Mercy Killing (Affairs of State Book 1) (7 page)

But then, the usual troubling question returned, and dragged him down:

Why, in God’s name, am I risking all of this?

Rancho Hidalgo was arguably the most famous of all of the working cattle ranches on the central Mexican plateau. It sprawled across more than two hundred thousand acres north of Mexico City, in the basin of a lush river valley between the snow-peaked Sierra Madre mountain ranges. The ranch was named for Father Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla, Sebastian’s father’s great-great-grand-uncle.

In 1810 the priest gathered supporters from among the
mestizo
and native Indian tribes and started the great War of Independence. Six months later the Spanish captured, shot then beheaded the priest. They impaled his head on a pike, along with those of three of his lieutenants, and mounted them in a row on a granary wall to warn others of the fate of revolutionaries.

Strangely, this had the opposite effect the priest’s murderers had intended. Now the revolution had its first martyr. Men leaped from behind every rock and cactus to join the fight against Spain. Mexico’s political independence was hard won. Many good men lost their lives. But, in the view of many of Sebastian’s countrymen, the battle still wasn’t over. Sebastian agreed. He felt the weight of history resting on his shoulders every day.

How would future generations view him—a
mestizo
whose blood was a cocktail of Spanish, North American, Yaquis and Tarahumara Indian? He was also one of the wealthiest men in his country. Would they remember him as a visionary, a patriot . . . or perhaps a common criminal?

The muscles of his horse’s powerful haunches shifted in a steady rhythm beneath his thighs. Hermanito followed the narrow, rocky trail north. It skirted a winding, sweet-water river. It was summer, the rainy season, and the river ran clear, lush, splashing noisily—music to Sebastian’s ears. Water. Sun. Life. He looked up at the sky, so blue it took the breath away.

They could depend upon a clear morning before the sweltering heat built and afternoon storms rushed down the valley. The smell of dew-damp grass and flowering yucca filled Sebastian’s nostrils. The potent tang of cattle dung, dusty hides, sun-baked red earth rose up from the valley floor where his herds grazed.

He bent down and whispered in the horse’s ear. “You have missed this, My Brother. So have I.”

After another hour he spotted a crew of his vaqueros guiding a herd back toward the ranch. Today they would inoculate the animals for disease. He kept his herds scrupulously healthy. Never had illnesses—like
Bovine spongiform encephalopathy,
“mad cow disease”—been traced back to his cattle.

Next week they would begin the breeding process to bring the heifers into heat. And after that the calving would begin. He looked forward to the sweet breath of the new calves as they nuzzled him. New life. Hope for the future.

Meanwhile, other cattle with the prized Hidalgo bloodline would be shipped north to buyers in Chicago, St. Louis, and Los Angeles. His animals had been interbred by his grandfather, taking the best qualities of three famous breeds. The
Barrenda
, a piebald black-and-white animal. The ancient
Ganado Prieto
, known in Spain as a brave fighting bull. And the
Retinto
, a brick-brown meaty creature. These days no beef in the world brought a higher price than his.

Sebastian checked in with his lead vaquero. They conversed briefly then he took off again, letting the horse find its own pace through the torch pine, drought-twisted junipers, and scrub. Until fifty years ago, the native population still followed the ancient ways. They moved their households to the cool caves in the higher elevations during the blazing hot rainy season. Moved back down into the shelter of the warmer valley during the winter. But the Hidalgos had built a fort-like hacienda at the foot of the hills nearly three hundred years ago. Its three-foot-thick walls kept them warm in winter, cool in the summer, making the traditional pilgrimage unnecessary. Neither war nor drought nor flood had driven them from their home.

You are throwing it all away!
the voices of his forefathers warned.

“No,” he whispered, feeling sad but no less determined, “I am doing what must be done to survive.”

