Part 21 (1/2)
Munoz waved him away, leaning forward so his eyes were locked on Cross. ”You speak espanol, yes?”
”Poquito.”
”You know the word favela?”
”No.”
”It is Portuguese. A language half shared. It means 'slum,' but not as you Americans speak of such places. I was born in a favela. In the hills just outside of Rio, built on land used to bury toxic waste, right next to a huge dump site for garbage. A mountain of people, one tiny shack of tin and wood on top of another. Just to get water would take a whole day.”
”Why tell me?”
”A favela makes your prisons look like palaces. There are three ways out. I do not play football-what you call 'soccer'-and I cannot sing.”
”So you went into dope. That's what you think I need to know?”
”No, hombre. What you need to know is only this: I would kill a thousand times-a thousand cities-rather than return to the favela.”
”There's no reason to kill a man more than once.”
”Ah, you joke when I try to ... explain myself. Muy bien. So now you listen: Herrera had a couple of dozen locations. Locations where he stashed money. Money and product. He and I were partners. I have half of the microchip, but mine only works if snapped into his half. Same for him, of course.
”Now, Herrera, he was having a problem. I know he himself hired you to retrieve a certain book. But, after that, I hear nothing. Then I learn Herrera was killed. His car, his bodyguards ... everything blown to pieces. So I know even more now. I know you were paid. Paid twice.
”Why do I say 'twice'? Because it is Humberto who has the chip, not Esteban. Why? Because we knew all along that Esteban was secret partners with Herrera. We speak of honor, but betrayal-that is the life we live. Partners.h.i.+ps mean nothing to a savage like Herrera. That old man, he was ready to eliminate Esteban, so perhaps Esteban also paid you to eliminate Herrera? That would be your style, would it not?”
Seeing Cross was not going to respond, or even change expression, Munoz continued: ”My partners.h.i.+p with Humberto is no different than the one Herrera had with me, or Esteban with him. That is why we use the chips, so that each of us has nothing without the other. But our negotiations with Humberto have proved fruitless-he is greedy beyond tolerance. I want to go back across the border, and I want to stay there. But, first, I need Humberto's arm.”
”What's my piece?” Cross said, his voice as expressionless as his face.
”Your piece? Your piece? I told you ... you get el maricon returned to you.”
”You got a good sense of humor, Munoz. You want me to do all kinds of risky stuff to score something worth tens of millions to you, and you want to trade a POW in exchange? Do the math.”
”This ... Princess. He was your man. We have-”
”What you have is a soldier. A soldier who knew the deal when he signed on. I wouldn't want to lose him, but I could live with that a lot better than if there's anything on that microchip that would ring the wrong alarm bells. Those Homeland Security boys all carry open paper-they fill it in after they do whatever they want to.
”Don't get me wrong. In our country, n.o.body gives a d.a.m.n about flags or uniforms. When we fight, we fight for only two reasons: self-defense or money. So I'll make it simple. Half a million. Cash. And Princess. For that, you get your little chip.”
”You will trust me to-”
”You should take that act onstage, Munoz. Sure, I'll trust you to release Princess. It wouldn't do you any good to dust him. You wouldn't make a dime, and you might get some of the wrong people angry at you if you did. People who can travel south anytime they want.
”But the cash ... no way. You send a man. Your man, okay? We hand him the chip. He puts it in the pigeon's bag, and hands over the cash. The bird takes off. It lands wherever you taught it to. When it touches down, you try the chip. You see that it works, and then we're done. We hold on to your man until we see Princess, then your guy walks away. Got it?”
”What is to prevent you from killing my man and keeping the money? And the chip?”
”Don't play stupid. Half of that chip's no more use to me than it was to you. What I want is the money. And I want you back over the border, too. This job's gonna draw enough heat as it is.”
”Your salads, gentlemen,” the waiter interrupted again, placing a plate in front of each man. ”Will there be anything-?”
