was by candles and conversation consisted of an occasional grunt, where messages were written on rice paper so the words could be quickly eaten when you were finished reading.
He worked the small cell phone, crushing and replacing SIM cards as he went, always keeping one eye on his watch. He rang up several message services, one in Spain, another in the States, one in Thailand, and a fourth one in Rio, in Brazil. He listened intently to his messages while he jotted down notes in a small pocket pad.
When he was finished, Liquida sat up straight, adjusted his dark glasses, and sipped a little of the mojito from the tall glass on the table in front of him. He set the glass down and slowly licked his lips, savoring the flavor of the rum as he studied the last entry in the small notepad.
It was a message from Bruno Croleva, a Chechen who in the last two years had risen in Liquida’s eyes to become his favorite rainmaker.
Business from Bruno had lifted him from the squalor of Tijuana and the limited possibilities of the cartels, where retirement usually came in the form of a bullet.
Bruno had connections with Islamic militants as well as other injured and angry ethnic and religious groups. These were people highly committed to killing their enemies, which at any given time might include half the world’s population, mostly Westerners.
The clients were well funded and paid far more than the chump change offered by the cartels. Prices of a good assassination in Mexico had been driven to rock bottom by an army of itchy-fingered teenagers possessing no proper sense of values. Best of all, the foot soldiers used by Bruno’s clients were willing to die for their beliefs. This was an extremely efficient arrangement. It left many fewer tongues to wag when the job was done. Liquida didn’t have to dirty his own blade arranging for the sounds of silence. These were his kinds of people.
According to the message, there was forty thousand euros in cash in a drop box belonging to Liquida, delivered there by Bruno’s courier as final payment for a job Liquida had completed several months earlier.
Liquida had almost forgotten about it. He had given up on the money, thinking he would never see it. He assumed that Bruno was angry with him and that he might never hear from the man again. The last two ventures had not gone well, though it was not for want of trying on Liquida’s part.
Bruno was now paying up. What’s more, according to the message, he was offering Liquida another job and dangling a very tempting commission. The details, along with the money, were in the drop box.
For Liquida the money couldn’t have come at a more opportune time. He was low on cash and he needed the work. You might have thought that Liquida would be happy, but he wasn’t. His first response was caution.
Ordinarily he would have called the courier service and made arrangements to have the stuff in the box collected and delivered by giving them a temporary forwarding address, someplace where Liquida could move in and out quickly and safely.
But things were now much more complicated. The U.S. government had put a price on his head. Liquida had seen it earlier that morning, using one of the guest computers in the hotel lobby to check the FBI’s website. It was something he did on a frequent basis. It wasn’t there yesterday. But this morning he turned up, not on their most wanted fugitive list, but instead, on their terrorist site. There was no picture or sketch, at least not yet. But they were offering two million dollars for tips that would lead authorities to a man known only under the alias of “Muerte Liquida.” There was other information, some of it accurate and some of it not. That was the thing about government; they had a hard time getting things right. If Liquida could have figured a way to stay safe and collect on the reward, for that kind of money, he might have called in a tip or two himself.
Now he had to worry about Bruno. In
He worked the small cell phone, crushing and replacing SIM cards as he went, always keeping one eye on his watch. He rang up several message services, one in Spain, another in the States, one in Thailand, and a fourth one in Rio, in Brazil. He listened intently to his messages while he jotted down notes in a small pocket pad.
When he was finished, Liquida sat up straight, adjusted his dark glasses, and sipped a little of the mojito from the tall glass on the table in front of him. He set the glass down and slowly licked his lips, savoring the flavor of the rum as he studied the last entry in the small notepad.
It was a message from Bruno Croleva, a Chechen who in the last two years had risen in Liquida’s eyes to become his favorite rainmaker.
Business from Bruno had lifted him from the squalor of Tijuana and the limited possibilities of the cartels, where retirement usually came in the form of a bullet.
Bruno had connections with Islamic militants as well as other injured and angry ethnic and religious groups. These were people highly committed to killing their enemies, which at any given time might include half the world’s population, mostly Westerners.
The clients were well funded and paid far more than the chump change offered by the cartels. Prices of a good assassination in Mexico had been driven to rock bottom by an army of itchy-fingered teenagers possessing no proper sense of values. Best of all, the foot soldiers used by Bruno’s clients were willing to die for their beliefs. This was an extremely efficient arrangement. It left many fewer tongues to wag when the job was done. Liquida didn’t have to dirty his own blade arranging for the sounds of silence. These were his kinds of people.
According to the message, there was forty thousand euros in cash in a drop box belonging to Liquida, delivered there by Bruno’s courier as final payment for a job Liquida had completed several months earlier.
Liquida had almost forgotten about it. He had given up on the money, thinking he would never see it. He assumed that Bruno was angry with him and that he might never hear from the man again. The last two ventures had not gone well, though it was not for want of trying on Liquida’s part.
Bruno was now paying up. What’s more, according to the message, he was offering Liquida another job and dangling a very tempting commission. The details, along with the money, were in the drop box.
For Liquida the money couldn’t have come at a more opportune time. He was low on cash and he needed the work. You might have thought that Liquida would be happy, but he wasn’t. His first response was caution.
Ordinarily he would have called the courier service and made arrangements to have the stuff in the box collected and delivered by giving them a temporary forwarding address, someplace where Liquida could move in and out quickly and safely.
But things were now much more complicated. The U.S. government had put a price on his head. Liquida had seen it earlier that morning, using one of the guest computers in the hotel lobby to check the FBI’s website. It was something he did on a frequent basis. It wasn’t there yesterday. But this morning he turned up, not on their most wanted fugitive list, but instead, on their terrorist site. There was no picture or sketch, at least not yet. But they were offering two million dollars for tips that would lead authorities to a man known only under the alias of “Muerte Liquida.” There was other information, some of it accurate and some of it not. That was the thing about government; they had a hard time getting things right. If Liquida could have figured a way to stay safe and collect on the reward, for that kind of money, he might have called in a tip or two himself.
Now he had to worry about Bruno. In
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