Resurrecting Midnight (12 page)

Medianoche followed The Beast, went inside his apartment door.

His flat-screen television was on. A black-and-white movie. Humphrey Bogart. Mary Astor. Gladys George. Peter Lorre.
El Halcón Maltés
. Spanish for
The Maltese Falcon
.

A servant entered from the small kitchen in a hurry, like a waiter rushing to a customer at a five-star café. A young Greek man dressed in a butler’s uniform, English-cut tuxedo, and black bow tie. A young man who served and cleaned and cooked and took care of The Beast better than a personal concierge and a personal chef.

Draco Calamite Ganymedes. Draco was meticulous, head shaved bald, always dressed like a goddamn butler, always in a goddamn black tuxedo, face clean-shaven, not a flaw in sight.

He served drinks when The Beast was thirsty. Cooked when The Beast was hungry.

Medianoche never spoke to Draco. Never looked at him.

Draco took The Beast’s wet overcoat. Took his guns and placed them on a table. Then removed The Beast’s suit coat like he was taking the robe away from a king. If The Beast were KIA, the concubines and wives would mourn, but the servant would take the closest sidearm and, with a single bullet, follow his master into the great battlefield beyond the one that existed on this astral plane. The ultimate act of loyalty. The ultimate act of madness.

Medianoche didn’t enter beyond the rug at the door, kept his wet clothing on the mat.

The Beast’s apartment was meticulous, clean and up to military code, everything in place. The tiled floor sparkled. The swank apartment had walls as white as a museum and the luster of a world-class traveler. Flags, a half-dozen war trophies, awards, coins, DVDs on military training, books on military heroes, military magazines, warplanes, books on WWII, Civil War, Vietnam War. Cuban cigars. Stainless steel flask. Matching lighter. Weapons qualification badge.

The Beast asked, “Want to talk about Señorita Raven?”

“I can handle her.”

“
Una guerra de egos
.”

“My ego is fine. Not a war when one side can squash the other like a bug.”

“Let me know if you need me to put her in check.”

The Beast’s cellular rang. He looked at the number and took the call. The conversation lasted about ninety seconds before he hung up and faced Medianoche.

Medianoche nodded. “Let me get out of this wet uniform.”

“Señor Rodríguez will handle the disposal detail. Anything you need trashed or dry-cleaned, get it to him by morning.”

“Not Señorita Raven?”

“She has next detail.”

“She should have every detail. Women like her should clean up behind men like us.”

“She should. But she doesn’t.”

Medianoche nodded.

The Beast said, “I’ll pass the onerous task to the subordinates. That call I just received was about another contract. Mind going to meet with the client?”

“No problem.”

Medianoche remembered Señorita Raven’s words.

Whatever was in that briefcase was the key to millions. Maybe billons.

They were in the middle of pandemonium, and The Beast moved around his apartment at a stride that said he wasn’t worried. As if each step he took helped the world rotate, pushed what he didn’t want to see back behind him, brought what he needed closer.

He walked as if the world was his. Like he was Mussolini.

Medianoche asked The Beast, “Where will that kid hide that part of the package?”

“Somewhere in the
villa
. If we brought it here, we’d have another firefight within the next few hours. So I’ll let it sit in the
villa
for a day or two. Those people are insular. The moment a stranger sets foot in that area, everyone knows. That, soldier, is security.”

“The Russians, Jamaicans, Jews, Italians, and North Americans are after it.”

“They won’t go in there. They’d wait for it to leave, but they wouldn’t go in there.”

“We don’t go in there.”

The Beast chuckled. “And we’re some bad motherfuckers.”

“So it stays there until Hopkins arrives.”

“Or until I say otherwise.”

Medianoche nodded. “When Hopkins arrives, then what?”

“Then we exchange the package for the wire transfer.”

Medianoche understood. Had always understood.

The Beast said, “You never asked this many questions before.”

“I’m curious.”

“Why the curiosity, my friend?”

