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.