The Face of the Assassin Part 25

And then it came, a roaring, thunderous downpour. He stepped out into it and ran, ignoring the rain and the swollen gutters. He was concentrating on timing and on what his eyes picked up along the street. Did a parked car suddenly turn on its wipers? Did he see a hand wiping the fog from the inside of a window?

He punched the b.u.t.ton on the garage-door opener and darted into the garage without even breaking stride. The keys were in his hand as he opened the car door, and he was already turning the ignition by the time the garage door hit its stopping position above the car. He backed out into the street and drove away in the rain.

With one hand on the wheel, his eyes darting to pick up any movement outside the windows, his right hand flipped on a radio receiver sitting on the pa.s.senger seat. The reception was strong.

"My advice," Baida said. "If you get a chance to kill Vicente, do it."

"Wait! Listen-" Bern's voice was frantic. Bern's voice was frantic.

"Listen to me, my friend," Baida said, his voice taut, urgent, impatient. Baida said, his voice taut, urgent, impatient. "The deal for my cooperation was my guaranteed safety. That isn't happening, is it? And it doesn't look like it's going . . ." "The deal for my cooperation was my guaranteed safety. That isn't happening, is it? And it doesn't look like it's going . . ."

Sabella continued listening to the tense situation in the apartment above the pharmacy overlooking the plaza at Jardin Morena. It was a riveting exchange, and the farther he got away from it, the better he felt.

But he wouldn't be able to relax just yet. Learning that Mondragon was alive and in pursuit had been a stunning surprise. It had almost panicked him. But then, through the fog of sudden dread, Sabella had had a revelation: This new development was actually a h.e.l.l of a piece of luck, an opportunity to turn the fast-moving and unstable events to his advantage.

Now, as he leaned toward the windshield to peer through the sweeping rain, he listened closely to the transmission from Jardin Morena. If he knew anything about human psychology, about hatred and revenge, then he knew that he would soon be hearing a familiar voice. When he did, then he would know that all of his meticulous planning was about to pay off. It would soon be over. Finally.

Chapter 48.

Again, Bern had the sensation of the moment stretching out into the long, rainy afternoon. Killing Baida was possible now. He was right there in front of him, stuffing one last thing into his bag, and all Bern had to do was flick the safety off, raise the gun, and fire. The terrorist whom a secret U.S. operation had been trying to hunt down and kill for over a year would be dead.

But the game had changed. Even if Bern could actually muster the guts to kill a man up close like that, to murder him, he couldn't be sure that he was doing the right thing. Ghazi Baida had put his defection on the table, and suddenly there was a h.e.l.l of a lot of incentive not to kill him, but to keep him alive at just about any cost. And Baida had even increased the stakes-and the tension-by implying that there was an imminent terrorist action in progress that would kill thousands of people . . . and he was the only one who could stop it.

And now Mondragon's betrayal had changed the game yet again. The options had shifted. The odds had shifted. Bern was no longer sure of anything.

When the door burst open, all three of them spun around at the same time. The woman was between Bern and the door. There was a loud smack, and her head flew apart in a liquidy red spray, drenching him in the living warmth of her last moment.

Baida shot the man, flinging him back, as Bern fired wildly into the empty doorway.

Then Baida went down for no reason at all, falling awkwardly on his own arm.

A soundless bolt of fire blew through the outside of Bern's left thigh, spinning him around as two men barreled through the door.

The gentle rain of a few minutes earlier had become a drumming downpour now, hammering on the roof of the Mercedes like the roar of a train. When Quito's phone rang, it was almost drowned out by the noise. He answered it and listened. Glancing over the backseat at Mondragon, he nodded.

"There was a woman with Baida, and they killed her. Cochi is dead. Baida was shot in one leg and one arm. Bern was shot in the leg."

"I want to go up there," Mondragon said.

"The boys used silencers," Quito said, "but Baida got off two shots and Bern three. So there has been gunfire. People may have heard that, even in this flood."

"I want to see him right where he was knocked down," Mondragon said. "I want him to see me with the body of Carleta."

He picked up his mask and gently began putting it in place while Quito told his men that they were coming up, then closed the phone. He looked at the driver and told him to stay with Susana, and then he got out of the car with the umbrella and went round to open the door for Mondragon.

When Mondragon had his mask in place, he glanced at Susana. He hadn't spoken a word to her, acting as if she didn't exist. He glanced at her hands, which were bound with a plastic security band, and then his door opened.

