Act II: The Traffickers

Chapter Seven

Ciudad Juarez

In all Luis Contadona’s thirty-two years he couldn’t remember anything like it. A carpet of snow was thrown across the usually dusty main street, as though the sun had given up on Mexico. From the window of the El Paso del Norte restaurant Luis watched as a beggar struggled to maintain a small fire against the swirling bitter wind, fabric thrown across his shoulders as a makeshift tent. The falling snow had turned to icy rain and a dark day into darker night as Luis had been watching. He was now even less keen to brave the elements on the way back to his hotel. He thought of his brother, Alfredo, and knew he would be awaiting his call. The satellite phone was in Luis’ room and, although he was tempted to use his mobile, it wouldn’t be safe.

Just as a swirl of starlight was fanned into the air by the vagrant, the lights in the restaurant went out. Waiters flickered in and out of a single candle’s aura as they struggled to light more. One waitress cursed the power company then checked and apologised obsequiously to Luis. He waved her aside and threw a small pile of Pesos onto the table. Luis gestured to the minder standing in the shadows behind him, who had been carefully folding and pocketing his sunglasses.

Luis pushed through the wind as he crossed the road, using the smudge of light on a horizon marked by the rough outline of shacks, power lines and concrete apartment blocks as his compass. He could already feel the cold and damp forcing its way through his thin shirt and jacket. Luis remembered the boss of the power company pleading with him to leave something for contingencies, as he had handed over his protection money. In a sudden epiphany Luis realised what he had been talking about. He drew more cash from a pocket and thrust it almost angrily into the out-stretched hand of the pleading pauper. A little further up the sidewalk he reached the crest of a ridge. Across the Rio Grande the modern city of El Paso shone back at him in gleaming accusation. Across his own town of Ciudad Juarez he could sense the many families huddled against the cold and had to fight hard to dismiss the realisation that their situations were partly his fault. Something made him turn around and look back down the street. Only the beggar was visible, his features a tableau up-lit by firelight. At a distance, he looked like a traditional native priest. As Luis peered more closely he could see the old man feeding his offering to the flames: one bank note after the other flaring briefly and rocking upwards into the dark sky. For some reason Luis wasn’t just shocked, he was scared. Turning again, he gestured brusquely to his minder, thrust his hands deeper into his pockets and hurried on.

Hotel Catalina was large, bland and pink. Without lights its looming shadow looked ghostly and ephemeral, as though it might change shape and slip away into the night at any moment. Two doormen huddled in the drive-up front porch, struggling to light cigarettes in the dark and the bitter wind. With a call from Luis’ hulking shadow they snapped to attention, a beam of torchlight seeking out the approaching figures.

“Get that light out of my face,” growled Luis and the beam fell to the ground in front of him, illuminating an uninviting mixture of slush and puddles. Water had penetrated his crocodile skin shoes and he could feel it running between his toes as he clenched them together in an effort to keep from slipping.

“I want the car here in thirty minutes. Both of you go. Check the underside thoroughly then make sure it is clean. I don’t want any surprises if we get searched. Silvio, you take over out here. I’m going upstairs to make a call. As soon as the car arrives, sort the check-out. Make sure the manager gets his usual tip.”

Luis pushed his way into the lobby, pulled off his shoes and socks, held them up to inspect the damage, cursed as water ran down his arm and threw them in disgust towards a frightened looking concierge. He padded bare-footed past the front desk and into an elevator. He glowered at his reflection in the mirror. Droplets of water glistened back at him from his full eyebrows and moustache, and a few more crowned the high forehead beneath his rapidly thinning and receding hairline. His face was an incongruous mix of too much hair and too little. He moved closer to inspect the deep diagonal cut that ran from one side of his nose to bisect his right cheek. It still looked ugly and, although he knew there would be times when such a look would be useful, tonight was not one of them. He cursed again. He had waited three hours in a poor restaurant in the old part of town for a client who hadn’t shown up. Now he would probably need to wake his brother to make his call.

