The Jaguar (7 page)

Once again, Alfredo apologised. He had the urge to hug his father, but this had never been an instinct that he could indulge.

“Someone is going to try to kill you, Alfredo. Someone is going to want to demonstrate their strength. You've made yourself a target for anyone who wants to make a name. Even the CIA may decide it's time for a change of family here. If they send someone after you, we may not be able to stop them. If you die, it would be the end of me and of your Uncle Felipe too. If you're killed then everyone would know we can't protect our people. You'll have to go away. That means Europe.” Paulo paused again to snatch more air. “We have a new way of laundering our profits. They go into a sports bicycle manufacturing company near Madrid, which retails mainly in Great Britain. I want you to show a family face in London. As far as the English end of the business is concerned, you're Spanish, so you'd better work on your Spanish and your English. Check the money is getting through. We've someone there to help you forward it to our bank in Texas.”

It was a stupid argument, but it brought Alfredo out of his reverie. Global warming! Why, in the coldest, dampest country he had ever experienced, were people on TV getting angry about global warming? England was incomprehensible. He wanted to throw something at the screen. Instead he stomped into the bathroom. There he cleaned his teeth so hard that blood mixed with the paste and patterned the spittle he projected violently into the basin. Although he knew it was pathetic, he was homesick.

Chapter Nine

Rochas Blancas

Rochas Blancas was a non-descript prison in the midst of equally non-descript rolling scrubland. It was set a few hundred metres outside a small town of the same name, which was built around cattle stockyards and provided a staging post for a railroad meandering its way the few remaining miles to the US border. Beyond its rectangle of whitewashed walls and razor wire stood a scattering of staff accommodation, a visitors' car park, and a small police station and pound.

Inside the jail, Felipe Contadona watched the sun dipping below the same whitewashed walls, one hand in a back pocket and the other clasping the window grill. Not even an unusually strong odour from the nearby stockyards could pierce his sense of serenity. Felipe knew almost the exact order in which the stars would shortly appear above the faint orange glow of the unseen township. He would greet them as old friends, after several days of blank, rain-sodden skies. The three stars marking Orion's Belt were his first target, as he had recently acquired a book which mapped the major constellations from his older brother, Paulo. Betelgeuse, the red supergiant star that marked Orion's left shoulder could easily be traced from this bright marker, and its story was his favourite. Grand though it was, it was a dying star, struggling with the last vespers of fuel to maintain the nuclear reactions that were its only defence against gravity. Tomorrow, or in a million years' time, it would die and in its death throes turn night into day on Earth and appear like a second sun, even though it was 640 million light years away.

Felipe had only rarely, in all his fifty-seven years, been happier than here in this jail. He occupied a suite of three rooms originally designed for the prison governor. He shared his quarters and its extensive facilities with a relay of unobtrusive minders who took care of every chore. Behind him he could hear one of them laying the table for dinner. The local mayor and the assistant governor were due to dine with him tonight. The news about Alfredo's misdemeanours, which he had received alongside the book from Paulo, could have been a concern, but he had heard it all before. Only Alfredo's departure for Europe aroused any sense of disapproval. Felipe had long since learned that, in the end, it all came down to money. Once Felipe had outlined the family's enhanced concerns about security, the mayor and the governor would demand more cash. But there was always more money for Las Contadonas. There was so much that the greatest problem was what to do with it all, forcing his clan to continually expand into new territory and trade. Money could be found in thick wads of used banknotes in every home the family and its many lieutenants occupied, stuffed into draws, in suitcases under beds, or at the back of kitchen cupboards.