The two men made their way across the street in the downpour and entered a doorway that took them into a corridor that opened out into a courtyard. The gutters in the courtyard were throwing water out onto the flagstones in loud waterfalls as the two men continued around the covered walkway to the stone stairs that led up to the second floor.

Quito went through the door first. They had dragged the woman and Cochi out of the way, off to one side of the room, behind a sofa. Bern and Baida were both sitting in armchairs that roughly framed the windows that overlooked the plaza. They were gagged, their hands bound with plastic bands. The men's wounds had been wrapped in pieces of a bedsheet that had been ripped up for the purpose.

On the dining room table, behind Baida's armchair, were Bern's and Baida's pistols and the gray bag with all of its contents dumped out, the pa.s.sports and doc.u.ments displayed in neat order.

The lights were out in the apartment, and the room was washed in the gray light of the noonday rain. The windows were open, and a little spray was glistening on the windowsills.

Chapter 49.

When Mondragon came into the room, he glanced at Bern, but immediately his masked head turned to Baida and stayed there. He approached Baida and stood in front of him, saying nothing, his tall, lean frame immaculately clad, as always. Even with his trousers rain-soaked up to his knees, he was elegant.

Bern's leg was killing him, but his only fear was bleeding to death. He didn't know what kind of ammunition they were using, but he still had the woman's blood and brain tissue all over him to prove what it must have done to his leg. But even that worry took a backseat to watching Vicente Mondragon.

The room was silent, save for the sound of the rain. Everyone waited.

Mondragon reached up and carefully removed his mask and stood before Baida, looking down at him, the mask dangling from his hand. Baida's eyes showed nothing, not fear, not defiance, not shock. Nothing.

Mondragon turned to Quito. "Drag the woman over here."

Quito raised his chin at the other two men, and they went over behind the sofa and pulled Cochi off the woman. Then they grabbed her feet and pulled her around, dragging her through her own blood. Her dress came up as they dragged her, and her bare flesh squeaked on the polished wood floor. They left her between Bern and Baida, off to the side a little, nearer the doorway.

"Get out," Mondragon said to the men. They glanced at Quito, who nodded at them, and they headed for a bedroom. "No, outside," Mondragon said. Again they got a nod from Quito. "You, too," Mondragon said to Quito.

Quito turned and followed them out and closed the door.

Mondragon stepped over to the woman and looked at her. Her dress was bunched up around her waist now. Mondragon turned back to Baida. "No underwear? You know, I spoke with her sister Estele just a few hours ago. She would be surprised by this." He looked at her again. "Carleta. It would be difficult to tell, with not much of a face to speak of." He hissed. "Not much of a head, even." He extended an elegant bespoke shoe and nudged the woman's bare hip. "But I recognize her panocha. panocha." He nudged her again, as if to confirm her lifeless condition.

"Well, at least you were s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g the middle one," he said. "Estele was getting a little long in the tooth for a really good screw. Besides, we'd already worn her out in the old days, hadn't we?"

He turned and went to the dining room table, glanced at the pa.s.sports, and got a chair, which he took over and set down in front of Baida, a little to one side. He sat in the chair, his back to the windows and the rain. He crossed his legs and then crossed his forearms over his lap, his long hands dangling open on either side.

He took a small spritzer out of his coat pocket and misted the front of his head.

"This is my constant companion now," he said, holding up the spritzer. He held it up for a long time before he lowered it again.

Mondragon looked at Baida in silence. Deliberate silence. He was relishing whatever was happening between the two men now. He owned the moment and, finally, he owned Ghazi Baida, too.

"I know you appreciate irony, Ghazi," Mondragon said. Even if he didn't have a face to read, Mondragon's body language-the angle of his head, the tilt of his shoulders, the occasional flip of a relaxed hand-clearly conveyed his satisfaction at being in control of the situation.

"There's a h.e.l.l of a lot of irony in this moment right now," he said, "that we meet here, to settle an old score after nearly three years, and neither of us has the face now that we had back then. I'm not looking at the face I've hated all that time since London. And you, Ghazi, well, you aren't looking at a face at all, are you?"

Mondragon shook his head slowly in feigned amus.e.m.e.nt, and his lips, even without the rest of a face, managed to communicate a disdainful sneer.