Luis pulled a damp, folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket and carefully peeled back layer after layer. He was still trying to shake the paper dry as he reached his room on the top floor. He began to relax as the deep pile of a luxurious rug forced its way between his frozen toes. He placed the battered sheet under a bedside light and scanned the somewhat smeared list of US identity card-forging paraphernalia it revealed. What worried him was that these items were sat in the hotel back office, when he’d promised the manager they would soon be gone. More than this, however, was his frustration at not being able to pass on the computer disk that still sat in his other jacket pocket. The counter-fitting software it contained had cost his family a lot of time and trouble to obtain. Tonight was meant to be the first sale. The client, from another local crime family, had been offered a hefty discount.

Luis slid the disk into a briefcase beneath his bed, shook off his clothes and headed for the shower. As the heat spread down his neck and out from the small of his back he thought of his younger brother, Alfredo, who was holed up in a different hotel. Still only twenty-seven he had grown up at a time when violence was treated as a rite of passage in families like his own. Luis had spent several years clearing up after him, encouraging him to be more careful and protecting him from the enemies he regularly acquired, sometimes from within his own organisation. He wanted him to be more subtle and more business-like. Now he wondered whether his brother’s approach wasn’t the more effective. The global financial crisis had rewritten the rules of engagement. Border officials could no longer be relied on to turn a blind eye or to take a bribe, local banks were beginning to ask questions about who was opening an account and where the money was coming from, and the Mexican Government was pursuing members of his own and other crime families for everything from tax-evasion to breaking local planning laws.

The Contadona clan had for many years been all-powerful and also, to the casual eye, respectable. They controlled several factories in the Maquiladora belt of small industrial towns clustered around Juarez. Luis loved the factories. Ever since he could walk he had been a regular visitor, running up and down the assembly lines, later fascinated to work out each stage of production of whatever was being assembled for the US market at the time. There were also garment workshops where he would be teased by the girls at their sewing machines, his presence a welcome distraction from long days of sweat and ravaged fingers. For a brief period in his early twenties he had taken control of a new facility assembling mobile phones. He immersed himself in all aspects of the role and was widely regarded as a fair and competent boss. Soon, even though people were wary of his family connections, many would approach him with their personal issues. Luis found he had a skill for putting people at their ease, a skill he had misused many times since. His workers were from all over Mexico and some from further afield: Guatemala, Honduras, Nicaragua and El Salvador. Most were from rural backgrounds, used to long-hours in the fields for little reward, and grateful for the opportunity of a regular income and maybe, with enough experience, the chance to transfer their skills to a similar operation on the other side of the US border.

Luis pulled a fresh suit and pair of shoes from the long line of similar items in the wardrobe. The room was his, although he rarely actually slept there. He felt for the zip bag on the shelf above his clothes which contained the satellite phone, redressed hurriedly then strode purposefully onto the balcony to make his call. It proved hard to get a signal, so it was only after several minutes pirouetting around, adjusting the antenna and holding the phone in various positions that he was able to punch in the numbers. Nobody answered. Several floors below, Luis could see his black Limo and his two associates leaning over the bonnet, talking. The rain had ceased and the pale glow of clearer skies was spreading slowly from the north. The line crackled.

“...Hello?”

“Alfredo?”

“Si.”

“Como estas?”

“Luis? How are you brother?”

“You should’ve been awake.” Luis slapped impatiently at the safety rail with his free hand. “I told you to wait for my call.”

“Luis, it is 5am. I waited until 3. You said you would call earlier.”

“Business,” said Luis. The word had a hundred meanings, none of which were to be questioned.

There was a long pause. Luis waited. He could hear Alfredo talking to someone, who protested at being asked to leave. A woman: just another casual pick-up, he presumed, although Luis was always wary of what his younger brother might share during such liaisons. Alfredo was surprisingly mild-mannered around women; his mother’s legacy, Luis supposed. But he also knew this made him careless.

“Luis?”

“Si.”

“It’s OK, the transaction has been completed.” The serious phrasing sounded so unlike Alfredo that Luis wanted to laugh, but he restrained himself as he knew his brother was trying hard to stick to the agreed script.

“...and the bicycles?”

“The quality is good and they can handle the volume. There is a warehouse next to the harbour in a town called Portsmouth. Everything looks clean and efficient. You’d like the bikes, Luis. They look really fast, really pretty.”

Luis ignored his brother’s tendency for sentimentality. “What about London?”

“I met our contact. He told me the bank has been co-operative. There shouldn’t be any trouble securing our investment. I’ve made the first withdrawal.”