”No,” Munoz snapped, eyes still on his opponent. Finally, he slid a folded piece of paper over to Cross. ”It is all there. Everything you need. Muy p.r.o.nto, eh?”
Cross lit another cigarette, ignoring his salad as he pocketed the paper. Then he leaned forward slightly, dropping his voice a notch. ”You're a professional. So am I. We understand how these things are done. Money is money. Business is business. I'm gonna get you your little chip, Munoz. You're gonna pay me my money and let my man go, are we clear?”
Munoz nodded, warily.
”You know how soldiers are,” Cross said, just above a whisper. ”In war, you don't look too deep. A guy's good with explosives, another's a top sniper, maybe another's a master trail-reader. It all comes down to what you need. Turns out one of the guys you recruit is a little bent, you don't pay much attention to what he does when he's not in the field, you understand what I'm saying?”
Munoz tilted his head slightly forward, waiting.
”Some people, they're in because they like it. It's not for the money-it's certain ... opportunities they want. I got n.o.body like that in my crew. But maybe, just maybe, you do. Guys who might do something unprofessional, just because they like doing it. You can always spot them: the first ones who volunteer to do interrogations. Rapists. Torture freaks. You always got them sniffing around, looking for work, right?”
”So?” Munoz challenged. ”What has this to do with what I-?”
”You got my man, got him locked up. He's your hostage. I understand that. I don't expect you're gonna feed him whiskey and steak, send up a friend if he gets lonely. That's okay. But maybe you got guys on your team who like to hurt people. Hurt them for fun. That's not professional.”
”Yes,” Munoz said impatiently. ”I know all this.”
”Herrera, he liked to watch men die. That's why he had those cage fights.”
”Herrera is no more, amigo. You above all should know that.”
”There's others like him. Maybe you have some of them in your crew. What I want to tell you is this: I can find one myself, easy enough.”
”Why do you say all this? What is your meaning?” Munoz spoke softly, but a t.i.tanium thread of menace throbbed in his voice.
”Just play it for real,” Cross told him. ”n.o.body gets paid for acting stupid. You know about me. You know people who owe me. Some of them, anyway. You know what I can do.
”So listen good. If you hurt Princess, if we don't get him back in the same condition as you found him, we'll find you. Wherever you go, no matter how long it takes, we will find you, Munoz. And when we do, it's going to take you a long time to die.”
”HOW MUCH do I owe you?” Rhino asked the waiter from Nostrum's. They were standing near the mouth of an alley that opened into a street in the heart of the gay cruising area.
”You owe me some respect,” the waiter snapped. ”I don't forget what Princess did for us. I'm a man,” he said with quiet force. ”A man pays his debts.”
”I apologize,” Rhino squeaked. ”If there's ever-”
But the waiter was already walking away.
IN THE bas.e.m.e.nt of Red 71, Cross was using a laser pointer to illuminate various parts of a crudely drawn street map he had taped to the back wall.
”He's somewhere in here,” Cross said, the thin red line of the laser pointer aimed at a cross section of a tall building standing next to three others exactly similar. ”We don't know what apartment. We don't even know what floor. Humberto controls the buildings, so he may even switch from time to time.”
”This Humberto, he never goes out?” Rhino asked.
”Once a week. To the airport. He meets an international flight on the south concourse. A different guy comes each time. Humberto meets this guy, talks to him for an hour or so; then the guy just turns around and gets back on another plane.”
”The courier still has to clear customs,” Buddha said. ”Otherwise, what's the point?”
”Sure. It's a sterile corridor up to that point. No way to get in or out without the machines looking you over. But whoever comes in, he's not bringing product, he's bringing in a chip that's smaller than a wrist.w.a.tch battery. n.o.body would give it a second look. And even if they did, so what? It's a piece of plastic, not contraband. The courier clears customs, has a conversation with Humberto, and goes back home. That's all there is to it.”