The usual afternoon cloudburst fell within minutes of four o'clock, and a light breeze promised some relief from the day's heat, but at an altitude of seven thousand feet, it would take something more forceful to clean out the smog. So it was clear that while you were here, there were other things on your mind besides clean air: a twenty-four-hour-a-day lifestyle, some of the most beautiful women in the world, some great restaurants, first-rate museums, top performances in every kind of music, some of the finest minds in the world today as well as some of the most devious, the opportunity to cut deals with the wealthy and the needy from all over the world.
Carter went to a favorite cafe, the Tupinamba, home of the bullfight crowd. He washed down a light lunch of lamb shank and green peas with two bottles of Carta Blanca pilsner, then made it official that he was back in Mexico by having a syrupy Mexican coffee, half-and-half with steamed milk.
Checking the list of his contacts, he decided on the Plaza Florencia as his hotel. Just off Mexico City's main avenue. Paseo de la Reforma, it was convenient to the Zona Rosa, the so-called Pink Zone that reminded Carter in many ways of the Georgetown area of Washington, D.C. In both places, the shops, galleries, restaurants, and bistros were definitely upscale.
From the Plaza Florencia, Carter could pursue his meeting with Margo Huerta, the artist Rachel Porat had told him about. It was convenient as well to the rare book dealer, Norman Sasner. Apparently desperate, Prentiss had tried to contact any legitimate source before his driving urge to tell what he'd known about Lex Talionis had brought him and the CIA man, Merton, violent death. He'd also be within blocks of a café where he could either find or make contact with Chepe Munoz, another person Prentiss was known to have contacted.
Chepe Munoz was apparently another kettle of fish altogether, and Carter was looking forward to meeting him. Nominally tied in with the opposition, Munoz was supposed to be a bright, quick man who always put human concerns and ideals above political jargon.
Margo Huerta was immediately responsive to Carter's call, but told him she was working on a large piece — a mural — and couldn't see him until later in the evening. Rachel's jealousy had served to give the Killmaster advance notice. He was certain he caught a strong impression of the artist's sensuality even over the phone.
Carter decided to try Norman Sasner. Sasner ran his business on Isobel la Católica, a bit of a walk, but one that would literally help Carter get his Mexico City legs and lungs by helping him adjust to exercise at the higher altitude. A rare book shop made a perfect blind for processing information, investigating local activities, and allowing other informants to appear without fear of creating suspicion. A rare book store could be closed for long hours or days on end without creating suspicion.
The Killmaster strolled leisurely along Juarez until it turned into Francisco Madero. Then he turned right for a block on Bolivar and found what he was looking for just below the intersection of 16 de Septiembre and Isobel la Católica.
In a concrete building from the 1920s, Norman Sasner, Rare Books, was on the second floor, above a watch repair and a small cafeteria where the customers were given large flour tortillas instead of trays, and were charged by the serving ladle of food plopped on that large expanse of edible container. The odors of fish, chiles, onions, and grilling marinated meats made Carter wish he hadn't eaten so well at Tupinamba.
The stairway was hewn from dark mahogany planks that had done well over the years. Mounting the steep incline, Carter was passed by three men, one of whom hesitated for a moment, as though in recognition.
Through the smells of middle-class cooking, Carter got another odor and suddenly the picture became complete for him.
These guys were pros and something had just gone down.
Carter caught a whiff of burning cordite.
A gun had been discharged recently.
The man who'd hesitated very probably had recognized Carter — or suspected him of being someone on the other side.
Carter spun around and tripped the second of the three men, a nondescript sort in a three-piece suit. The one who had hesitated turned, but before he could free his Ruger Mini-14, Carter had Hugo out, aimed, and thrown. The man smiled benignly as Hugo dug into him with a pocking sound. Only then did Carter realize the man wore a bulletproof vest. Hugo may have drawn blood, but any real damage was negligible.
The Ruger was leveled right at Carter, who had no option now but to push off the stairway and dive at his attacker. A roar of discharging gun tore a furrow in the skin of Carter's shoulder as the two men collided on the stairway.
The Killmaster's momentum carried him into the man with the Ruger and also caused a massive collision with the nondescript confederate. A raking kick to the man's shin had him doubled up with pain. The gun was leveled at Carter again. He rolled to get into position, used both hands to push himself off a stair, and with his right foot knocked the gun from his assailant's hand. It went skittering down the stairs.
The assailant let out a yell more in frustration than pain, and the one whose shin Carter had scored was yelling in frustration of his own to the third man, "Get him, dammit!"
The third man came at Carter with the butt of his palm. Carter found a quick stance of balance, caught the man's slicing palm, used the descending arm as a fulcrum, and caused him to go reeling, off-balance, tumbling down the rest of the stairs.
The largest of the group, the one who'd had the gun, came at Carter and shot a kick at his knee.
Carter knew he'd have to take it, but he also knew he could minimize the effects by dropping into a roll.
He got a hand on his attacker's handmade shoe and yanked.
The big guy swore again, went over backward, and landed on his advancing confederate.
They pushed away from each other, the frustration starting to get to them.
Carter made a lunge for Hugo and used an underhanded toss as the big guy reached for his Ruger. Hugo pinned him and he let out a yowl. "Son of a bitch!" he shouted, yanking Hugo out of his hand. "I'll get you!"
Carter motioned him on with a come-hither gesture of both hands. The big man said to his confederates, "Come on, let's get him!"
They looked at him uneasily.
Grinning wickedly, Carter did a jump-kick turn, catching the one at the farthest end right at the kneecap. The pain was excruciating.
Clutching his knee, he went rolling down the steps to yet another kind of pain.
Suddenly Carter heard the wail of a siren. It was time to get out of there.
The men looked at each other and swore with disgust. There were three of them and they couldn't take Carter.
Hugo was tossed scornfully at Carter's feet.
The three men scurried off, limping, down 16 de Septiembre. Carter decided there was nothing to be gained from chasing them. Chances of getting useful information were better inside.
Whether the siren was in response to what they'd done up in Sasner's office or not, Carter knew he didn't have much time.
He headed up the stairs into the rare book dealer's offices, knowing in advance what he would find.
The interior was one large room, wall-to-wall books with the exception of a small alcove that was dominated by a large colonial-style desk and a Bank of England chair. A small room off to the side had packing and shipping equipment, plus a long worktable with large stacks of catalogues and the life-blood of the rare book business, the magazine Antiquarian Bookman.
If Sasner's rare book business had been set up as a blind, it had at least been done by someone who had a certain amount of taste and knowledge. There were a number of first editions by Latin American authors and many fine volumes by European and American writers.
On the far wall were some of the more cosmetic titles in the rare book business, old atlases, eighteenth-century maritime charts, and a number of beautiful leather-bound sets on colonial Mexico.