Luis smiled. Alfredo must have done well. He nearly lapsed into familiarity - thought about making a joke - then checked as he remembered it was a business call.

“Thank you, brother. I’ll see you soon,” he concluded formally.

That night and through the next day Luis fought hard to ignore that in Ciudad Juarez normal life had ground to a halt. Schools and factories remained closed due to the cold, a lack of power, or both. The poor left their squats and self-built homes and headed for government shelters. All over town similar domestic dramas were repeated. Residents fought the snow, the wind and the freezing rain in vain. Then they secured their properties and scant possessions as best they could, wrapped the young, the old and the sick in thick blankets, and joined the slithering lines of huddled families snaking their way into the gloom. Water pipes froze or burst open. Sheet ice stopped the buses and closed the airport. The familiar sight of burned out cars abandoned as part of the detritus of civil war was replaced by contorted vehicles wrapped around road signs at the bottom of every other slippery slope.

Chapter Eight

London

Alfredo stared from his hotel bedroom onto another mute London morning. He sniffed and fumbled for a handkerchief in each pocket of his robe. England had given him a mission and a cold and he wasn’t keen on either. He cursed Luis, his brother, for being so sensible: he’d been able to find no counter-argument as the strategy was carefully outlined to him. New business needed taking care of in Europe and a family member was required to demonstrate commitment to the deal. Alfredo must lie low and couldn’t rely on the usual network of associates across Mexico to keep him safe.

Alfredo began to replay the events that had led him to discover there were limits to his excesses, even though he was the favoured son of the most powerful family in northern Mexico. He had been as usual in a nightclub, this time across the border in El Paso, drinking and womanising with the leaders of one of the most important drug distribution gangs in the region: Barrio Fuerte. The night was going well and he remembered dancing with two American girls, one of whom he was determined to bed. Young, blonde and blue-eyed, her sweat and beer soaked white T-shirt and skimpy red shorts were a wanton stereotype in a swaying sea of modest cotton dresses. She danced closer and closer to him, her taught bosom salaciously brushing his midriff. As her hand reached across and caressed his left buttock, he drew her in. Then the music stopped. People on the dance-floor fell instinctively apart and peered in random directions through the gloom. The mixture of fear and anticipation on the girl’s face instantly brought Alfredo to his senses. He was in danger. The room emptied and both girls were gone. He and his three minders peered through the cigarette smoke, fleeing human silhouettes and strobe lighting. Marcelo, their host, was walking towards them and Alfredo gestured to the others not to draw their weapons. His hands were raised in supplication and he was nervously repeating Alfredo’s name. Gennaro, the family’s most trusted lieutenant, sprang forward to frisk him. Alfredo’s eyes were drawn to the DJ’s podium. There crouched a dark, almost feline figure. He had no time to respond to the raised weapon before a laser-like flash of white and an awkward male scream from the gloom behind signalled that the night was now about survival.

Once on the floor Alfredo had rolled hard and painfully to his left, desperate for any form of cover. A bullet smashed into the wooden floor beside his right shoulder. He felt the stab of a splinter entering his neck. He rolled again, falling awkwardly from the rim of the dance-floor onto cold stone tiles. Grabbing at chair and table legs, he fashioned a rough barricade from the resulting clatter of furniture. There was an exchange of fire and then an extended silence. He could feel his heart thumping against a broken plate, trapped beneath his torso. Gennaro cursed. A cluster of heavy footsteps was followed by the sound of a scuffle and a heavy base crescendo, as a speaker crashed to the floor. Alfredo squinted as the lights went back on. He could see the assailant bent forward under the force of Gennaro’s arm-lock. Marcelo was nowhere to be seen, nor were any members of his gang. A random male figure looked as though he was clawing at a far wall, but was otherwise obviously dead.

Alfredo drifted briefly back to the present at the sight of a pretty girl’s face transferred across the side of a double-decker London bus. It looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t think why. Staring at the impossibly white smile between crimson lips, he rolled his tongue idly around the foul-tasting innards of his own mouth. He resolved to clean his teeth, but was drawn back to the bus as it occurred to him that it was light blue, rather than a reassuring London red. The world was no longer as it was supposed to be: not since that night. For want of any further distraction, or the will to do anything more constructive, Alfredo’s mind returned once more to the previous month.