“Since that package is so valuable, have to make sure I’m doing what needs to be done.”

The Beast nodded. “You always do.”

“Lot of money. You could move back to the U.S. and buy up some nice real estate.”

“I can’t afford to be rich in America. Taxes too high. Winners have to pay for losers.”

Medianoche nodded.

The Beast looked at his watch. “Get to that next meeting.”

Medianoche left.

Capítulo 11

Medianoche sipped American coffee at a local café.

She was out there. He knew she was. He had been in this business too long.

Medianoche waited for her to show her hand, or show her gun.

She was 51-50. She had tried a 10-56. She was dishonorable. She was a slag.

On the stairwell, she had come from above him. It didn’t make sense.

His lower IQ and experience was better than her higher IQ and arrogance.

Books were only so good. Experience was where the rubber hit the floor.

He was killing before Señorita Raven was a sparkle in her father’s Indian eyes.

She didn’t belong down here. Not in The Four Horsemen. Not in the military.

Medianoche was at a small corner café near Avenida Honduras. La Peca. Cold place. Wooden tables. Tile floors.
Sólo efectivo.
Cash only. A café that was advertised as being clean of foreigners. Not on the door or on the tables, but in the local magazines. No two wooden tables were the same size or height. Antique lights and chairs hung from the ceiling. Nothing matched, yet it all went together. Even in the wee hours, the place was filled with people in their twenties, mostly couples, all touching and cuddled up as they shared food.

A sign over the counter said tequila cost six pesos. Tequila Cuervo was ten pesos.

Medianoche was alone, his Tres Marías at his apartment, waiting for his return.

He had on different clothing. Black turtleneck. Black Turpin shoes. Black leather bulletproof jacket. Different watch on his wrist, the limited edition Movado that was a tribute to Derek Jeter. Copies of
Diario Popular, La Nación, Buenos Aires Económico, Buenos Aires Herald, La Prensa, USA Today, Ámbito Financiero, International Herald Tribune, El País,
and
Clarín
at his table. His Peruvian waitress was a petite woman with dark hair and keen features. He ordered steak. She brought him chips and fresh guacamole as a starter. She left.

Medianoche sipped his coffee and thought about the briefcase.

He shook his head.

Fuck Hopkins and the package they’d retrieved for him.

Fuck how much money it was worth.

Fuck the thoughts Señorita Raven had put inside his head.

He read about what he cared about. Argentina.

The global economic crisis was killing Argentina’s soy, meat, corn, and wheat exports, had drained government assets of billions of dollars. President Fernández de Kirchner was barely at a 29-percent approval rating, as popular as the second President Bush in his waning days. Youth unemployment was high, the penal code had collapsed, and the police were inadequate. Crime was exploding. And the message from the government told the people to learn to take care of themselves, to stop sleepwalking on the streets and realize they were living in a jungle.

The government called their country a jungle.

Medianoche nodded. The world was a jungle, and we were all animals.

A minute later, a woman walked through the doorway. Alone. Her hair was gray, pulled back from her face. She was at least fifty. She was beautiful, in a Sophia Loren kind of way. Loren back in the 1940s. Nice shape. She wore jeans, flat shoes, and a simple overcoat. She carried an umbrella in one hand and a tattered backpack in the other. The backpack looked heavy. She moved like she could dance the tango, as if she could dance the tango well.

Medianoche made eye contact with the woman. She came to his table.

She said, “It’s a shame they let Madonna play Eva Perón in that movie. It was a disgrace to the country. We have many Argentine ac tresses who should have played that role.”

That was the proper code. He stood and she kissed his cheek as if they were old friends.

She took to a wooden chair. He sat back down.

Medianoche nodded. “Your English is impeccable, Señora.”

“Caprica Ortiz.”

“No names.”

“I want you to know my name. I am not afraid. I do not want to be invisible.”

“Okay. Señora Ortiz.”

“Caprica.”

“Okay. Caprica. Your English is better than that of the people in the United States.”

