Blood of the Assassin

CHAPTER 21





Guatemala City was blanketed in smog as the flight from Chile dropped on the final descent, buffeted by updrafts from the mountains surrounding the metropolis. The tired Boeing 737 was on its last legs, running routes between South and Central America after being retired from a U.S. airline, and the seat that Werner Rauschenbach occupied was at least forty years old if it was a day, the cushion and springs having long ago given up any pretense of offering comfort.

A particularly violent gust shook the plane and it lurched to one side, and then the jet dropped a few hundred feet in seconds, the sensation much like that of a roller-coaster, but missing the assurance of a safe conclusion to the ride. The cracked ventilation nozzle overhead whistled a malodorous stream of stagnant air at his pate, serving no purpose other than to annoy him during the final half hour on the long trip from Santiago. He reached up and twisted the air off, and then peered out the window at the dark gray bank of clouds below. It wouldn’t be long now, and then this leg of his journey would be over and he would be traversing the third-world Guatemalan countryside on his way to the coast, where he would embark on an ocean voyage that would have him rendezvousing with a Mexican fishing trawler that night, five miles offshore, which would ferry him into Mexico without having to deal with niggling details like customs or immigration.

Another bump and a loud grinding hum vibrated from the wings as the flaps activated in preparation for landing. They dropped into the overcast and the plane was knocked around like a lottery ball before they broke through and he could make out the city dead ahead in the early morning light. When the wheels struck the runway and the engines screamed as the plane fought to slow before it ran out of space, Rauschenbach closed his eyes and exhaled evenly, thankful that the long hours on planes from Spain were finally over.

The fishing rod gambit had worked like a charm, and his precious cargo was safe in the belly of the jet, none the worse for the transatlantic journey. If all went well, he would be in Mexico City the following evening, at the latest. It would all depend on the efficiency of the group he’d arranged to smuggle him into the country. The Los Zetas cartel had established a considerable network in Africa, with a drug pipeline to most of the major regions in the Russian Federation and Europe, and it had been merely a matter of spreading a boatload of cash around to find the right conduits to arrange for his safe passage once in Guatemala. The cartel had almost complete control of whole sections of the country, and it routinely moved drugs, arms, slaves, and illegal immigrants from the beleaguered Central American nation into Mexico, so if anyone could get him in without triggering alarms, Los Zetas could.

The plane taxied to the terminal and the safety lights winked off, and Rauschenbach waited patiently as the tired travelers queued up to disembark, the atmosphere redolent of the peculiar dank odor of wet dog and slightly burnt wool that was a constant on long flights. The couple in front of him started moving slowly down the aisle to the exit, and he hoisted his carry-on and dutifully followed them, for all appearances a fatigued businessman.

Immigration and customs were cursory, and within twenty minutes he had retrieved his fishing rod and reel cases and had made his way to the taxi stands, where he gave the driver of a tired Nissan station wagon an address on the outskirts of the city. The morning traffic was light, it still being well before business hours in the commercial district, and in no time they pulled to the curb near a dilapidated restaurant featuring a hand-painted image of a dancing goat playing pan pipes on a precariously mounted sign over a grimy picture window. The German flipped a few notes of the local currency to the appreciative driver and then watched as the cab rattled down the cobblestoned street, mud and oil coagulating along the filthy gutters like toxic plaque.

Inside, a hard-looking man in his fifties looked up from his position by the cash register when Rauschenbach entered with his bags and took a table in the corner. He was the only patron, and the proprietor seemed unenthusiastic about his good fortune in having attracted a customer. He approached carrying a stained laminated menu and handed it to the German, and then asked in a rapid-fire burst of Spanish whether he wanted coffee and was going to be ordering breakfast. Rauschenbach answered that, yes, he was indeed going to be taking his morning meal there, and then used the series of code words that had been agreed upon several days before. The man’s eyes widened, then he nodded and gestured for his guest to follow him to the back of the shabby establishment. They passed a kitchen that more resembled a science experiment than a place to cook food, and Rauschenbach was glad he hadn’t chosen to avail himself of whatever passed for breakfast there.

In the rear of the building, his guide knocked on a dark wooden door, and after a few moments it swung open and a younger man, perhaps in his late twenties, stood staring at the new arrival, a pair of opaque sunglasses shielding his eyes in spite of the dim light.

“You ready to get going?” the young man asked, looking him over.

“Yes. But I’ll want to get something to eat. If you don’t mind, I’d just as soon pick up a roll and some coffee somewhere to go,” Rauschenbach said. “No offense.”

“None taken. I don’t eat here either. You have the money?”

“As agreed. You want it now?”

“Yes. Give it to him.” He motioned to the older man, and Rauschenbach pulled a wad of American currency bound with a rubber band from his back pocket and handed it over. The man counted it quickly, and then nodded.

“All right. You’re in business. Now let’s get out of here – we’re already running late,” the younger man said, then offered to help carry the German’s bags. Rauschenbach handed him the reel case and trailed him out the back door to where a battered baby-blue Ford Ranger pickup truck waited in the alley. The man placed the reels into the cargo bed and Rauschenbach did the same with the rod case, preferring to keep his carry-on bag with him in the cab. The proprietor watched from the doorway, absently scratching his belly, and then pulled the rusting steel slab closed and bolted it.