“Gennaro, take him out the back, and you two get the car.” Alfredo grabbed his attacker by the hair, forcing his face upward and into the light.

His features were a curious mix of old and young: baby brown eyes beneath long dark lashes and a heavily furrowed and pitted brow. The man glared back at him defiantly, releasing a spray of spittle that peppered Alfredo’s shirt and trousers. Alfredo gestured for a gun, flipped it over, took slow, deliberate aim then smashed it into his assailant’s mouth. A mixture of blood and teeth spattered onto the floor. Gennaro followed up from the other side with a jaw-breaking right uppercut. The gunman sank to his knees and would have collapsed in a bloody heap had not Gennaro used his substantial weight to drag him towards an emergency exit.

Several minutes later they were well clear of the scene, on the freeway that partially encircled the city. Alfredo told Gennaro to drive slowly, so could think. He listened to the laboured, guttural breathing of the figure slumped in a rear seat of their inconspicuous blue Toyota sedan. Everyone and everything was covered in his blood. They had been unable to establish so much as a name, despite a thorough search of his jacket and trouser pockets, and could only speculate at his motive.

Alfredo made his decision. The freeway could take them south towards the Mexican border, but also north towards the Franklin Mountains. Being stopped at the border was unlikely, but also potentially disastrous, given hard-line Texan police attitudes to drug-related crime. The mountains were the obvious dumping ground.

Three-quarters of an hour later the crunch of gravel and the gathering gloom confirmed that they had left the last paved highway. They edged their way along a narrow mountain-bike trail. Alfredo stared at the city lights of El Paso below, his home town of Juarez a distant smudge of luminous yellow beyond the core of high-rise buildings and spreading suburbs.

“Stop here, Gennaro.”

They had come to a particularly steep section of hillside. The trail suddenly narrowed to no more than a footpath, descending in a series of zig-zags into the semi-darkness of a moonlit night. Alfredo opened the door, which caught the breeze and swung out over the downward slope. He lowered himself carefully onto a patch of bare earth between rocks and tussock grasses. He lit a cigarette and contemplated the view. Gennaro joined him. They stood in silence as stiff cool air rustled through the sparse vegetation and an owl called from somewhere beyond the nearest bluff. Suddenly there was another noise, halfway between a rattle and a hum. A large, nondescript beetle crash-landed onto Alfredo’s face. Gennaro laughed involuntarily as his boss stumbled down the slope, arms flailing wildly. Alfredo growled, rage supplanting his moment of fear and fuelling a thirst for revenge.

Other headlights came into view. The beams played across the mountainside like smouldering fires, momentarily igniting each patch of thin grassland. “Tell them to cut the lights,” Alfredo barked. The sight of a backup vehicle stiffened his resolve. He took a last distasteful look at the shadows around him and shuddered, trying to dismiss a conviction that he was being observed and, possibly, hunted.

“Do it. Do it now,” he spat.

Two men in dark suits glanced towards Gennaro for confirmation then turned back to the car. A door creaked open. There was a muffled cry of pain and protest, followed by a dragging sound. The henchmen ripped open ribbons of duct tape, securing their prisoner’s mouth and feet. Then one took firm hold of two trembling hands and forced them onto the steering wheel. The other wound more tape between each wrist and its rim. All hints of defiance in the man’s eyes had now drowned in deep pools of terror. The trunk slammed and liquid sloshed across upholstery. Gennaro reached over the front passenger seat to release the handbrake, struggled to extract his bulk from the car again, and nodded solemnly.

Alfredo raised his cigarette close to his eyes, the arc of its light trail temporarily obscuring the shining city-scape below. He drew deeply until it was a hard ball of fire and flicked it casually onto the backseat. The fire spread across the fabric, first in one direction, then the other. Wisps of smoke wound inconsequentially upward and out through the open rear windows. The flames took hold, despite a flood of tears, spreading across the ceiling through a soup of acrid black smoke. The bound figure tried frantically to push open the driver’s door with his hip. Then he began a strange, staccato dance of death.

Walking slowly back along the track, Alfredo concentrated upon the approaching headlights. The others assembled cautiously at the rear of the burning car. As they pushed, it began to creep along the path. Gathering its own momentum, it veered across the downward slope, bouncing between the rocks. A trail of flame and sparks shot into the night sky at each collision. Suddenly it was gone, lost beyond the rim of a hidden canyon. For a short while all was still, until a muffled, distant explosion heralded a deeper silence.