Turning again, he rode toward the distant hollow between the mountains, as inviting as the succulent dip between a woman’s breasts. He smiled, mildly aroused by the image. As so often happened, one image triggered another. He thought of the American diplomat’s wife, Signora Mercy Davis. Of the provocative gown she’d worn at the Washington reception. He recalled the flush of her breasts above the plunging neckline as she rushed past him, out of the gallery, presumably to return to her husband.

Sebastian had learned to read the emotions of the creatures under his care. He understood their fears—what was likely to spook them and when they were on the verge of taking flight. A vaquero was one with his herd. A good rider could control 250 head on his own, never letting them wander or stampede. Because of this his animals trusted him to protect them. Humans were harder to judge. Harder to control.

The woman, she had not trusted him to help her.

He smiled now, acknowledging that this was probably wise on her part. If she knew him at all, it was by his reputation, which was black enough to send any female of good character scurrying.

But the scene he had stumbled upon that night in the old embassy's gallery still bothered him. He had recognized Lucius Clay. And where Clay went, trouble inevitably followed.

Curious about the American agent's association with the new consul’s wife, Sebastian had located the Davises’ Georgetown home. He spent a little time in the neighborhood, happened to see her leaving the house one day and followed her. Luck had been with him. He witnessed her meeting Clay a second time, down by the Potomac embankment.

Months earlier, word had come to him that an American, possibly a government agent might interfere with Sebastian’s current plans. Clay had been seen in Mexico City. Later, he was spotted in several of the violent border towns: Nuevo Laredo and Ciudad Juarez. Rumor said the man was unpredictable, treacherous. One of Sebastian’s most reliable snitches claimed the American worked for the Central Intelligence Agency. He hadn’t yet verified that, yet.

Regardless of who Clay worked for, if anyone, Sebastian thought it odd that a woman of Mrs. Davis’s pristine reputation would agree to meet with such a man. Was Clay attempting to recruit her for the CIA? Had they worked together before in some way? Or did they have a history of a different sort entirely? A personal relationship. That was the hardest of all to believe.

No matter. He should learn more about her. And that prospect brightened his mood considerably. Any excuse for getting close to a beautiful woman was a good one.

By the time Hermanito carried him back through the hacienda’s main gate and into the vast working yard, his ranch hands were well into their day’s tasks. The lowest in the echelon of his employees, and therefore the newest hires, made sure they looked particularly busy. Even, he suspected, if they’d finished their assigned duties. He noticed two of them casting him wary glances.
Good
, he thought. He wanted his men to worry what might happen to them if they crossed Sebastian Hidalgo.

Luis, his foreman, approached him as soon as a stable boy took Hermanito away to his stall.

“Have you heard from the drivers?” Sebastian asked.

Along the highways between Mexico City and the Texas border violent gangs prowled. This year, the ranch had already lost one truckload of valuable beef to hijackers. Sebastian’s foreman was now under orders to keep constant radio contact with every vehicle until it had safely crossed the border. An armed guard accompanied each cattle van.

“Si, Don Sebastian,” Luis said. “They are just north of Monterrey.”

Sebastian nodded, pleased. “They're making good time.”

“Ah, but I won’t rest easy until…”

Reassured, Sebastian let his attention drift. He focused on a new-hire he didn’t recognize, loitering in the shade between grain sheds. The man tugged his hat down low and looked away. The local police had planted spies before. Sebastian got rid of them before they interfered.

“That thin fellow over there,” Sebastian interrupted his foreman’s litany of worries. “What do you know of him?”

“He’s my nephew, Chico. You remember, I spoke about him to you, last week. The boy needed a job. My sister worries about him. I thought I could keep an eye on him here. He has had some trouble with the police in the city,” Luis admitted, “but he’s a hard worker.”

Sebastian nodded, satisfied for the time being. “When does the next shipment leave?”

The old man looked up at him through the same filmy yellow eyes Sebastian recalled with fondness from his youth. “Today and tomorrow we prepare the cattle. By tomorrow night the trucks should be loaded.” 

Sebastian nodded. “You will call me when it's time for them to leave?”

