Incitement (14 page)

“How is Francisco? I have only heard a little.” Rodriguez knew the details of Francisco’s condition intimately but the screw had to be turned.

“My fine, beautiful boy is no longer. He was a prince among men, a king, loved and adored by everyone. Now ...” Zaragosa’s eyes welled up, “we don’t even know if he
recognises us. Nothing intelligible comes from him. He has seizures constantly and has no control over his body. He shrinks from our every word or gesture.”

“Terrible! What have the doctors said?” he asked, dragging it out.

“Those fools, they’re useless. They can’t even say what’s wrong with him. Maybe he’ll recover within a month, maybe a year, perhaps more. I suspect they fear the
worst but are too weak to say it to my face.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter what they think anyway, they don’t know Francisco’s fortitude. He’ll
recover.”

Based on the reports he had heard Rodriguez doubted this.

“I know it’s a secondary consideration but there must be some retribution. Do we know anything about the attackers? Francisco’s men must have seen something?”

Zaragosa drained his glass and held it out to be refilled. “They saw nothing. I’ve spoken directly to them more than once. I told them, regardless of how difficult Francisco made it,
their first duty was to protect him at all times. I stressed this when the troubles began. Instead of doing their work, they grew soft, indulging themselves and taking advantage of
Francisco’s good nature. They’ve been dealt with.”

Zaragosa fixed him with a firm stare, providing a timely reminder not to let his guard slip and consign the old man to the scrap heap prematurely. He had heard of the brutal execution of
Francisco’s bodyguards.

“We must do something. The moment I heard of Francisco’s plight my heart cried out for justice. I’ve thought of little else but it’s difficult to know which course to
take.”

There it was, the perfect invitation for Zaragosa to speak his mind.

“You are absolutely correct. Something must be done and it’s something that has been crying out to be done for months. Not just because of poor Francisco but to redress the many
unpunished transgressions that have been committed against us. Madrigal has to be removed. He let this situation develop.” He put his hand up to stop Rodriguez’s protests.
“Believe me it’s necessary. I’ve already garnered significant support and if you’ll join us, the outcome is assured.”

“Oust Madrigal, are you sure this is the way? It’s well known we’ve had our differences but –”

Zaragosa reached forward, grasping his hands. “We don’t need him. He elevates the Colombians, belittling our contribution. With him out of the way, a fairer balance could be struck.
What are the Colombians when you get right down to it? A bunch of savages controlling some crops. It’s our distribution and trafficking that have been the real success.”

Rodriguez tried to look as if he was having difficulty digesting what he was hearing, as if he did not know where to begin. “Esteban, I see some truth in what you say but the fact remains
that the Colombians do control production, and without product everything else is irrelevant.”

“Don’t worry about control of production,” Zaragosa replied, becoming animated, his lethargy fading away. “I’ve talked to factions in Bolivia and Peru,
they’re ready to resume their former levels of production and they see us as a way of ensuring the Colombians don’t interfere. We would hold the power in that relationship.”

He had already known of Zaragosa’s approaches to these but he needed to be sure there was nothing else. “Esteban, your years of experience speak for themselves but are we risking a
two-fronted battle?” Rodriguez asked, trying to elicit greater detail. “In addition to the Kosovars, we’ll also have those loyal to Madrigal targeting us. Even if we could remove
Madrigal, won’t another Colombian emerge to fill the void? The successor won’t trust us. He’ll probably try to cut us out entirely.”

“No, that won’t happen. There’s no Colombian strong enough to step in. For all of his weaknesses, when it comes to organisational ability and personal leadership, Madrigal is
far superior to any of his compatriots,” Zaragosa reassured him. “With him out of the way, a group of evenly matched rivals with bitter histories will seek to gain control. We only need
to position ourselves to back a few key players I’ve already enlisted. The men I’ve picked have limited ambition, they’ll be only too happy to work with us.”

This only convinced Rodriguez more that he had decided on the correct course. Was Zaragosa’s mind so addled with age and grief that he thought Madrigal captained such a loose ship? No
doubt these “key players” had run scurrying back to him at the first opportunity.