Although he couldn’t articulate why, Alfredo’s reverie seemed more real than this cold, surreal country called England. He closed the curtains. A London morning held no further interest. He examined the remaining contents of the minibar, pulling out a Twix and a bottle of water. Back in bed, he poked randomly at the buttons on the remote control in an unsuccessful effort to find a programme that might distract him. Nothing could stop his mind returning, just as he had eventually done on that fateful night, to Mexico.

His older brother, Luis, was out of town, so their father was making a sortie out of semi-retirement on the Caribbean coast, near Cancun. Alfredo hadn’t looked forward to explaining himself to old Paulo. They had met the next morning at a safe house in Juarez, the owner nervously obsequious as he gestured Alfredo from one cluttered but hastily tidied room to another. Two children stared from the top steps of open stairs. The wife prepared drinks in the kitchen in a nervous clatter of glasses. They were led to a small, sparsely furnished office overlooking a whitewashed courtyard full of laundry. Alfredo noticed the large black gate at the back of the yard and the guards placed on either side. Beyond these, parallel lines of smashed or boarded up windows framed an alley that led down to the railroad. There was always an emergency exit.

Don Paulo, as he liked to be called by anyone other than close family, rose stiffly from behind the single desk, placed a slight and trembling hand on each of Alfredo’s shoulders and reached up to kiss his youngest son’s cheeks. Every time Alfredo saw the old man he looked smaller and thinner, despite a tan thicker than his skin.

“Alfredo. Always your brother worries about you and always you give him more to worry about. Your Uncle Felipe, my own little brother, is already in gaol. Why do you have to make the same mistakes?”

Alfredo had not been asked to sit down. Partly because it was unclear where he could sit and partly because he sensed that any further display of familiarity would not be welcomed, he thrust his hands deep into his trouser pockets and did his best to look relaxed. “Hello Papa. How was your journey?”

Paulo frowned at the glib response, took a deep, seemingly painful breath then spoke in a slow, laboured monotone. “Eusabio flew me most of the way. We landed at Rancho Morales. It was good to catch up with that side of the business. It looks like a big harvest and the market is strong now there’s so little heroin out of Colombia. The poppies are healthy: soon there’ll be fields of scarlet, yellow and orange across the mountainsides. The local police chief took us to tea with a couple of the growers - Senor and Senora Barosso, as I recall - proud people, who claim to be Aztec. Everyone seems to be making money. The chief was like an excited child, driving through the dirt in the Range Rover he bought with our money.

“Marcelo told me the product we’re supplying is too good - too strong. Kids keep overdosing and getting us noticed.”

Paulo paused and took a deep breath. He urgently needed to talk to Luis about Marcelo and Barrio Fuerte. “Alfredo, we don’t need product to get us noticed when you’re around.” He gave him a serious and disapproving stare - not the look of mock disapproval with which Alfredo was comfortably familiar.

“Sure,” Paulo mused, “some college kids have died, but it is all part of the plan. A few deaths get us noticed in the right way, because buyers know we’re selling quality goods. It’s a user’s own fault if he’s too stupid not to OD. Anyway, Barrio Fuerte lower the quality for those they know to be hooked. Trash deserves trash and why shouldn’t a few Yankie children die, when our graveyards spill over with a generation of young Mexicans?”

Paulo sat for a few seconds looking at the floor, frail hands on bony knees, fighting to control his anger. “Sit down please, son. There are important things I need to say.”

He gestured towards a thin, whitewashed chair standing in a corner of the room. The seat was barely visible beneath a pile of children’s school books. Alfredo paused to assess this inconsequential evidence of normality. Somehow picking up the books and depositing them on a nearby shelf grew, second by second, into a tiny act of humiliation. His father meant business.

“I know Luis thinks he has to look after you because you’re young and you were your mother’s favourite, but for once he’s wrong. You’re not so young anymore and your mother and I both loved Luis at least as much as you. It’s hard for him. He’s the one who has to coordinate everything and this isn’t as easy as it was in my time. There’s too much traffic, too many different drugs and too many players trying to control what can never really be controlled.”