A cloud of dark smoke belched from beneath the truck’s bed, and then the engine settled into a rough idle as the young man put the truck in gear. Neither man was feeling chatty, so they bounced down the street in silence before turning onto a larger artery and making for the road that led north, out of the city.

The hundred miles to the coast took six hours to navigate, and it was after lunchtime when they arrived at the ocean side town of Champerico, roughly twenty-five miles south of the Mexican border, whose chief attractions as far as the German could tell were a mosquito-infested lake and a black sand beach. They drove down the dismal main street, past buzzing motor scooters and un-muffled cars, until they hit the waterfront, such as it was – a sad string of thatched-roof open air restaurants and some of the most squalid looking hotels Rauschenbach had seen outside of Africa. The truck eased to a stop in front of one of the most unlikely structures, whose weathered sign proclaimed it to be the Hotel/Restaurant Submarino, and the young man, who hadn’t spoken six words since they’d left Guatemala City, pointed to the building.

“Take a room there, wait until night, and at ten, as the restaurant is closing, be outside. Someone will pick you up and take you to the boat. You’ll go up the coast and meet the Mexican ship in open water, and before you know it you’ll be back onshore, this time in Mexico.”

Rauschenbach nodded, then climbed out of the cab and retrieved his rod case and reels before making his way into the ramshackle lobby. He rang the countertop bell and paid for a room as the truck pulled away, belching oily exhaust as it retraced its route out of town, the driver eager to get back to the city before dark. The clerk was an ancient woman with a face that spoke of a lifetime of drudgery, and she took his money without interest before pushing a worn brass key across the wooden counter as she croaked out a room number, a single stubby finger pointed at the ceiling.

He trudged up two flights of creaky stairs, toting his luggage without any offer of help from the cheerful staff, and when he opened the room door he left it wide for a few minutes so the pungent odor of disinfectant and mildew could blow off. After a dubious look around the small quarters he set his luggage on the bed and weighed his need to get some food into his stomach against the non-existent hotel security. He eventually decided to take his carry-on with him, and after locking the corroding deadbolt, descended to the ground floor and walked thirty yards down the beach to the nearest restaurant, from where he would be able to keep an eye on his room while he ate.

The fish was fresh and delicious, and after a relaxed meal, watching the surf roll gently onto the beach, children running, screaming along the sand, peals of laughter marking their delighted passage as an indifferent flock of gulls wheeled languorously over the water, he ordered a second bottle of the excellent local beer and considered his upcoming job. Once in Mexico City he would need to buy some specialized equipment he hadn’t felt comfortable trying to transport from Spain, and he wanted to verify that his preliminary choice of locations for the assassination was viable. The job had been contracted on relatively short notice – much shorter than he would have preferred – but he was confident that if the Chinese leader could be killed, he would do so. It was all a question of timing and method, nothing more. No matter how exalted or insulated a target might be, there was always a way.

Satiated and tired, he returned to his room and set his phone alarm to wake him at nine forty-five. He would skip dinner and make up for the sleep he had lost traveling, then be ready for whatever was thrown at him that night. The bed was only slightly better than sleeping on the hood of a car, but at least it was quiet, and the breeze from the ocean cooled the air that wafted through the barred open window of his room. He was asleep in minutes, and slept soundly until the screeching of the alarm jarred him awake.

The night was inky black, any stars obscured by a coastal marine layer, and he had to pay close attention to keep from tumbling down the unlit stairs as he carried his bags to the road. When he rounded the building’s corner, he came face to face with a figure in a green hoodie, smoking a cigarette. The man looked him up and down, flicked the butt into a nearby puddle of black liquid, and turned towards the ocean.

“Come on,” the man said gruffly, and Rauschenbach accompanied him down the beach.

Soon they were at a pier that jutted into the darkness, and they traversed three quarters of the length before the man abruptly stopped and pointed to the railing.

“There.”

They moved to the pier’s edge. Rauschenbach glanced over and saw the faint outline of an open skiff bobbling in the water, a single outboard motor mounted on the stern, and a figure dressed in dark clothing sitting in the bow. His guide took the rod case and the reels from him and dropped each over the rail to the man below, who caught them and stowed them in the boat. Rauschenbach swung himself over the side, climbed down a corroding steel ladder, and was in the boat in moments, his carry-on bag jammed under the bench seat. The motor cranked to life as the man on the pier untied the line and tossed it into the bow, and within seconds they were easing into the night, a date with a fishing trawler imminent.

“How long will it take to get to the rendezvous point?” Rauschenbach asked once they were underway.

“Three, maybe four hours. The seas will get bigger once we veer away from the shore, so we’ll have to go slow once we get closer. The final ten kilometers will take the longest – it’s supposed to be ugly out there tonight. Bad luck for you. Hope you don’t get seasick easily.”

“I don’t. How rough?”

“Two-meter seas with white water, but it should die down by the time we hook up. But you never know with the ocean. Sometimes she don’t read the weather report,” the seaman cackled.

Rauschenbach turned and watched the bow as it sliced through the waves, already substantial even this close to the beach, and hunkered down for a difficult few hours, eyes squinting against the salt spray, his back already sore from the slamming of the hull against the sea’s frothy surface as they pounded their way north.