"It was a good thing that it happened in London," Mondragon said. "They have good doctors there. They saved my life." He looked at Carleta de Leon, his lidless eyes darting over her. "I have plans for her," he said. "But I want to wait awhile for that. I want to make sure you can't shut your eyes when I do it.

"You should have sent someone other than Colombians to do the job in London," he said. "They have pa.s.sion for their work, but sometimes they are so slapdash about it. Apart from being crazy, of course. They told me who had sent them, and they told me not to be afraid, because they had strict instructions not to kill me." He paused. "Not . . . to kill me." Another pause as he let the emphasis sink in.

"Then they forced me to take drugs, all kinds of drugs, everything. They loaded me up on them because, they said, that would anesthetize my system, keep me from going into shock. They said they wanted me to have . . . a vivid experience. And then they tied me to my bed. They were taking drugs also. All kinds of stuff, I think. And then they just went to work on me.

"It took hours," he continued. "They drank my liquor and smoked bazuco bazuco and played music. They would cut awhile, look at me, play around with pieces of me. I remember that they had special fun with my nose, flicking it at one another on the ends of their knives, laughing like idiots when they managed to hit one another with it. Then they would smoke some more and played music. They would cut awhile, look at me, play around with pieces of me. I remember that they had special fun with my nose, flicking it at one another on the ends of their knives, laughing like idiots when they managed to hit one another with it. Then they would smoke some more bazuco. bazuco. Drink some more. Visit awhile. They talked about women, about s.e.x. Then they would cut some more." Drink some more. Visit awhile. They talked about women, about s.e.x. Then they would cut some more."

Mondragon spritzed his face. He looked at Carleta de Leon. The rain had slackened again, and now a fine mizzle was drifting across the plaza.

"It was a miracle that they didn't blind me," Mondragon said. "And why they avoided my mouth, why they didn't cut off my lips, that will always be a mystery. Then sometime during the early-morning hours, they just lost interest in what they were doing. Too much bazuco. bazuco. Too much liquor. Not enough brains. They pa.s.sed out. Too much liquor. Not enough brains. They pa.s.sed out.

"Sometime around dawn, they left. I didn't know it. I had pa.s.sed out again, too. I think what happened was that when they finally came around the next morning and saw what they had done to me, saw how much blood there was-I almost bled to death-when they saw the pieces of me scattered around all over the place, I think they just a.s.sumed that they had gone too far with it and that I was dead. That's understandable."

Mondragon looked at Carleta. "Just like her. I'll bet those boys out there didn't even check her heart. They just a.s.sumed that she was dead. I a.s.sume she's dead, too."

He spritzed his face and looked at Baida for a long time.

"Four million dollars, Ghazi. That's all I stole from you. And you sent those f.u.c.king Colombians to do this to me. And you wanted me to live . . . with this."

He shook his head and took a deep breath. "Again, you know, I was lucky it was London. The British understand the importance of being discreet. My business manager found me later that day. It was she who managed to pa.s.s out enough bribes-yes, even the British-to keep my situation quiet. At least out of the press.

"I had heard that you thought those idiots had killed me. So I went along with that as best I could. I sold my place here and bought another one under a different name. I did my best-spent a fortune, really-to disappear. To be forgotten. Of course, I began to make plans for you from the beginning. This moment, right now, I've thought about it every single day for nearly three years.

"I began to offer the same services that I had offered before, only under another name. I always worked through Quito and a whole line of intermediaries he provided. I became a n.o.body. A recluse. A night dweller. Through intermediaries and our old connections, I was able to follow you pretty well, but I could never get close. Then you turned up in Iguacu Falls, in Ciudad del Este. Then, G.o.d bless you, Ghazi, you came back to Mexico City."

Chapter 50.

Kevern hung his handkerchief out the window of the sitio sitio to get it wet, then cleaned his face with a trembling hand while his terrified driver headed for Colonia Santa Luisa. The driving rain gnarled traffic and slowed them down. Kevern had a huge lump on his forehead, and sometimes he felt nauseated and dizzy. His stomach felt gorged. Still, he was lucky. He had gotten out of the d.a.m.ned thing alive. to get it wet, then cleaned his face with a trembling hand while his terrified driver headed for Colonia Santa Luisa. The driving rain gnarled traffic and slowed them down. Kevern had a huge lump on his forehead, and sometimes he felt nauseated and dizzy. His stomach felt gorged. Still, he was lucky. He had gotten out of the d.a.m.ned thing alive.