“But you controlled it, Papa. We’re the biggest family along the border.” Alfredo gave an expansive gesture towards nothing in particular, but the narrow domestic scene made him feel vaguely ridiculous. He dropped his gaze and shuffled uncomfortably on his tiny seat.

“I controlled nothing. It was all a bluff. Luis understands that. You lean on someone here and take a cut there and try to make it look as if you’re the boss, but I’ve spent my whole working life reacting to things I hadn’t planned and didn’t really understand. You just try and make a call that other people think makes sense. Look at the US Government. They know they can never control the drugs trade. It’s part of the fabric of their country. They play the game for the sake of public opinion, winning a battle here and taking an important step there, whilst everywhere else we can do what we want.”

“But you were strong, Papa.” Alfredo instantly regretted using were, as his father scowled.

“Perhaps, but sometimes that means not making violence. It means not settling a score and not killing a man just because you can. You’ve made too many mistakes. It makes us look desperate. It makes us looks like amateurs, like any of the other street hoodlums that infest this town.”

Alfredo reflected upon his father’s words. He struck out when he was afraid, but his enemies had only multiplied, and this had spawned an increasing sense of foreboding. There was now an edge of desperation to his violence.

Paulo continued. “You think our enemies carry guns and make themselves known to us. Those are bums, like the kid you killed yesterday. Yes, we have enemies. We have other families testing us to see if they can break into our operations, because we’ve got greedy and we’ve got weak. And you’re part of the weakness, Alfredo.”

“Papa, I took care of business last night. Nobody will mess with us now.”

“You took care of nada. You’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest. Why do you think I have to extend my stay in this God-forsaken city? Over the border you’ve created two serious crime scenes for the US Authorities. Our family’s name’s written across both. Have you any idea how pissed off the Americans will be? Why, at least, didn’t you dispose of the guy in Juarez? We drive truck-loads of weapons from the US into Mexico every week. Who would care about a Spik with a bit of blood on him?” Paulo paused to catch his breath and his foul temper.

“Luis can’t sort this out alone. Luckily I still have enough influence here to help him. Otherwise this family would be finished.”

Alfredo remained mute. In all his life it had never occurred to him that his family could be anything other than all-powerful. It was his world; one where you were never held to account.

“I’m sorry, Papa.” He meant it.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it anymore. Luis told you many times never to mix work with pleasure. What were you doing at that night club? What were you doing with Barrio Fuerte? Just because you can make a deal with someone doesn’t mean you can trust them. Gennaro is family to us. He is your Godfather. You put him in danger and two of his best men as well.”

“Marcelo invited me. I thought it would be rude to refuse; that it would be safe because they make so much money from our business.”

Paulo sighed and studied his errant son. How could he have seen so much and be so naive? Under the desk he clasped his hands tightly between his knees. A general dull ache from each joint and a stabbing arthritic pain from a poorly healed, bullet-induced fracture reminded him of how little time he had to repair the damage. Slowly, he began to outline the situation.

“Last night you killed Marcelo’s brother. As you would expect, we have a couple of people high up in their organisation. Gennaro made a call this morning and it was definitely him. We don’t know why he tried to shoot you. The girls you were dancing with were hired hands, presumably meant to distract you. It doesn’t really matter. Barrio Fuerte are dead to us now. We no longer have a way of shifting our product once it’s across the border. Now, all we have on the other side are enemies, ones who’ll almost certainly look to join forces with another family.”

Once again, Alfredo apologised. He had the urge to hug his father, but this had never been an instinct that he could indulge.

“Someone is going to try to kill you, Alfredo. Someone is going to want to demonstrate their strength. You’ve made yourself a target for anyone who wants to make a name. Even the CIA may decide it’s time for a change of family here. If they send someone after you, we may not be able to stop them. If you die, it would be the end of me and of your Uncle Felipe too. If you’re killed then everyone would know we can’t protect our people. You’ll have to go away. That means Europe.” Paulo paused again to snatch more air. “We have a new way of laundering our profits. They go into a sports bicycle manufacturing company near Madrid, which retails mainly in Great Britain. I want you to show a family face in London. As far as the English end of the business is concerned, you’re Spanish, so you’d better work on your Spanish and your English. Check the money is getting through. We’ve someone there to help you forward it to our bank in Texas.”

