Incitement (13 page)

The estate, like everything else in his life, was a tribute to hard work and a testament to his unspoken conviction that he was different. His spectacular successes had vindicated his
uncle’s patronage. Even more remarkable than his material wealth was the social position he had attained. He had arrived from Mexico seven years earlier, a virtual nobody. Today his circle of
friends included the most celebrated and powerful in California. The only restriction placed on him was the care he had to take not to be caught directly in the spotlight himself. Being the nephew
of Esteban Zaragosa, a man who dominated the Mexican drug scene, had definitely been a blessing but it brought with it certain limitations. He had been determined, though, that his observation of
these limitations would not mean spending all of his time skulking in an illicit world. Someone as special as he was should have a special life and, as he had proven to himself and others, when he
felt he should have something, nothing prevented him obtaining it.

When he had been forced to come to the States, his uncle had left him with no illusions of how important it was that he make the most of this chance. Esteban had no children of his own and as a
result doted on him. Growing up, Francisco had never had to recognise the boundaries of acceptable behaviour most people had to observe. When difficulties arose, they quickly disappeared once it
was made known whose nephew he was. When his striking good looks had matured as a young man, they had only accentuated his proclivity for trouble. Other young people from privileged backgrounds
gravitated towards his company and were willing to go to any lengths to win his favour. He revelled in the attention and did nothing to discourage them. It wasn’t long before the spoiled
group developed quite a reputation. They became fixtures around the exclusive haunts of Mexico City, a king and his court engaging in all night drinking sprees before finally collapsing into any
available bed.

Something was bound to happen, and it finally did one night at a packed nightclub. An off-duty policeman partying with his friends had inadvertently pushed into Francisco, causing the young man
to lash out angrily. The ensuing altercation had quickly degenerated into a melee between the two groups. One member of Francisco’s group, most likely as a result of his exhortations, got
carried away. A gun was produced and the policeman was shot dead. The entire incident had been captured on the nightclub’s closed circuit TV and the story ran in all the dailies the next day.
Editorials called for the guilty parties to face the same consequences as anyone else would have to. Esteban moved swiftly to protect his nephew. Within days no copies of the tape could be found,
the youth who had fired the shot had committed suicide and key figures in the police force had been mollified with some generous “donations”. The press was taught to keep their fervour
under check in the future as well. Two of the most outspoken editors were gunned down before the charges had even been dismissed.

When everything had died down, Francisco was summoned by Esteban and for the first time in his life subjected to his uncle’s anger. He sat through the long tirade during which the man, who
had never so much as raised his voice to him before, poured out his frustration at his nephew’s behaviour. It ended with Esteban telling him it was time for them to map out his future.
Despite the fact that the shooting seemed to have been resolved satisfactorily, he had decided that it would be better for everyone if Francisco started over somewhere new. Esteban told him that he
was going to take an enormous gamble. He had impressed on his nephew how a failure to validate his faith would have consequences for both of them.

It had been arranged for him to go to California and to work under Enrique Montoya. Montoya was an old man and one of Esteban’s most loyal allies in the cartel. Francisco stayed in the
background, assisting the old man in long-term planning, mostly learning but also offering the benefit of his fresh perspective. He was never involved in the day-to-day running of the business and
only interacted with a very limited number of key personnel. It did not take long, however, for him to make his mark. Voraciously reading books on a wide range of topics from marketing to terrorist
tactics, he realised he had a skill for gleaning what was relevant and applying it to the cartel’s situation. As a result of his suggestions, the sales of drugs to teens rocketed. Schools,
rock concerts, nightclubs and even youth clubs were all targeted with specific promotional drives. Attractive, exciting brand names were introduced, helping to build product loyalty. Every six or
nine months, they phased out products that were struggling and replaced them with new ones. Using a cell structure, they recruited their sales force exclusively from the ranks of the young and
attractive, a resource California had no shortage of. These recruits, encouraged by generous bonus incentives, built up their own teams in turn. This pattern repeated endlessly and resulted in the
market size growing and their share increasing exponentially. Occasional setbacks were easily handled as the recruitment mechanism ensured that key personnel were so far removed from the retail
transactions that they were unknown to the authorities.

Francisco also formulated strategies that allowed them to systematically out-flank the competition. Starting with their weakest competitors and working upwards, they concentrated on geographic
areas of strategic importance to their rivals and began flooding them with large amounts of highly subsidised drugs. They would pursue this to the point where only one outcome was possible. Lacking
the revenue to continue, the competition was forced to abandon the marketplace. Twice, when the process was taking longer than projected, he had advised sudden shows of force so savage in nature
that they had immediately resolved the matter. These displays had required not only the murder of specific individuals in the rival organisations but also the elimination of their entire families.
He had hated being forced to act so brutally and had derived no pleasure from the slaughter. Indeed, he had agonised long and hard before he had advised the second action. Subsequently he had tried
to ensure that others could recognise without his help when such a response was required.

In parallel with his advancement of the cartel’s business, he had set about his social advancement. Initially a stranger in town, it had not been long before his natural charisma, not to
mention his wealth and unlimited access to high-quality drugs, began to attract a new retinue. The constantly growing circle of friends included people from many walks of life, although close
inspection revealed a few common traits. First was their desire for his company; second, they were invariably either wealthy, attractive or both. No one with a tendency for violence or a history of
serious brushes with the law found a way in. He had learned well from his experience in Mexico. The cartel’s business satisfied any thirst for adventure that he might have and this other life
remained totally untouched by strife. In time the most exclusive sections of society opened up to him. Whether they were politicians, celebrities or even select members of the judiciary, he had
complete access. Between his plausible cover of property speculator, considered contributions to political campaigns and shunning of direct publicity, he avoided any unwelcome scrutiny.

