The Last Line by Anthony Shaffer Page A

people or figure out exactly what they were doing. You couldn’t get inside a person’s head with a satellite.
    Lines of type at the lower right of the image gave the date and time: 09 April, 1827 hours GMT, just six days ago. Below that were the vessel’s coordinates: 16°45'30.80" N; 82°54'34.69" W.
    â€œThe ship’s position when this was taken was about three hundred forty miles east of Belize City,” Chavez said. “The Zapoteca appeared to be on course for Belize at the time, not Veracruz.”
    â€œVeracruz is on the other side of the Yucatán Peninsula.” Larson said.
    â€œI know how to read a map,” Teller said. “Why Belize?”
    â€œThat’s what we wondered,” Wentworth said. “We told Fletcher to send a couple of agents down there and check it out.”
    â€œAnd then they disappeared,” Procario said.
    Wentworth closed his eyes, then opened them again. “In a manner of speaking. On the eleventh, this arrived at our Mexican embassy.”
    The satellite image of the Zapoteca was replaced by another photograph. For a moment, Teller’s mind refused to register exactly what it was he was looking at. The photo was a bit blurry—probably shot with a cell phone camera—but it showed a desktop, an open cardboard box, and a lot of partially crumpled newspaper.
    Inside the box was the grim reality that Teller, as he stared at it in increasing horror, only reluctantly began to accept.
    It was a man’s head, but horribly mutilated. The ears, the nose, the eyes, all were missing, and the skin, sliced randomly here and there as if by a scalpel, was caked with blood. Black, blood-matted hair was visible, and a black mustache. Below this last was an x-x-x pattern of what looked like leather cord sealing shut a bulging, bloody mouth.
    â€œHis mouth.” Procario began. “What—”
    â€œHis penis was stuffed inside, and the lips sewn shut,” Wentworth said, his voice utterly drained of any emotion.
    â€œHenrico Javier Ferrari Garcia de Alba,” Chavez said, grim. “There was a right forefinger inside the box along with the head, so we were able to get a positive ID from the print. The bastards wanted us to know. Recruited by Fletcher himself last year. A member of the Mexican federales, the federal police, and something of a campaigner for government reform. He told us he was sick to death of government and police corruption and let himself be recruited so he could fight back. We got a lot of good information from him about high-ranking politicians and military personnel who were owned by the cartels. Forty-one years old. College educated, Universidad de México. Accomplished violinist; wanted to be a professional musician but ended up with the police instead. He … he had a wife and three kids. Fletcher wasn’t able to find any of them after this—their house in San Mateo showed signs of a struggle—and we think they may have been abducted as well.”
    â€œThe other agent was Agustín Morales Galvan,” Wentworth added. “No sign of him at all … at least, not yet. Their last report was from Corozal on the tenth. That’s a town on the Yucatán east coast, about eighty miles north of Belize City.”
    â€œSo,” Teller said, “Galen sent those two to Belize to check on the arrival of the Zapoteca, and both of them disappeared.”
    â€œWe have to assume the cartel enforcers got them,” Chavez said.
    â€œWhich cartel?” Teller asked. He looked at the map of drug cartel territories, still partially visible as a kind of wallpaper behind the photo of the severed head. The Yucatán was highlighted in blue. “Los Zetas?”
    â€œActually, we’re not sure,” Chavez said. He touched the tabletop, and the nightmarish photograph mercifully disappeared. “That’s Los Zetas territory, yeah—but there’s a chance, a