His cell phone had been knocked out of his hand in the crash, so he was completely cut off from Bern. The only d.a.m.n thing he had going for him in this whole sorry enterprise was that Mondragon thought he was dead.

He knew from the GPS where Bern had been when he made his phone call. He knew the vantage point Sabella was speaking from. And he agreed with Bern that Sabella was probably in an upper-story room on the north end of the plaza.

But he needed to have some idea where Mondragon was. He knew how the son of a b.i.t.c.h worked, and Quito, too. They were hanging back off the plaza, waiting for their boys on the street to shuffle the cards and stack the deck. And Quito's boys were good at that, so it wouldn't take too long. Vicente would be sitting in his beloved Mercedes, probably a block away from Jardin Morena. Kevern only hoped he wasn't too late and that they hadn't all moved on somewhere else.

When they arrived in Santa Luisa, Kevern told the driver to keep a two-block distance from the plaza, approaching each perimeter block from one end so he could look the length of it for the Mercedes. He spotted it on the second turn. Holy s.h.i.t.

Taking no chances, he had the driver pull to the curb a block away.

"Give me your keys," he told the driver. He did. "Give me your cell phone," he added. He did. "I'm not gonna hurt you," he explained. "I'm one of the good guys, but I've just got to have a car at my disposal in case I f.u.c.k this up."

He got out of the car in the driving rain and started back toward the Mercedes, hugging the walls of the buildings to try to ward off a drop or two. It didn't work. The poor man's architecture in Mexico City wasn't big on overhangs. Every drop that fell went out of its way to land on him.

But G.o.d loved him anyway. When he spotted the Mercedes again and saw where it was sitting, everything was perfect. It was in the middle of the block on the opposite side. On his side, cars lined the curb. He would have cover all the way, until he got even with the Mercedes. Then it would be just a sprint across the narrow calle calle and he'd be at the driver's window. and he'd be at the driver's window.

Or he could take his chances and shoot from cover. He thought about it. The only person he could be sure about was the driver. For whatever reason, Vicente always sat directly behind the driver. Susana would be on the other side. Vicente didn't carry a gun, but there was one behind the driver for him. Big question: Was Quito on the pa.s.senger side? Or was he off helping the boys?

Kevern decided that a long shot was too risky. If he missed the driver, and if Quito was there, he'd have three people shooting at him. If he got up close and fired fast shots point-blank through the driver's window, he'd have a good chance of getting Quito, too, if he was there. No good going after Mondragon, as he might hit Susana in the process.

s.h.i.t. Enough planning. Suddenly, his stomach rebelled. He didn't vomit, but he spit up a ropy dark bile that burned his throat. He was sweating furiously.

Wiping his mouth on his jacket sleeve, he crouched and ran through the rain, staying behind the cars along the curb until he was even with the Mercedes. And then there was more proof that G.o.d loved him. Two-not one, but two-cars came along the street from his left, slow cruisers, as if they were wading through the surf. Beautiful.

He waited, soaked through and through, until the first one was even with him and then he started across the street. When the second one slipped past, he was two steps from the driver's window. All he did was reach out and pull the trigger twice. He saw the splatter at the same time he jerked open the back door, all set to jam the barrel of his automatic into Mondragon's chest.

"Lex!! Oh! . . . Oh G.o.d . . . Lex! OhG.o.dohG.o.dohG.o.d."

He crawled in beside Susana and slammed the door.

"Where the h.e.l.l are they?" he asked, digging for his pocketknife. He cut the plastic on her wrists, then reached down and swiped the blade through the one around her ankles.

"Baida's place."

"How many?"

"Two. Quito. Mondragon."

"Four altogether, then?"

"Yeah, yeah. One was killed . . . in the pharmacy, and then the other when they stormed into the apartment. They killed a woman with Baida. Bern's shot in the leg, Baida, too."

"Then Quito and Mondragon went up?"

"Yeah, yeah, they went up."

"That's it?"

"Yeah, yeah, but they're going to kill Baida. He wants to defect? Is that right . . . is that what Bern was saying?"

"Right," Kevern grunted, nodding.

"Incredible. Incredible. Then we've got to hurry. We've got to stop it. . . . Where . . . are the others?"

"Dead. It's a flute. It's a fluke I'm here, just a d.a.m.n fluke."

Susana stared at him taking it in. "Then . . . they think you're dead."

"Yeah."