Lawrence,
The Great Gatsby
by F. Scott Fitzgerald,
The Tale of Peter Rabbit by
Beatrix Potter,
Brighton Rock
by Graham Greene,
The Maltese Falcon
by Dashiell Hammett,
Night and Day
by Virginia Woolf,
The Hobbit
by J.R.R. Tolkien,
The Sound and the Fury
by William Faulkner,
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
by James Joyce,
A La Recherche Du Temps Perdu
by Marcel Proust,
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
by Frank Baum,
Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone
by J.K. Rowling,
The Bridge
by Hart Crane,
The Catcher in the Rye
by J.D. Salinger,
The Thirty-Nine Steps
by John Buchan,
The Murder on the Links
by Agatha Christie,
Casino Royale
by Ian Fleming.

“And our nation’s writers too, of course—that whole wall there. I love all books, but it’s important for us in Mexico to be aware of
our
people’s voice.” He strode forward and displayed a few. “Salvador Novo, Jos Gorostiza, Xavier Villaurrutia, and the incomparable Octavio Paz. Whom you’ve read, of course.”

“Of course,” Díaz said, praying that Cuchillo would not ask for the name of one of Paz’s books, much less a plot or protagonist.

Díaz noted a book near the man’s plush armchair. It was in a display case, James Joyce’s
Ulysses
. He happened to have read about the title last night on a rare book website. “Is that the original 1922 edition?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“It’s worth about $150,000.”

Cuchillo smiled. “No. It’s worth nothing.”

“Nothing?”

His arm swept in a slow circle, indicating the room. “This entire
collection
is worth nothing.”

“How do you mean, sir?”

“Something has value only to the extent the owner is willing to sell. I would never sell a single volume. Most book collectors feel this way, more so than about paintings or cars or sculpture.”

The businessman picked up
The Maltese Falcon
. “You are perhaps surprised I have in my collection spy and detective stories?”

The agent recited a fact he’d read. “Of course, popular commercial fiction is usually
more
valuable than literature.” He hoped he’d got this straight.

He must have. Cuchillo was nodding. “But I enjoy them for their substance as well as their collectability.”