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A copy of a passport photo was attached. It showed a man with neat, dark hair, dark eyes and prominent cheekbones. Unremarkable looking and of Caucasian, possibly Mediterranean appearance, he was everyman, save for the directness of his gaze. Vale recognized that type. There were at least a dozen men fitting that description in this very building, some of them specialists in the Basement. They all had the same look. And like them, Portman probably had the ability to merge in a crowd, unmemorable and grey.
Also like them, he could undoubtedly handle a weapon on first contact with deadly effect and come out unscathed.
He picked up his phone and dialled Scheider’s direct number. Portman was primarily a US citizen and spent most of his time there. It was logical, therefore, to take up Scheider’s offer and see what the Meat Grinder could turn up about him.
‘Leave it with me,’ the American said. ‘We’ll get right on him.’
Nine
Parillas made a big show of climbing out of the car and looking down at the box, then lifting his chin as if asking what it was. The fat man said something and Parillas bent to lift the lid up and down as if testing the hinges. For good measure he gave one side a gentle kick before nodding and asking another question.
The fat man went through the motions of haggling, which I didn’t think would fool anybody for a second. But maybe it was the way they do things down here. It was their show and probably a perfectly reasonable explanation for strangers meeting in a car park in the middle of the day and making an exchange of some kind.
Parillas handed over some notes and lugged the box on to the back seat of the Land Cruiser, while the fat man waddled back to his pickup and took off.
‘We just bought a piece of furniture,’ Parillas said, in a weak attempt at humour. ‘There are guns and cell phones in the box — all throw-aways. Were the jackets and hats your idea?’
I nodded. Disposable clothing is useful for changing one’s profile in tight situations. Followers of a target automatically lock on to colours, clothes and the physical characteristics of the person they’re tailing. Switching any of these creates confusion and maybe a chance of getting clear. Changing physical points isn’t so easy, but putting on a jacket, taking off a hat, picking up or discarding a bag, are often sufficient to throw off a tail.
We set off again, this time for a kilometre or so, before Parillas stopped to drop me off. It put me five minutes’ walk from the hotel where the meeting was to take place. I stretched into the back and opened the wooden box, and took out a 9mm semi-automatic and a spare magazine, a pale linen jacket roomy enough to throw on over my own jacket, and an anonymous baseball cap. A cell phone completed my kit and I was ready to go.
We synchronized watches and cell phone numbers, then I shrugged on the jacket and left Parillas to disappear somewhere quiet until it was time to arrive at the hotel for the meet. I had more than an hour to scope the area, and figured that should be enough to spot trouble if it was waiting. If there were any bogies around and I hadn’t spotted them by then, we were in deep water.
As it turned out, I didn’t have long to wait. As I approached the hotel, which was in a busy section of town, I saw two black SUVs nosing at walking pace through the traffic. Alone, they might have gone unnoticed in such a crowded street. But keeping pace alongside them were several men on foot, scouring the faces of pedestrians.
I felt alarm bells ringing. This wasn’t good. They might have been local dealers for all I knew, putting on a show of strength to win over some turf. Or a local law enforcement team on an exercise. But if so, why here, right now?
I took out the disposable cell phone and hit speed dial to warn Parillas. If they were the cartel, we had no choice — we would have to abort. The meeting must have been compromised, although whether Achevar had already gotten scooped up was an unknown quantity.
The phone rang for a full thirty seconds. I cut the connection and tried again, checking to make sure I hadn’t fed in the wrong number.
No answer.
Ten
It was too much of a coincidence. From Parillas’ dismay at finding I was an outsider, to his general air of edginess when he let slip that he’d once lived here, and then his insistence on keeping me away from Achevar — all of that. Now he’d dropped off the net.
It didn’t feel good.
I ducked into a doorway and ripped off the linen jacket, dumping it behind a trash can. I stuck the baseball cap in my pocket, as that might come in useful. Then I checked the semi-automatic to make sure it was in full working order. Finding out later that it was a useless piece of junk would be fatal to my chances of getting out of here alive. But it was clean and well used, ready to go.
I figured I had two options: one was to bug out and head for the border, calling up Beckwith on the way to warn him we were blown and I was in need of a fast passage through the control posts. How he got me out was up to him; if he didn’t, I’d just have to walk across the border and hope I didn’t get stopped. The other option was to stay and find out what had happened. What if Parillas was simply in a bad signal area somewhere, or was ill and couldn’t respond? He was hardly my best buddy, but if he was in a jam I couldn’t just leave him. I’d made that mistake once before and didn’t want to repeat it.
I left the shelter of the doorway and made a circular tour of the block housing the hotel, shuffling along with my shoulders hunched, another wage slave going about his business. The area was packed with small shops, a riot of colour and music and smells, some familiar, others I couldn’t place. As I walked I checked the street and the surrounding rooftops. If the area was being blanket-covered by the opposition, who I figured had to be the Cartel, they would have watchers at ground level and high up, strategically placed to follow Parillas’ — and my — progress to the meeting point. That way they could lift us both off the street while keeping a bird’s eye view of any law enforcement in the area.
I saw two possible spotters fairly quickly. Both with the cold expression of gang members, they were standing on a corner, scanning the crowds and holding cell phones ready to use. I couldn’t see any tattoos or other insignia, but that didn’t mean much; if they were under orders to be discreet, they would hardly be advertising their presence openly. I walked by them without a flicker and checked out the cars parked in the street, another customary blind spot for placing backup muscle.
By the time I got back near the front of the hotel, I’d seen four more men. The two SUVs I’d seen earlier were now stationary two blocks down from the hotel, their engines off. The men with them were clustered on the sidewalk outside a small coffee bar, evidently waiting for orders.
On my way round, I’d formulated a plan based entirely on surprise and impulse. It wasn’t great and my chances of success were limited, but it depended on getting to Achevar and persuading him to follow me. Otherwise I’d have to leave him.