into sweats. He hung up his uniform, next to three others exactly like it, and placed his Heckler and Koch pistol on the bedside night table before going back downstairs to the kitchen to root around for something edible.
Dinner would be another sandwich, his weeknight staple, unvaryingly filled with turkey, salami, chorizo and cheese, then melted in the microwave and consumed at the breakfast bar or on his shabby couch, in front of the television. He allowed himself two beers per night, no more, and savored the rich taste of the cold Bohemia he favored as he watched the vapid crap that passed for programming. It wasn’t much of an existence, but it occupied the time between leaving and returning to the office, so he was fine with it, such as it was. He recognized that this was no way to live, but since he’d been on his own it was all he could bring himself to do. He turned up the volume to drown out the emptiness that now sequestered the house and waited for the ghosts of his dead family to visit him once again.
General Ortega swirled his Jose Cuervo
“Carlos, I’m glad you could see me on such short notice,” Ortega began.
“Always a pleasure,” Zapata said. “You made it sound urgent, so how could my response have been anything other?”
“I have unfortunate news, but also some good news, I think. Which would you prefer first?” Ortega asked.
“Give me the bad first. Always the bad; save the best for last.”
“Santiago is gravely injured, and his associates are all dead. At least, the group he was meeting with today,” Ortega reported.
“How seriously hurt is he?” Zapata was already trying to calculate what impact Santiago’s absence would have on the ongoing operations of the cartel. The last thing they needed was yet another bloody power struggle among one of his client’s allies.
“It’s hard to know for sure, but my sources tell me he’s in a coma,” Ortega said.
“A coma, eh? That’s bad. Very bad.” Zapata appeared to consider it, then waved in the air with a limp hand. “But, fine — what’s the good news?”
“We know where he’s being held,” Ortega offered.
“Well, spit it out. Where is he?” Zapata demanded.
Ortega sipped his drink and chose his words carefully. “I want you to know that discovering this was difficult. I had to go to considerable trouble to find someone who would talk.” He wanted to ensure that Zapata and his clients understood that he’d gone an extra distance for them. Hopefully, that would appease any anger over his being caught unawares about the morning’s attack. He wanted to drive home the idea that he was irreplaceable and of continuing value to them. Worth keeping alive.
“Yes, yes. All right. I’m sure it was. Now, where is he being held?” Zapata repeated.
“Hospital Angeles, in room eleven of the intensive care ward. He was transferred there this evening, and chances are that’s where he’ll stay for the duration.”
“I know the facility. What else were you able to find out?”
“There are armed
Zapata swirled his drink, lost in thought. After several minutes like this, he stood and toasted Ortega, signaling that their meeting was concluded.
Ortega finished his tequila and placed the snifter on Zapata’s desk. “I hope your clients find this of value.”
“Oh, I think I can promise they will. Thank you for coming by. I’m sure that their expression of gratitude will be unmistakable,” Zapata assured him as they walked to the lobby area of his opulent offices. The general grasped his hand and shook it warmly before walking out to the street, where his chauffeured car waited to take him to his mistress’ apartment for a spell, before heading dutifully home to his wife.
Zapata placed a call to one of ten cell numbers he’d been given for use this month. Each phone would be used once, and then discarded. To reach his client quickly, he opted to dial the next number down the list. Even though all cell numbers had to be registered in Mexico, in an effort to curtail kidnapping calls from blind numbers, there were any number of domestic staff who would gladly sign for a line, and then give it to their employer in exchange for twenty dollars. Everyone won in that transaction — the client, who got a sanitized communication channel, the phone company, who sold a phone, the manufacturer, whose phone was purchased, and the unfortunate who pocketed the twenty dollars. It was a win-win for all except the police.
When the phone was answered, Zapata relayed everything he’d learned. The conversation was short and to the point, taking less than sixty seconds from start to finish. There was absolutely no way in the world this method of communication could be traced, so it was the preferred option, other than ‘in person’ meetings.
When you printed money in your back room, the inconveniences of contriving work-arounds to government surveillance were miniscule compared to the rewards.
The hospital was quiet at five a.m., as the night shift finished its chores and prepared to hand over responsibilities to the fresh shift arriving at seven. The corridors were largely empty other than by the emergency room and intensive care. In the operating rooms, orderlies were busy preparing the chambers, sanitizing every surface in anticipation of the impending early morning surgeries. It was all part of the daily syllabus, and there was a rhythm to the activity that was startlingly efficient for Mexico, where things tended to be chaotic and unstructured.
On the ICU floor, a complement of nurses made rounds at all hours of day and night. They’d quickly grown accustomed to the armed
Every two hours, a nurse would come and check on the patient, taking his temperature and verifying that all the equipment was still hooked up correctly and that the IV bag hadn’t run dry. Vital signs were monitored at the main nursing station that occupied the entirety of the central area of the ward, where a number of screens showed blood pressure, pulse and respiration readings for all occupied rooms.
Several of the pretty young nurses stopped to chat with the handsome policeman in their midst, but for the most part he could have been asleep with his eyes open. He’d asked one of the doctors what the chances were of the patient coming to; could he be playing possum? — she’d laughed and told him there was more chance he’d grow wings and fly. She’d pointed out the monitoring equipment to him and explained how it worked; they’d see substantial changes to his pulse and blood pressure if he ever came out of the coma.
At six a.m., a new nurse sauntered past the groggy officer, smiling at him flirtatiously and pausing for a few moments to inquire how he was holding up, and would he like her to bring him a cup of coffee on her next round. He accepted the offer graciously as she entered room eleven, clipboard and thermometer in hand.
Once inside, she expertly wedged a chair to hold the door closed, and moved hurriedly to the patient’s side. After a quick scan of the room for any cameras, she took a pen from her blouse and carefully unhooked the IV bag. With steady hands, she unscrewed the pen and extracted a small syringe concealed in its fully-functional shaft. She glanced at the door, pulled the orange safety cap off the needle tip with her teeth and inserted it into the catheter. She drove the little needle home and depressed the plunger. Satisfied that the vital signs on the monitor were still reading normal, she reconnected the IV, slid the spent syringe back into the pen shaft and returned it to her blouse pocket, where it sat innocuously with two other pens.
The entire episode had taken less than ninety seconds. After stepping back to the door and removing the chair, she smoothed her blouse and adjusted her bra so her breasts were nearly bursting out of the snug top. She breezed, smiling, out of the room and waved at the officer, promising to be back in a few minutes with some hot, strong coffee. He admired the fit of her snug white pants as she walked down the hall, and reminded himself there were worse gigs he could have drawn than this. If only something interesting would happen. The boredom was a