As difficult and demanding as this double life was, he knew he needed both aspects for total fulfilment. When his uncle had recently suggested that he withdraw more from the cartel’s
dealings, he had rejected the idea. Nothing matched the thrill of outmanoeuvring rivals and operating beyond the sphere of the law. Perhaps in a few years his appetite for such dark excitement
would be sated, but not yet.

He stopped on his walk and took a moment to look around. It would be difficult to feel further away from the daily stresses. Unable to even see the house from this part of the path, it was as if
he had been transported to another place and time. In order to preserve this atmosphere, he had left strict instructions that no one, not security, not friends, no one but the trained staff who
tended the garden, were allowed to enter these areas. And so his surprise was all the greater when a figure emerged from the bushes and moved swiftly towards him. Surprise briefly gave way to
outrage and by the time fear surfaced, the black-clad interloper had closed the distance. The intruder struck him viciously, driving a fist up into his solar plexus, followed swiftly with a knee to
his groin. As Francisco fell, the attacker wrapped one of his arms tightly around his victim’s neck and prevented his pain-wracked body from crumpling to the ground. Francisco fought to
retain consciousness but the pressure of the hold combined with his own dead weight was too much and darkness overtook him.

Larsen bound Zaragosa’s hands and feet during the brief time he was unconscious. When the drug lord came to he immediately recognised his plight. He attempted to cry out
but the thick handkerchief that had been stuffed in his mouth muted his attempts. As the cry evaporated, Larsen saw something leave his captive’s frame.

Francisco began to murmur, the tone plain even if the words were not, all of his customary poise and style deserting him. His captor did not acknowledge the sounds and turned
to his backpack, taking out a small leather pouch. He tried to calm himself, thinking this must be a mistake, which was bound to be resolved. Looking down he realised he had lost control of his
bladder and the indignity added to the feeling of unfairness, causing his last shred of reserve to crumble. His assailant, distracted by the uncontrollable sobbing, stopped what he was doing for a
moment and looked him in the eye. Somewhere in the dark gaze, Francisco was certain he detected a trace of hesitancy.

Even with Larsen’s knowledge of Zaragosa’s history, the look of terror in his eyes combined with the knowledge of what lay in store for his captive were enough to
stir feelings of pity. He told himself that the Mexican deserved no sympathy, that he had never shown it to the legions whose lives he had ruined. In fact Zaragosa had displayed a heightened
ability to divorce himself from the pain of his actions. The incidence of teenage drug-dependency on the West Coast had risen over two hundred per cent since his arrival in California. Larsen had
decided something special was required at this juncture but, now that he was here, doubts rushed to the surface. The pharmacists had explained it in detail and their words had sent a chill through
him. The main ingredient induced a form of paranoia in the subject, causing him to enter an extreme state of withdrawal, losing any ability to trust what his body told him was happening. The second
constituent impaired most of the main motor skills, meaning even the simplest physical functions were beyond the victim. The combination effectively created a prisoner in his own body, which was in
turn imprisoned in a harsh, hostile world. The two experts had disagreed about its permanence but even the one who had argued its toxicological effects were reversible agreed it could take years.
By that stage, the subject would be so traumatised by the experience, it would be academic anyway.

The intruder took out a small jar and drew its contents up into a syringe, quickly flicking the hypodermic a few times to eliminate any air bubbles. Francisco began to plead
even more frantically for the ordeal to stop. Strong hands gripped his shirtsleeve and ripped it open. The tightness of the bonds had made his veins protrude and the needle went in immediately. He
watched the hypodermic being pressed and felt his reason desert him.

Larsen removed the needle, gathered his things and left quickly without another glance at the convulsing form.

Caesar Rodriguez waited for his guest in the massive drawing room. He believed the size of the room helped to increase the discomfort of his visitors. Not as much as the
reputation he cultivated for bouts of explosive rage but it was important to exploit every advantage. Tales of his legendary temper were well founded, but over the years exaggeration had crept in
and he had been quick to see the benefits. Even the best-prepared arguments from seasoned debaters could melt when faced with an enraged Rodriguez. Occasionally the outrage was genuine but most of
the time he was simply performing.

Today’s meeting, however, would be different. Unlike almost everyone else he dealt with, Esteban Zaragosa was immune to intimidation and held enough power to influence Rodriguez’s
future. Indeed, it was Zaragosa who was currently in need of careful handling. Rodriguez knew about the recent episode in California and was in no doubt as to what the subject for discussion would
be. He knew the next few minutes could take him a significant step closer to his dream. He reminded himself not to become overexcited; caution was the watchword. Esteban was a veteran, possessing
instincts honed over many years.

One of the men escorted the bull-like Zaragosa into the room and Rodriguez nodded for them to be left alone. The toll recent events had taken on the older man was clearly visible, even before he
had completely closed the distance between them. Zaragosa, known for his strong constitution and active lifestyle, looked tired and worn. He guessed Zaragosa’s demise was imminent, regardless
of anything agreed today. He embraced his guest then stepped back and looked at him sorrowfully.

“Esteban, I don’t have the words to express my grief, what kind of evil is this?”

This close, he caught the whiff of alcohol. Things were definitely unravelling, he thought. He motioned for Zaragosa to sit but the older man shook his head, so they both remained standing.

“You warned him!” Zaragosa said.

“Francisco?” he asked, knowing full well who Zaragosa had meant.

“No, that gutless bitch Madrigal. He waited so long to move against our enemies, and then acted so ineffectually. He encouraged them to believe they could get away with anything.”
The emotion carried in the words showed a fury barely held in check.

“Please, have a drink; it’ll settle you. It’s not good to be so agitated.” Rodriguez moved to the drinks cabinet, poured a generous glass and handed it to Zaragosa, who
had sunk into a chair.