Fair was fair.
Mexico City’s sky was laden with hulking, dark clouds when El Rey pulled over the hills and into the infamously dangerous metropolitan traffic. The Toyota had run like a champ, was a pleasure to drive, softening the blows of the rutted patches between Culiacan and DF, or Distrito Federal, as the locals referred to Mexico City. He’d gotten the contact information of a man Valiente, his new patron and sponsor, had known since childhood. Valiente had made a phone call and proposed a relationship that his friend couldn’t possibly refuse. The man owned a pawn shop but he’d fallen into leveraging his contacts in the underworld and being a facilitator for extermination work – the human kind. It was a difficult role for him because he was basically a good and decent man, but the money was simply too attractive to turn down for a no-risk proposition. He had three contractors who handled domestic disputes and business disagreements, and he took twenty percent of the contract price to handle the money and vet the clients.
El Rey needed someone trustworthy to launder his money and deal with the payments. If he was going to do this professionally, he needed a front office, so to speak – and pro representation. He could handle sourcing the jobs but he couldn’t haul around several million dollars in hundreds and be effective. He needed a banker and an accountant. Valiente’s contact seemed ideally suited for the role. And Valiente had warned his friend what he was dealing with, lest he get the bright idea to take El Rey ’s money and run for the hills. In the cartels, if you vouched for someone and made an introduction, and then that someone screwed the person you’d introduced, you could expect to be held accountable for your recommendation’s actions. Valiente had seen more than enough of El Rey ’s handiwork in a short period to know he didn’t want that coming after him.
The narcotraficante chief had become El Rey ’s biggest admirer and had promised to spread the word of his prowess in return for a commitment to never accept a contract on him. That seemed reasonable to El Rey, and Valiente was an up-and-comer in the most powerful cartel on the planet, so as sponsors go, he could do worse. His plan was to limit his activity to a few hits a year, but to steadily increase the fee he charged as well as the level of difficulty of the sanctions he accepted until he became the highest paid killer in the world. Mexico was the right place for that, given the amount of money flowing through the cartels, although he’d heard good things about Russia, too. Problem there, was that he didn’t speak the language. He’d studied English in school and, of course, there was his Spanish. But that was it. So he wouldn’t be doing any work in St. Petersburg or Vladivostok.
He merged toward the right lane and took an off ramp from the congested freeway into an even more congested area of the city. After circling around for half an hour, he eventually located the pawn shop and managed to find a parking spot. He threw his black duffel bag over his shoulder and made his way two blocks to the contact’s store. The neighborhood was sketchy even by Mexico City standards, which was saying a lot, but then again, money lenders of last resort didn’t tend to be located in the ritziest areas.
At the glass door to the shop, he noted bars everywhere, providing security against night incursions, as well as a roll-up metal awning that would completely seal off the storefront. With all the bars it seemed like overkill, but El Rey liked that – it hinted at a man who took precautions, and who over-engineered them. That was a careful man, which is what he needed. The establishment itself was modest by any measure, which suggested a lack of braggadocio or hubris. Again, strongly positive from El Rey ’s position.
He pushed open the entry door and walked into a small, somewhat shabby showroom with a few inexpensive glass cases showcasing the tarnished treasures of the impoverished and downtrodden. Silver infant cups, cheap watches, scarred gold chains, obsolete cameras. El Rey was liking this guy’s style more and more. This was the last place in the world he would expect to find a man who handled the affairs of high-end contract killers. Nothing about the shop spoke of money or success or high-rolling, which were usually hand in hand with cartel-related businesses. This just said boring.
El Rey liked boring.
He approached the barred window, which was fabricated out of inch-thick bullet-proof glass, and pushed the button next to it, listening as the buzzer echoed in the rear, behind the heavy steel door to his right. He studied the door; it was built like a bank’s, although this was probably heavier by the looks of it. He rapped a knuckle against the wall – at least foot-thick concrete. A meager enterprise with security like a vault. Interesting.
Footsteps approached, and then a small man with a beret and a graying goatee appeared at the window.
“Yes?” he asked by way of greeting.
“I’m here for an eleven o’clock meeting,” El Rey said.
“Ah. Of course.” The steel door buzzed and El Rey rushed to grab the handle before it stopped. He swung it open and noted that he’d been correct. It was very heavy indeed, and the locking mechanism was industrial grade.
“Nice door.”
“Mmmm. Two one-inch steel plates with a titanium core. Custom made in Austria. Cost a bit, but worth it,” the little man said. He extended his hand. “Jaime Tortora, at your service. Please. Come back to my offices. Would you like anything to drink? Water? Coffee? Beer?”
El Rey shook his hand. “No, thank you. I don’t drink coffee or alcohol. I’ll follow you.”
Tortora walked down the dimly lit hallway and opened the door of his office. The two men entered and Tortora gestured to one of the chairs in front of his desk. He took his seat behind it and leaned forward, both hands on the surface, visible at all times. El Rey noticed this reassuring stance, and nodded almost imperceptibly as he sat, placing the duffle on the chair next to him.
“A mutual friend of some distinction called and indicated there was an opportunity for us to help each other,” Tortora began, then hesitated. “You may speak freely. I have eavesdropping detection equipment in place, and if you were wired, I’d know. I also sweep the office once a week. Vocational paranoia, you could say.”
El Rey fixed him with a tranquil gaze. “I am looking for someone who can help me; act as a back office and clearing system for my payments and due diligence on clients,” El Rey said.
“Ah, yes. Well, that’s what I do. I take twenty percent if I source the clients, or ten percent if you do. I can deal with cash, although that’s ten percent right off the top for the bank to handle. I prefer wire transfers or bearer instruments, and have an extensive infrastructure to accommodate those. Austria and the Caymans, with a second set of accounts in Panama and Lichtenstein. All owned by dummy front companies out of Hong Kong or Cyprus.” Tortora reached over and took a sip of water from a glass near his computer monitor. “I can assist in setting up a structure for you, if that is necessary. My only advice if you intend to do so yourself is to hire a professional. The money trail is often the weak link.”
“I’d be interested in having you set up a mechanism. I want money to wind up in Uruguay or Belize. I’ve read about setting up companies there, International Business Companies, where the ownership can be held via bearer shares, which are untraceable,” El Rey observed.
“Yes, but there are some problems with that. I’d advise a more involved structure, where we first create a trust whose beneficiary is a Swiss corporation, and then have the trust’s attorney set up the IBC and the bank account. Do you need papers? Passports? Identity documents of any kind?” Tortora asked.
“Now that you mention it, yes. I’ll need a Spanish passport, a Mexican birth certificate and passport, and a third passport, maybe from El Salvador or Peru. I’d like them all in different names and, if possible, legitimately issued – not forgeries.”