“It may be late.”

“I want to inspect the cargo just before the compartments are sealed.”

Luis shrugged. “As you wish, but cattle are cattle.”

“Just do as I say,” Sebastian snapped then immediately softened his tone. Luis had been with the ranch longer than Sebastian had been alive. Respect was due. “Please, old man. And leave extra space.”

“
Si
, Don Sebastian.” Did he imagine the old man’s frown as he walked away? It wasn’t as if they hadn’t made similar arrangements before. For additional cargo.

An urgency prickled Sebastian now. If all worked as he hoped, within a few weeks he would see his reward for years of meticulous planning. But only if the police and the Americans didn’t get in his way. If that happened—well, he hated to consider the consequences.

7

Peter Davis broke out his laptop from the overhead compartment, as soon as the
Aeromexico
flight attendant gave permission for the use of electronic devises. No small talk with his wife sitting beside him. No excited sharing of dreams like they used to do. He disappeared into his hard drive.

Rather than feeling offended, Mercy donned her Bose headphones and savored the serenity of noise-reduction stereo. Sibelius’ Violin Concerto in D Minor backed by the distant grumble of jet engine. Sheer bliss.

This was the first time in weeks she’d been able to sit in one place and do absolutely nothing. Ah, the joy of laziness! A rare experience in her frenetic life. She’d survived the madness of overseeing the shipping of items they’d need in Mexico, storing those they didn’t, and Goodwilling furniture and clothing they’d likely never use again. Through it all she labored beneath a sooty cloud of worry over two of the things most dear to her: her mother and her marriage.

Days earlier she'd asked Peter if he had followed up on his promise to look into her mother’s whereabouts.

“I’m taking care of it,” he assured her before re-burying his head in paperwork.

After another week with no word from the State Department, or any other government entity, her anxiety had doubled.

She decided, as a back-up plan, to apply for a Ukrainian visa, despite the Senator’s warning. What did it matter if she didn’t know that language or her way around the country? That was what translators and guides were for. But that still didn’t solve the problem of where to start looking for her mother. Lucius Clay had the power to help her there. At least, he claimed he did.

By working with him, she’d also serve a humanitarian cause and help stop a dreadful form of abuse. He’d repay her by feeding her information through his international contacts. If there was no other way, it seemed a fair tradeoff.

Before she’d left D.C., they met a third time. He gave her a list of names—people he encouraged her to include in social situations once she was settled in Mexico City. Suspects, she assumed. Mercy took out her notes while she waited in the airport lounge for their flight, and memorized each of their names. Then she used much of the flight to plan her strategy.

She would begin by hosting a series of parties. At each event she’d invite one or more people from
The List
. An invitation, once accepted, obligated her guests—at least in theory—to return the favor of hosting her and Peter at their events, thus establishing a social bond and enlarging her social network.

Once in the home of a suspect she would watch and listen and poke around for evidence of involvement in human trafficking. She wasn’t yet sure what that might be—overheard conversations, maybe even letters or financial records,. Perhaps she’d discover illegal workers among the household staff. Would she recognize valuable information if she stumbled over it? Clay had encouraged her to believe she would.

In addition, he explained, that although most of the names on his list were male, she could use the man’s wife or girlfriend as an entrée. Women joined gyms, spas, clubs, committees to support the fine arts and charities. She would join too. Mercy drew up her first three guest lists, and then moved on to compile sample menus for discussion with a caterer.

By the time their plane landed at
El Aeropuerto Benito Juarez
, Mercy and Peter had exchanged fewer than a dozen words, but she felt well organized for her mission. They were met by a car and driver sent by the embassy. The trip into the city took forty-five minutes, time enough for her to absorb the sprawling, sun-bleached city with its network of highways and modern architecture. Located on
Paseo de la Reforma
, the American embassy was a six-story building tucked behind a perimeter security fence. It seemed a bland if functional, 1960’s-style government building. Far less interesting than other nearby structures.