Blood of the Assassin - By Russell Blake Page 0,54
waterfront, such as it was – a sad string of thatched-roof open air restaurants and some of the most squalid looking hotels Rauschenbach had seen outside of Africa. The truck eased to a stop in front of one of the most unlikely structures, whose weathered sign proclaimed it to be the Hotel/Restaurant Submarino, and the young man, who hadn’t spoken six words since they’d left Guatemala City, pointed to the building.
“Take a room there, wait until night, and at ten, as the restaurant is closing, be outside. Someone will pick you up and take you to the boat. You’ll go up the coast and meet the Mexican ship in open water, and before you know it you’ll be back onshore, this time in Mexico.”
Rauschenbach nodded, then climbed out of the cab and retrieved his rod case and reels before making his way into the ramshackle lobby. He rang the countertop bell and paid for a room as the truck pulled away, belching oily exhaust as it retraced its route out of town, the driver eager to get back to the city before dark. The clerk was an ancient woman with a face that spoke of a lifetime of drudgery, and she took his money without interest before pushing a worn brass key across the wooden counter as she croaked out a room number, a single stubby finger pointed at the ceiling.
He trudged up two flights of creaky stairs, toting his luggage without any offer of help from the cheerful staff, and when he opened the room door he left it wide for a few minutes so the pungent odor of disinfectant and mildew could blow off. After a dubious look around the small quarters he set his luggage on the bed and weighed his need to get some food into his stomach against the non-existent hotel security. He eventually decided to take his carry-on with him, and after locking the corroding deadbolt, descended to the ground floor and walked thirty yards down the beach to the nearest restaurant, from where he would be able to keep an eye on his room while he ate.
The fish was fresh and delicious, and after a relaxed meal, watching the surf roll gently onto the beach, children running, screaming along the sand, peals of laughter marking their delighted passage as an indifferent flock of gulls wheeled languorously over the water, he ordered a second bottle of the excellent local beer and considered his upcoming job. Once in Mexico City he would need to buy some specialized equipment he hadn’t felt comfortable trying to transport from Spain, and he wanted to verify that his preliminary choice of locations for the assassination was viable. The job had been contracted on relatively short notice – much shorter than he would have preferred – but he was confident that if the Chinese leader could be killed, he would do so. It was all a question of timing and method, nothing more. No matter how exalted or insulated a target might be, there was always a way.
Satiated and tired, he returned to his room and set his phone alarm to wake him at nine forty-five. He would skip dinner and make up for the sleep he had lost traveling, then be ready for whatever was thrown at him that night. The bed was only slightly better than sleeping on the hood of a car, but at least it was quiet, and the breeze from the ocean cooled the air that wafted through the barred open window of his room. He was asleep in minutes, and slept soundly until the screeching of the alarm jarred him awake.
The night was inky black, any stars obscured by a coastal marine layer, and he had to pay close attention to keep from tumbling down the unlit stairs as he carried his bags to the road. When he rounded the building’s corner, he came face to face with a figure in a green hoodie, smoking a cigarette. The man looked him up and down, flicked the butt into a nearby puddle of black liquid, and turned towards the ocean.
“Come on,” the man said gruffly, and Rauschenbach accompanied him down the beach.
Soon they were at a pier that jutted into the darkness, and they traversed three quarters of the length before the man abruptly stopped and pointed to the railing.
“There.”
They moved to the pier’s edge. Rauschenbach glanced over and saw the faint outline of an open skiff bobbling in the water, a single outboard motor