“I don’t muddle my words. My father told me to never muddle my words. Told me that when I spoke to someone, look in their eyes and speak clearly. If you muddle your words and cannot look a person in the eye, then they will not respect you. And if they muddle their words and cannot look you in your eye, you should not respect them. Without respect, there is no trust.”

“Wise man.”

She cleared her throat. “I was educated in Florida. FAMU. Earned my Ph.D. in England. I was a young woman when my father disappeared. He was a journalist. As am I. My father was kidnapped in 1979 and assassinated by the military dictatorship after he protested the junta and their crimes against humanity. They did to him what was done to writer Rodolfo Walsh.”

She looked around. Angry. Anxious. Definitely not afraid.

She stared at his scarred face. Comfortable. Not jarred by his roughness.

He said, “Would you like to have dinner?”

“
Gracias, pero no.
” She shook her head. “I have to get back home to my husband.”

He nodded, a twinge of disappointment in his expression.

She gave him a nervous smile. “Maybe if we ever met again.”

“Would you like a glass of wine?”

She paused, considered, then nodded.

Medianoche ordered a bottle of red wine. The waitress brought two glasses, poured wine in each, smiled, then walked away.

Medianoche sipped his wine.

Caprica did the same, then said, “Thank you.”

“
De nada
.” He nodded again. “Okay, Caprica. Tell me what you need from my organization.”

She reached inside her coat and took out a USB flash drive. She held it inside her hand, looked at it, turned it over and over a dozen times before she looked at Medianoche.

He nodded again. “Talk. If you have changed your mind, it’s fine.”

“I have not changed my mind. I just have a lot to say.”

“You have the floor.”

“There are about thirty thousand people who are lost or murdered, people who will never be able to speak for themselves, people who will never be able to see true justice. The poor never see justice. I want you to understand me. And know that I am here for justice. First, I must tell you about the most horrible period of my country’s history. When the military junta seized power in a coup from Isabelita Perón’s government.”

“The Dirty War.”

She nodded. “Started March 24, 1976, and ended on December 10, 1983.”

“The bloodiest dictatorship in Argentina’s history.”

“Videla. Viola. Galtieri. All evil. Anti-Semitic. Racist. Hated educators. Hated doctors. Hated lawyers. Hated well-educated people. Hunted students like animals. Tortured many people at the Navy Mechanical School. Feet from where the president sleeps. Every time I drive past Navy Mechanical School, part of me dies. Part of me screams out murder. They terrorized and murdered us, and now that place of terror and murder will become a museum. Places of death and horror should not become tourist attractions. They should be torn down.”

Medianoche nodded. “I agree.”

She said, “In its place should be a monument honoring the missing and dead. Every name should be on that monument. Mothers. Nuns. Activists. Journalists. Children were abducted, taken from their mother’s arms, babies stolen and given to other families as if it were nothing. I could say a lot about that time. When the generals thought they were gods.”

She paused, sipped her wine.

Medianoche sipped his wine, waited. He knew the story, knew their history.

Caprica said, “Thirty thousand people, dead or missing. Only forty-four people convicted. Many of those convicts are being held in military units that are like luxury estates. An insult to the thirty thousand that have vanished. Five hundred and twenty-six murderers are still yet to see their day in court. Close to two hundred have died since 1983. One hundred are still on the run. We can’t do anything about the ones on trial. The ones who might end up living in military luxury. Those animals don’t deserve human rights. But the one hundred. We can find them. One by one. I have found four. They walk the streets of this world, return to this country and walk across our bloodied soil as if they have never done anything wrong.”

“That is what this is about, I take it.”

“Our criminals. Our once powerful, our once arrogant, our once murderous. But of the ones who committed the crimes against thirty thousand, as I said, one hundred are on the run.”

“Okay.”

“And I have found four.”

“The men are here in this country.”

“Old and still alive, therefore they still must answer for their crimes against humanity.”

“You want these men captured and turned in to the authorities.”