“I have a feeling if you make it ugly enough for El Chilango, there’s a chance at a bonus. Aranas isn’t that price sensitive.”
“Tell me. Does he have any other children?” El Rey asked.
Valiente looked at him strangely. “I think he’s got two sons. I’m not sure, though. We aren’t that close,” Valiente admitted.
“His only daughter. No, I imagine he’s not price sensitive at all.” He held up the briefcase and moved towards the door, hesitating before he left.
“I’ll get creative.”
Chapter 12
Sydney was unlike any place El Rey had ever been. From the time he got off the plane, his Quantas first class experience a welcome luxury on the fifteen hour flight from Los Angeles, he was struck by how clean everything was. It was as if someone had scrubbed every surface right before he got there – but the entire town, as far as he could see wandering around the downtown area, was like that.
He took a cab from the airport to his hotel a few blocks from Sydney harbor and stowed his gear, locking his cash in the hotel room safe and unpacking his hygiene kit. After a few hours of sleep to get adjusted to the seven hour time difference, he set out to explore the town so he’d understand the layout. A four minute walk to the central ferry terminal at Grand Quay quickly convinced him that the town was filled with tourists, so one more from Mexico wouldn’t stick out, which had been one of his fears. He never wanted to be memorable anywhere he went and, judging by the host of accents and languages he heard as he moved along the waterfront from the quaint shopping area called ‘The Rocks’ toward the opera house, there would be no such problem. El Rey approached the iconic theater, which sat on a point at the water’s edge, its aggressive shape unmistakable. He kept walking towards the ocean and soon found himself in a verdant, well-groomed park, where he passed young lovers reposing on the grass, stealing moments together after school.
The weather was the equivalent of late autumn in Australia, the seasons being reversed from the Northern Hemisphere, but it was still relatively mild and sunnier than he’d expected. And so clean. Being used to Mexico, Sydney was a shock to his system in that it was so aseptic. Even as he made his way out of the park into an area that was supposedly seedier, it was as nice as some of the best neighborhoods back home. He stopped at a long pier with a sign out front that announced it as Finger Wharf and looked in at a hotel built over the harbor – the W Sydney – and felt immediately comfortable in the dimly lit, soothing, minimalistic contemporary lobby. It was deserted, save for a young woman working behind the desk and, based on the ambience and the solitary location, he decided right then and there that he’d be moving to the W the following day.
Walking away from the harbor, he explored the area inland from the hotel. It quickly degraded into a run- down industrial district with warehouses alongside shabby lower-income housing. A few of the buildings looked as though they were about to undergo renovation but much of the area was desolate and he found himself the only person on the streets – mid-afternoon on a weekday. He made a mental note: this was perfect for what he had in mind. He’d begun the outlines of a rough plan on the plane, purely conceptual, but if everything panned out it could work well.
Making his way back to the hotel, he hailed a cab and asked the driver to drop him a block from the address where El Chilango now lived. They drove into an upscale area fifteen minutes from the city center, where the cab stopped, a block from the harbor.
The neighborhood was eclectic, exhibiting a hodgepodge of architectural styles coexisting in a dissonant manner. Everything from elegant multi-story turn-of-the-century Victorian mansions to post-modern contemporary could be found. It was certainly a prosperous area. El Rey knew that waterfront homes anywhere in the world were always the most expensive – he figured that Australia would be no different. The sidewalks were empty; he deliberately avoided the target’s house, preferring to make a left on the street that ran along the waterfront homes rather than a right. He knew that El Chilango ’s home was four down on the right from the corner where he made the turn, and he didn’t really need to see much more than he did by glancing down the street as though a sightseer who’d wandered into the area. He knew from the report he’d read on the plane that it was a two story, five bedroom waterfront home on a double lot, with security lighting at night activated by motion sensors on the sides of the house, as well as the street.
Comfortable with the feel of the neighborhood, he walked six blocks until he came to a major artery, and had a coffee shop call him a taxi while he enjoyed a cup of green tea. Once back at his hotel, he did a quick calculation of the time back home before going downstairs to ask the concierge where he could get a cell phone. The pert young woman directed him four blocks away, and soon he was paying for the latest model Nokia with a three month prepaid service plan. As soon as it was activated, he fished a matchbook out of his pocket and dialed the country code and phone number he’d jotted down. Valiente’s voice answered.
“I’m here. Do you have anything for me on a local contact?” El Rey asked.
Valiente gave him a local Sidney cell number and told him to ask for Victor.
He did as instructed, and a gravelly, Australian voice answered. El Rey told him he was from out of town, and used Valiente’s name by way of entre. They arranged to meet an hour later at a cafe immediately in front of the ferry terminal. Victor would be wearing an orange T-shirt with a blue windbreaker and tan cargo pants.
El Rey watched the man enter the cafe and sit down by the window. After five minutes of scanning the quay to ensure there was no surveillance, he walked in and took a seat opposite him. Victor was in his mid forties and rail thin, with a heavily lined, sun-damaged face with the perennial flush of the habitual hard drinker, spectacularly crooked teeth, and thatches of salt-and-pepper hair pointing in all directions. He looked nothing so much as like an absentminded professor with a boozing problem.
“G’day, mate. Name’s Victor. I was told to give yah whatever yah needed, and mum’s the word,” Victor started. El Rey couldn’t really make out what the man was saying, so instead began speaking in his quiet, calm voice. His English was passable from years of study, but still heavily accented with Spanish inflection.
“I will need a boat with a captain tomorrow to take me around the harbor so I can look over some places. I have also made a list of items I will require. And I think I’ve found an area with some industrial space you can rent inexpensively. If not, I need a small warehouse in a quiet neighborhood where it will have no neighbors, yes?” El Rey handed him the neatly hand-written note with his requirements.
Victor studied it, and nodded. “No worries, mate. Good as done – but it’ll run yah dear. My guess is twenty grand American at least, plus the boat tour. How many rounds you need for the rifle and the pistol?” Victor asked.
“A hundred for the rifle and its magazines, and fifty for the pistol and its spares. Will the night vision equipment be a problem?”
“Mate, none of it’s a problem. Just a matter of money. Give me two days and I’ll have the whole lot sorted,” Victor assured him. “Now in the meantime, what about yerself? Need any company? Interested in the ladies?” Seeing the lack of interest, he tried again. “Or maybe the boys? A little Cage aux Follees, if yah catch my meaning? Whatever yer flavor, Victor’s the man…”
“Just the items on the list, some warehouse space with no neighbors and a boat with a captain. Nothing fancy. Something that will blend in. I’d like to use it tomorrow for around four hours. And make sure it’s got some fishing equipment onboard. I’ll call you in the morning. Will that work for you?” El Rey asked.
Victor assured him that it would, and they quickly parted ways, Victor to procure the necessary hardware and El Rey to have an early dinner and get some sleep.
The following day, Victor had made arrangements for a cabin cruiser to pick El Rey up at the pier that hosted the W Hotel and the adjacent condominiums and restaurants. He checked out of his current hotel and walked over to the W, taking a waterfront room for a week on the third floor. Once he’d unpacked, he grabbed a quick bite downstairs before heading out to meet the boat, a heavy set of binoculars in tow. It was a thirty eight foot Riviera sports fisherman with twin diesel engines, and soon they were cutting through the chop at a fair clip. El Rey gave the captain GPS coordinates for the portion of the harbor he wanted to anchor in and fish. The man looked at him as though he was crazy.
“Won’t catch much there but muck suckers, mate,” he advised.