“Madrigal’s security is exceptional. Are you sure we could succeed?”

“Never underestimate a man’s greed or overestimate his loyalty. I know Madrigal’s planned movements and he’ll provide us with our opportunity in the next couple of weeks.
Final preparations for the hit are being made now.”

This was the first piece of news that surprised Rodriguez. Not the absurd notion that Zaragosa had co-opted people close to Madrigal but that he had moved so quickly. It showed the deficiencies
in Rodriguez’s sources.

“How can I help? You seem to have thought of everything, what’s left for me?”

“I’d never have approached you this directly if I had not known you shared my feelings about him. I’ve no need for direct action from you. I want only two things. The first is
your endorsement.”

“You have it. I can’t think of a better future than you assuming control. What else?”

“I’m not a young man and I have no successor, not anymore. I’ll need your strong support and for you, over time, to take the reins.”

“I can’t say how proud this makes me. Of course I’ll agree to help in any way I can, but if this meeting has proven anything, it’s that you’re far from
retirement.”

Zaragosa shook his head. “No Caesar, today’s business represents my final effort. Francisco’s plight has left me with little appetite to continue. I’m only undertaking
this because there must be consequences for my nephew’s condition. I feel as if everything I’ve striven for was worthless and each day takes its toll.”

With that, he got to his feet, drained his drink and started towards the door. On the way, Rodriguez gripped his elbow lightly and gently guided him out.

Left alone, he wondered if he should feel guilty about what he was going to do. Zaragosa seemed sincere in his desire to have him as a successor. The simple fact of the matter, though, was that
he could not afford for Zaragosa’s gambit to upset his own plans. Better for the moment to remain loyal to Madrigal. He had no doubt that the Colombian knew of today’s meeting. If he
did not contact Madrigal, it would be interpreted as a hostile move.

There might be a silver lining to this development. He would warn Madrigal of what the Colombian already knew and in the process he might gain some kudos. In any case, even if Madrigal
recognised the self-interest of the warning, there was no one else he could choose to take over Zaragosa’s operations in Mexico and California. Only Rodriguez had the personnel and resources
to keep the money rolling in. The larger strategy was still on course but, if it went awry, at least he had positioned himself optimally. No matter what happened, his time was coming.

Despite the coldness of the room, Larsen, clothed only in a thin T-shirt and loose cotton trousers, moved easily. Back and forward across the large workout mat, he performed
sequence after sequence of strikes and holds. He knew the benefits physical exertion could bring to a troubled mind and he searched for these now. Earlier, he had worked through a long set of floor
exercises for the better part of two hours. Sweat poured to the floor as he pushed himself harder and harder. Still the uncertainties lingered.

There had been a time when doubt would not have existed. Not that he had always been convinced of the righteousness of his actions; hardly. Issues of right and wrong had just never entered the
equation. He could not identify the exact moment when that had changed, or the cause for that matter. It could not be ascribed to a religious conversion; he had started life as an atheist and
nothing the world offered had shaken these convictions. He was not in the least sentimental, conventions and traditions that were of great importance to others had made little impression on
him.

Ready to commence, he gestured to the instructor who exploded from his corner of the hall, hurling himself at the client who had paid handsomely for this session. Closing the distance rapidly,
the larger attacker launched a series of low kicks and foot swipes which forced him to the edge of the mat. With nowhere left to retreat, Larsen was forced to step inside in an attempt to smother
the attacks. The instructor kneed him to the top of his right leg, deadening the limb, and sought to follow it up with an elbow to the temple. Managing to duck under this second strike just in
time, Larsen grabbed the instructor around the neck and tried to trip him to the floor, the intention being to use their combined bodyweight to wind his opponent. He found himself turned
effortlessly and thrown back across the mat. Having gauged his strength and found it wanting, the instructor launched another, stronger attack.

