boss? He seems to be motivated by some hatred of the West. Of the gringos. A resentment which makes him particularly vicious. His Harvard education has also given him a business acumen and, we believe, a skill at drug synthesis. His meth, for instance, is some of the best on the market. He is ruthlessly superb at his chosen career. When he returned to Mexico, he took over a small cartel, the Catrina cartel. And since then, by utilizing a brutality that is shocking even by Mexico’s appalling standards, he has turned Catrina into one of the most powerful cartels of all, such that they are challenging the supremacy of the Zetas.’
‘Who are?’
‘ Los Zetas are the dominant cartel in Mexico, founded by a small team of Mexican special forces deserters, which has since expanded to take in corrupt local police, state police, federal officers, prostitute informers, teenage assassins, and so on. They employ thousands across Mexico and beyond. This is why the Peruvian police were maybe less than eager in their investigation of your situation. If they suspect the drug cartels are involved, especially the Zetas, then they are quite right to be scared. The Zetas are fearsomely well equipped — their arsenal includes assault rifles and submachine guns, grenade launchers, surface-to-air missiles, helicopters. Even submarines.’
‘Submarines?’
‘Submarines. Until recently it was feared that the Zetas were threat to the Mexican state itself. Until recently, the US authorities regarded them as the most potent paramilitary drug gang in Mexico. That is… until the rise of Carlos El Santo Monroy. Until the Saint arrived on the scene.’
Jessica stared at the picture of the US president on the wall. She didn’t particularly want to look at it. This was just the only thing to look at, apart from the man opposite her telling her all this frightening, frightening stuff. ‘How does this fit with my information?’
The man lifted a single finger. ‘One more thing. El Santo is, as I say, a student of history. One of the reasons for his rise is, we think, his astute use of psychology. He has turned his cartel into a kind of military religious order. What is special about El Santo’s brand of faith is that he has deliberately utilized the imagery and culture of Santa Muerte. Holy Death.’
‘I’ve heard about this. About Santa Muerte.’
‘He uses it as a bonding mechanism, and also as a kind of branding. It is not unlike the way Hitler built Nazism — the impressive iconography, the sense of religious purpose in the adherents. Holy Death is a criminal and working-class cult religion in Mexico, which combines Roman Catholic elements with ancient Mesoamerican and Aztec motifs. It may even be a direct and living descendant of Aztec religions, which survived in poor areas of Mexico City and then re-emerged in the last few years. Practitioners of Santa Muerte worship death herself, in the image of a white lady, also known as “the skinny one”. They venerate her presence as a skull or a skeleton in a dress or robe or veil, sometimes she is called Catrina, hence the cartel’s name.’
‘But why is Santa Muerte so powerful? For Monroy?’
‘Because Santa Muerte idolizes death. Therefore the practitioners are especially murderous, they want to kill. El Santo’s lethal emissaries see killing as an ideal, an end in itself. A way of worshipping the white lady. They are tattooed with skulls and may regard these tattoos as magical protection. The use of such magical tattoos has now spread to other gangs. You know about the deaths in England, of course-’
‘The McLintocks, those poor young people, yes.’
‘Some of the suspects in this case have Santa Muerte tattoos on their hands: that certainly indicates the Catrina cartel. But the man Ritter, who was killed in London, he was tattooed on the arm, which is more a Zeta trait. And he was firmly linked with the Camorra, in Italy, who we know are allied with the Zetas.’
Jess gazed at the bare white walls, then at the officer. ‘You’ve spoken to people in London?’
‘Yep. We have already been in touch with the British authorities. Indeed we spoke to London this morning, to further our investigation, and to help them if we can. And this is where you come in… We were fascinated by your information. We know El Santo took an interest in ethnobotany at Harvard. He is obviously after new drugs. Or, should I say, old drugs. Please tell us everything you know about the history.’
Jessica did as she was instructed. The DEA officer took copious notes. The president of the United States of America smiled down from the wall.
An hour later the officer put down his embassy pen, stood up, shook her hand, and thanked her, solemnly. Jessica felt a sudden terror: at leaving the safe, guarded confines of the embassy, with its body scanners, and smartly saluting Marines. She had to go back out there, where the soldiers of El Santo were prowling, with the skull tattoos, yearning to kill for the sake of killing.
The man evidently sensed her unhappiness. ‘Miss Silverton, let me repeat the advice I gave you on the phone.’ His eyes met hers. ‘Yes, you are in serious danger, there is no point in denying it. But it is arguable that California could be just as dangerous for you, for anyone, as Peru. The US cannot guarantee safety even for its own officials — we have lost many good men in Mexico and elsewhere, diplomats and businessmen, families with children, not just soldiers and DEA operatives. In your case, my hope is that they regard you as subsidiary. They will have no idea that you have this… special information. I would advise you again, however, to change your cellphone pretty quickly. Just in case. And don’t go back to Zana of course: the Peruvian police were quite correct in that advice. Moreover, if you do feel threatened in any way, please come here, we can guard you, you can certainly be safe here, if nowhere else. But of course on the streets — well, that it is more difficult. The choice, naturally, is yours.’ Another handshake. ‘Goodbye Miss Silverton, and, once again, thank you. You have assisted your government in a very serious situation. Happy Christmas. Please be careful.’
By the time she had emerged through the various security levels of the embassy, which was like ascending from the dark blue depths of the sea to the gasping surface, Jessica’s hands were shaking. She definitely needed a coffee. And when she reached the coffee shop she asked for a mug because she didn’t trust her trembling hands to hold a delicate cup.
Her trembling hands? She ignored the symptom. Strenuously, and as best she could. She was frightened. That’s why her hands were trembling. Frightened, or diabetic. Frightened.
Halfway through the mug, her cellphone rang. For a moment she considered blocking the call, hurling the phone in the trashcan. Then she realized it was a British number. Prefix +44.
She picked it up. ‘Hello.’
‘We’re just outside.’
She looked up. Standing at the door was a pretty, dark-haired girl and a much taller man. They were here. Nina McLintock and Adam Blackwood.
44
Radisson Hotel, Lima
They talked in her room for two hours: Jessica, Nina and Adam. Though they had only spoken twice on the phone, and sent a few urgent emails, though they had been brought together by a the most circuitous of routes — a call from Ibsen to Nina’s secret cellphone, the number only DCI Ibsen knew — by the end of these two hours, Jess felt as if she had been reunited with lost siblings. As if they were united by some high and benign agency because they shared the extraordinary DNA of this story.
It took an hour for Adam and Nina to share all their crucial information. As Nina passionately explained the role of her father, and the police, and the terrible scenes in London, and the way they had followed the trail of the receipts — from Temple Bruer to Tomar, from Rosslyn to Sagres and finally to Peru — Jessica sensed the dynamic between this fiercely determined girl and the tall, brooding Australian. The tragedies that bonded them.
Once more, Jessica felt the pang of her own loneliness. Her dyingness? No. That was stupid. She chided herself for her self-pity, and urged Nina to continue.
Finishing her third black room-service coffee, Nina mentioned their discovery in Portugal, the sculptures in the church, the pentagram in old Tomar Jessica leaned close. ‘Pentagram?’
‘Yes.’ Nina looked at Adam, who shrugged. She turned back. ‘That’s the only bit we couldn’t work out.’
‘But I can — I know how it fits!’ Jessica pulled her little laptop from her bag, opened it, and tapped a few words. ‘See. The pentagram is not a symbol of the devil or Christ’s wounds — at least, not in this case. It is also symbol of a flower. The five-pointed flower of the morning glory. That’s the final proof: with the seeds, and the