Hearing his guests approaching, Felipe turned to greet them. The two men who entered the room were not those he was expecting. He assessed the situation. Over the shoulders of the bulky intruders he could see two other men guarding the door. His minders were nowhere to be seen. He considered making a dash for the bedroom and the handgun in his bedside cabinet, but he would be stopped within a couple of paces, and the gun had almost certainly been removed anyway. A flush of fear coursed through Felipe as he comprehended the gravity of his situation. To his intense chagrin a warm trickle of urine descended the inside of one leg. His fear was followed in turn by a rising tide of anger, partly in response to this little humiliation and partly as he realised he might never see his nephews again. Although he had experienced liaisons with many women, none had ever produced a child he was prepared to acknowledge. Luis, and then Alfredo, by contrast, had always been close, pushed towards their uncle by the preoccupied, emotionally distant nature of their own father, Paulo. As children, they were eager to hear Felipe's stories of grand adventure and to be spoiled by his extravagant gifts. He remembered the pair squealing with joy as they climbed aboard an electric toy Ferrari and swerved along the drive of the family's summer mountain retreat, near Chihuahua. It was this image of the boys, perhaps the only people he had ever truly loved, which he would, if necessary, take with him now to the grave.

Felipe focused again on the squat, heavy-jowled hit men. He flicked his tongue around the inside of his dry mouth then spat the resulting shallow phlegm onto the black shiny shoes of the nearest heavy. “Go on then, get it over with.”

He waited for a gun to appear. For a few seconds nothing happened. Then, in a strongly accented growl, the same man spoke.

“This is a message from Xterra.”

Both men were at Felipe's side, marching him towards the door. Once out onto the corridor he scanned the inside of the prison block, peering over the metal railings to the floor below. Every cell door was closed. The prison was in lockdown, but without the usual shotgun laden, lugubrious guards. All was eerily quiet. Felipe glanced enquiringly at one of those framing the door. With a malicious grin the guard gestured towards one of the men at Felipe's side. Felipe turned and froze in terror as a gleaming silver knife from his own dining table caught the light. As if in a dream, he felt himself begin to struggle. Despite his years, he was strong and it took three men to turn him around in the narrow corridor and force him back against the bannister. He sweated profusely and strained every sinew to break free, as a large moon face with rotten teeth drew oppressively close to his own. He jerked his head backwards to escape the rancid stench. Instantly the man's arm was resting on his forehead, arching Felipe backwards over the railings. He felt the knife press against his throat and, for a moment, was relieved by its obvious bluntness. As the pressure grew so did the pain and his increasing shortness of breath. He managed to screw his head to one side, but felt the blade beginning to cut and to track his movement as he did so. He heard a splatter, which could only be his own blood hitting the floor below. At the far end of the lower level stood his friend the Governor, arms folded impassively. He wanted to plead for forgiveness, but his larynx had been destroyed by the crushing force of the blade. Within moments he could not see and there was nothing left but terrible, all-consuming pain. He tried to cry out, but no scream would come: only a long, damp gurgle, as air bubbled up through the mess of blood and tissue in his throat.

The Governor turned and walked away. The men above pressed in on either side of Felipe to finish their butchery. Then they too were gone. All that remained on the top corridor was Felipe's torso, seated, as if in a deep and drunken slumber, against the metal fence. A whistle blew. Cell doors automatically slid open and cautious figures began to emerge above and below. Still there were no guards. Small huddles formed on each side of the body and around the severed head, which lay smashed and staring amidst a scatter of sticky puddles on the lower floor. Someone picked it up and began running around the block in mock triumph, a bloody fist buried deep into the matted, curly grey hair. Everyone knew what this meant: a change to the order of things. Some inmates looked around warily and backed away into cells. Others joined the procession behind Felipe's battered and frozen features. Soon there would be a reckoning.

Chapter Ten

Sierra Madre

Maria Barosso scaled the steep trail through the mountain homeland of her Aztec Indian community. The morning was clear and fresh and - for the first time since an unexpected visit from the local police chief and two polite, but intimidating “businessmen” - she felt relaxed. A heavy-dew worked its way from the thick scrub into her woollen poncho and leggings. As she struggled across slippery ground to the top of a ridge and looked down at a boulder-strewn riverbed beyond, she was surprised to see a foaming torrent snaking its way between the rocks. This valley was nearly always dry. At best it was a series of crystal clear pools in which her children would sometimes splash or pretend to fish. Not since her own childhood had she observed a scene such as this. That was before most of the old growth forest had been cut down for timber, and the local climate had dried.

