He passed in front of the Park Hyatt hotel and meandered through the large park that was a central feature of the downtown tourist area. Groups of Rastafarian-inspired hippies were laying out blankets on the sidewalks of the park to display their handcrafted wares, consisting mostly of leather wallets and beaded necklaces, with the ever popular multi-colored friendship bracelets a staple. An odor of marijuana lingered over the bunch, and the man hurried past them lest one try to engage him in conversation.
The park denizens were largely friendly and cheerful, in spite of their living in near poverty conditions in a nation that was bankrupt fifteen times over. The papers were predicting more power shortages and gas rationing for the year, and the unofficial exchange rate put domestic inflation at twenty-five percent, even as the government number was more like three. Nobody took the official utterances seriously, just as nobody took the tax system seriously. If a small business didn’t cheat early and often, it wouldn’t be in operation for very long. The official tax rate was so high that it rendered most types of commerce impractical, creating a booming secondary economy that operated on an all-cash basis.
The man took in the grandiose buildings of the downtown pedestrian promenade as he sipped his coffee. Mendoza was an odd town — strangely prosperous due to the surge in demand for the region’s excellent wine, while the rest of the nation languished, but with a frailty just below the surface that was uniquely Argentine. Nobody believed that lasting prosperity was possible, which was a direct function of the looting of the country for decades, culminating in the 2002 financial collapse that wiped out much of the nation’s middle class and gutted its economy.
He paused in front of the small storefront two blocks from the park and set his coffee down on a planter as he fumbled with a key ring. After a few moments, the steel grid that protected the plate glass window slid up into its housing, and he found himself staring at his reflection. Longish dark brown hair with sun highlights worn in a laisser faire style, a perennial three day growth of dark stubble, high cheekbones and piercing, nearly black eyes staring out of a light brown complexion. A pair of non-prescription horn-rimmed eyeglasses completed the look, which for all appearances was that of a scattered young academic, or perhaps a painter or sculptor who’d met with moderate success.
He studied the result with satisfaction. The man looking back at him bore little resemblance to the cold-blooded international cartel super-assassin known as ‘El Rey’ — the King of Swords — made infamous by his leaving a tarot card bearing the image of the seated king at the scene of his executions. No, that man was thinner, younger, with black hair and a differently shaped face. The only photographs of him known to exist were from his construction security pass when he’d been part of the crew building a convention center in Baja, and he’d taken care to alter his image for that shot. Cotton stuffed in his cheeks had created marked jowls, short-cropped ebony hair parted on the side and a bushy moustache sculpted a classic Mexican laborer look, as had the skin dye that had darkened his complexion by three tones.
The only thing that man had in common with the aristocratic young proprietor of the shop was a frigidity to his gaze. There were some things you couldn’t change. The slightly tinted Dolce and Gabbana eyeglasses were sufficient cover, though, given that he was an unknown in Argentina. He’d considered contact lenses, but discarded the idea as unnecessary. After all, he was on the other side of the world from his hunting ground in Mexico and was now a respectable business owner dealing in curios and knick knacks for the tourist crowd.
He’d bought the business for a song from the old woman who had owned it for a decade, and even though it barely made enough to cover the rent and his lone employee, Jania, he was happy with the bargain. It gave him something to do, without placing any demands on him. Jania took care of the sales and bookkeeping, which was simple, and he frittered his time away in an innocuous pursuit. Most of his day was spent in his comfortable little back office, and it was relatively rare that he had to deal with customers — a strong positive from his standpoint because interacting with patrons was the one aspect of the business he disliked.
He unlocked the glass door and glanced at his watch. Still two hours before the shop would be open, which meant that Jania would be there within an hour and forty minutes. She was always punctual, along with being very attractive and conscientious, making her the perfect employee. At times, he sensed she would be receptive to a more intimate relationship, but he didn’t want to mix business with pleasure. His life was fine with the bevy of dancers at the strip clubs he frequented. Those relationships were simple and efficient, and nobody probed too deeply into his life. Which was how he liked it. Clean, with no baggage or explanations required; everyone lying as part of the transaction and nobody surprised or concerned about it.
He relocked the door and made his way to the back office, where he reclined in his executive chair and savored his rich cup of brew. He had developed a number of bad habits since relocating; coffee being one of the vices he’d taken up and red wine another. It was impossible not to drink both in Mendoza, so he’d adapted, although strictly limiting his intake to two cups of coffee per day and one glass of wine. He offset these by spending two hours at his gym, an hour spent on hard cardio and another on isometric exercises and weight training, and he’d joined a martial arts studio, where he attended classes four times a week. It was a somewhat tedious routine, but he’d resigned himself to it as necessary, especially since he was number one on the Most Wanted list in Mexico for an attempted execution of the former president. Better to be a dull boy than to invite unwanted scrutiny. He was fully aware that Interpol had circulated a bulletin with his photo on it, and even though he had three passports in different names issued from dissimilar countries, he was still on guard, regardless that almost a year had gone by since his narrow escape and with each day the likelihood of pursuit diminished.
Antonio, as he was known in Mendoza and in his Ecuadorian passport, powered on his computer to check on the markets. He’d invested most of his twenty million dollars in a basket of commodities, from silver and gold to copper and iron ore, as well as some currencies that showed promise, such as the Chinese Yuan and the Aussie dollar. He was now up seventeen percent in under a year, and he fine-tuned his holdings once a week based on trends he perceived. He’d even made an easy ten percent playing the Mexican Peso, buying a million dollars’ worth when it hit fourteen to the dollar, and selling them when it hit twelve six. He’d shown a knack for all things financial, just as he’d done well at anything to which he’d applied himself, and he found the challenge of prospering by being ahead of international trends to be engaging enough to keep him occupied.
He pulled up the Mexican national news and saw more coverage on the unsuccessful attempt on the new president in Tampico. That had all the earmarks of a cartel operation, judging by the massive overkill and collateral damage. He shook his head. When would these guys learn that careful and surgical yielded superior results every time? A part of him itched to get back into the game, but he didn’t need the money, and he recognized that Mexico would be too hot to go back to for many years. After his last sanction there, he’d have to stay away for the duration. To return would be foolhardy. It was best to watch the carnage from afar.
He checked on the action in the gold and silver markets, and jolted when he heard the front door chime sound. His watch told him that he’d lost almost two hours online, so that meant it was Jania.
“Hola. Senor Antonio? Are you here?” Jania called from the front of the shop.