All through military service, the mission had been sacrosanct. You did not question orders, you obeyed them. You belonged to something and you gave back to this thing that succoured you.
Excelling in your duty made you ... what? Useful? Worthwhile? He had known the answer once. Later, selling his skills to the highest bidder, there was less sureness but still there was the mission.
He no longer gave allegiance to unit, army or country and was despised by those comrades who were once closest, but the mission endured. Finally, interest from different quarters, proposals of a
different kind. Assassinations, kidnappings, blackmail; it didn’t matter, as long as there was an objective to achieve. The descent continued – questionable causes, glimpses of curious
allegiances and, always, innocent suffering. Then, finally, the doubts began to undermine the tenets of a lifetime. Things he thought to be immutable were thrown into question.

This time the instructor feinted with a kick to his knee. When Larsen took the feint and moved to the left, his opponent was ready. His T-shirt was gripped and he was pulled on to a powerful
right elbow which struck his cheekbone. He felt himself sag and, as his head swam, he realised a chokehold was being attempted, which would settle the encounter. Letting himself go, he relaxed
totally and the sudden looseness of his frame allowed him to slip from the instructor’s grasp. He staggered backward.

It had gotten so bad that he had abandoned a crucial assignment before completion, not caring to consider the consequences. Word of his actions filtered out and his reputation suffered. He had
gained nothing from his action, in fact he had been lucky to escape with his life. At that point, he had decided to take himself off the board, at least temporarily, before someone else took the
decision.

He had to go on the offensive despite his rapidly dwindling resources and his opponent’s indefatigable zeal for combat. He stepped in and threw a knee intended only to distract. When the
instructor stepped back a half step to avoid the blow he attempted an eye-gouge. His strike was easily evaded and his wrist caught in a powerful grip. He felt his bodyweight being turned back
around the outstretched hand and pressure applied to the back of his shoulder forcing him to the ground.

During his sabbatical he pondered his actions. Was it attrition? Had he burnt out, lost his edge or had he been infected by some other malaise? Notions of morality? He wasn’t sure he
wanted to know the answers. Then he had been offered this assignment. He researched those behind it meticulously. All of the normal criteria were there: commitment, ability to pay, exploitable
weaknesses to dissuade treachery. But there was something more to this. An opportunity. The more he looked at the proposal and its goals, the more he realised how much he needed it.

Just before his face struck the mat, he managed to tuck his head and roll forward. Grabbing hold of the instructor’s tunic with his free hand, he used the momentum to pull the opponent
down. He scrambled to apply a chokehold before a defence could be mounted. Whatever he tried was countered, and as hold after hold was defeated, it took a much greater toll on him than the larger
man. He could not break free from the grip on his right wrist and constant movement was necessary to prevent it surrendering a conclusive advantage. Eventually a chop aimed at the
instructor’s chest was deflected to strike under the arm and broke the grip. As he rolled backward to his feet, battling for his breath now, the opponent bounced up and, with a confident
grin, came on once more.

A series of operations. Their brutality calculated by him, seen as vital to achieve the goal, not at all wanton. Each step of the way,
he
had decided what was necessary to progress the
conflict and had seen to it personally. But as events had progressed, his actions began to sit less easily. The latest of these had been the attack on the young Mexican, Zaragosa. There could be no
doubt of the suffering Zaragosa had caused and that he deserved little sympathy. The drug lord should have been aware that there might be consequences for his choice of life. Why then, did he keep
coming back to those final moments before the injection? Did Zaragosa warrant this degree of soul-searching? In Larsen’s mind, the Mexican’s worst offence had been his ability to
disassociate himself from his actions. If Larsen couldn’t examine his own actions, he would be guilty of the same transgression. The fact that this scrutiny brought so many doubts was
immaterial.

He was tiring quickly now, blows rained down. Kicks and knees to his legs, elbows and palm strikes to his body. The room was beginning to swim. The instructor grabbed his T-shirt, ignoring his
feeble attempts at counters and lashed out with a head-butt. Just in time, he pulled his head back and avoided the brunt of the blow. Despite this, his cheekbone, which had been struck earlier,
cried out from the impact. He tried to break free but his remaining strength was ineffectual. Knees from his opponent bombarded him, striking his upper legs as he twisted to block against a
decisive groin strike. There was no way he could escape from the grip, he had no option but to surrender to it. Let it happen; some pain and then it would be over. Larsen stopped struggling, as he
knew he must.