Maria made several agile leaps from rock to rock across the flow, defying her advancing years. She squatted on the far bank to scoop two handfuls of water. It was unexpectedly cold as it trickled out between her fingers. As she feared, a small quantity of sediment settled onto her palm. She shook her head slowly and moved on. A flock of green parrots scattered as she pushed her way through the streamside vegetation and into a short stretch of pine forest beyond. The path meandered between the tree trunks then forked left and right. To the right the way would grow steep and begin to zigzag, as it made its way towards a grassy summit often favoured by courting couples. Maria branched left, following the contours of a second ridge, which descended steadily towards her, until she found herself at a col, staring down into a bowl of terraced fields beyond. A wisp of smoke ascended from a distant shack: her husband heating a kettle in their rudimentary fireplace.

Within minutes Maria could see the damage: muddy channels carved through fields, patches of sodden debris, and piles of stone where a wall had given way. Worst of all she had a clear view of the poppies. Between one and two feet high, these thick-set, pale green plants jostled for space and light and had been close to flowering. Everything was ruined now. Broad leaves lay as if painted on the ground. Stalks leaned at crazy angles or hung their heads in shame. Whole patches lay flattened or bent - sat upon by some giant beast.

It was going to have been a good crop this year - the family would have been able to afford their first car. They had already acquired a flat-screen television the previous season. Now Maria couldn't help but think back to the weather-ravaged crops and food riots she had witnessed on her imposing new T.V. There would be no car now and the money they had borrowed to improve their home and to send their children to school would not be repaid. Worst of all, they could lose their land. Then they would join the dispossessed, tending fields they had once owned for the Mafioso bosses whom they had so recently entertained. She began to cry, as she recalled days of wheat and corn and fresh vegetables. Then she had been young and it had been her parent's farm.

By the time she reached the shack and threw open the door, Maria wanted to curse. Her fists were clenched and she would rage and scream at her husband. “
How did we get into this situation? Why did I ever listen to you and your grand schemes?
”
Lo que siembres, cosecharás
(
what you sow, you will harvest).
But she didn't. At the sight of the guilt and defeat in her husband's eyes as he handed her a steaming cup, all she could do was to set it down carefully with a trembling hand and hug him.

“Somehow, we'll be OK,” Maria lied. She began to pray. Then she hugged him tighter, as both her body and his were wracked by heavy sobs.

Chapter Eleven

Ciudad Juarez

Luis was sitting in the general manager's office of a large jeans factory in a small town not far from Juarez. Ever since Alfredo's departure for England, he had been in a fire fight. Discipline was breaking down in one location after the other, as various loose-knit crime organisations and chancers tried to threaten or bribe their way into different aspects of the family business. The Contadona clan had managed personnel and security for many of the smaller factories and workshops in the main industrial belt around the central section of the US border for two decades. The larger multinationals also unwittingly employed staff hand-picked by them. This was one of Luis' favourite roles. Not only had his father left him in full control, but it was also as near to legitimate commerce as his family came. Luis was proud that, in their twenty year involvement in the factory zone, serious crime in the area had all but disappeared and conditions for the workforce had greatly improved. This was why he was so angry with the man sitting in front of him.

“Why did you punch her in the stomach?” he hissed at the plant manager.

“She was always trouble, always complaining that the supervisors were harassing her.”

“Was she pretty?”

“Yes,” acknowledged the man, with a leering smile. He leaned forward at his desk, trying to connect with Luis, who was sitting at some distance across the room. It also helped him ignore the goons stood impassively on either side. “That was probably why we hired her in the first place.”