It was a stupid argument, but it brought Alfredo out of his reverie. Global warming! Why, in the coldest, dampest country he had ever experienced, were people on TV getting angry about global warming? England was incomprehensible. He wanted to throw something at the screen. Instead he stomped into the bathroom. There he cleaned his teeth so hard that blood mixed with the paste and patterned the spittle he projected violently into the basin. Although he knew it was pathetic, he was homesick.

Chapter Nine

Rochas Blancas

Rochas Blancas was a non-descript prison in the midst of equally non-descript rolling scrubland. It was set a few hundred metres outside a small town of the same name, which was built around cattle stockyards and provided a staging post for a railroad meandering its way the few remaining miles to the US border. Beyond its rectangle of whitewashed walls and razor wire stood a scattering of staff accommodation, a visitors’ car park, and a small police station and pound.

Inside the jail, Felipe Contadona watched the sun dipping below the same whitewashed walls, one hand in a back pocket and the other clasping the window grill. Not even an unusually strong odour from the nearby stockyards could pierce his sense of serenity. Felipe knew almost the exact order in which the stars would shortly appear above the faint orange glow of the unseen township. He would greet them as old friends, after several days of blank, rain-sodden skies. The three stars marking Orion’s Belt were his first target, as he had recently acquired a book which mapped the major constellations from his older brother, Paulo. Betelgeuse, the red supergiant star that marked Orion’s left shoulder could easily be traced from this bright marker, and its story was his favourite. Grand though it was, it was a dying star, struggling with the last vespers of fuel to maintain the nuclear reactions that were its only defence against gravity. Tomorrow, or in a million years’ time, it would die and in its death throes turn night into day on Earth and appear like a second sun, even though it was 640 million light years away.

Felipe had only rarely, in all his fifty-seven years, been happier than here in this jail. He occupied a suite of three rooms originally designed for the prison governor. He shared his quarters and its extensive facilities with a relay of unobtrusive minders who took care of every chore. Behind him he could hear one of them laying the table for dinner. The local mayor and the assistant governor were due to dine with him tonight. The news about Alfredo’s misdemeanours, which he had received alongside the book from Paulo, could have been a concern, but he had heard it all before. Only Alfredo’s departure for Europe aroused any sense of disapproval. Felipe had long since learned that, in the end, it all came down to money. Once Felipe had outlined the family’s enhanced concerns about security, the mayor and the governor would demand more cash. But there was always more money for Las Contadonas. There was so much that the greatest problem was what to do with it all, forcing his clan to continually expand into new territory and trade. Money could be found in thick wads of used banknotes in every home the family and its many lieutenants occupied, stuffed into draws, in suitcases under beds, or at the back of kitchen cupboards.

Hearing his guests approaching, Felipe turned to greet them. The two men who entered the room were not those he was expecting. He assessed the situation. Over the shoulders of the bulky intruders he could see two other men guarding the door. His minders were nowhere to be seen. He considered making a dash for the bedroom and the handgun in his bedside cabinet, but he would be stopped within a couple of paces, and the gun had almost certainly been removed anyway. A flush of fear coursed through Felipe as he comprehended the gravity of his situation. To his intense chagrin a warm trickle of urine descended the inside of one leg. His fear was followed in turn by a rising tide of anger, partly in response to this little humiliation and partly as he realised he might never see his nephews again. Although he had experienced liaisons with many women, none had ever produced a child he was prepared to acknowledge. Luis, and then Alfredo, by contrast, had always been close, pushed towards their uncle by the preoccupied, emotionally distant nature of their own father, Paulo. As children, they were eager to hear Felipe’s stories of grand adventure and to be spoiled by his extravagant gifts. He remembered the pair squealing with joy as they climbed aboard an electric toy Ferrari and swerved along the drive of the family’s summer mountain retreat, near Chihuahua. It was this image of the boys, perhaps the only people he had ever truly loved, which he would, if necessary, take with him now to the grave.

Felipe focused again on the squat, heavy-jowled hit men. He flicked his tongue around the inside of his dry mouth then spat the resulting shallow phlegm onto the black shiny shoes of the nearest heavy. “Go on then, get it over with.”

He waited for a gun to appear. For a few seconds nothing happened. Then, in a strongly accented growl, the same man spoke.

“This is a message from Xterra.”

Both men were at Felipe’s side, marching him towards the door. Once out onto the corridor he scanned the inside of the prison block, peering over the metal railings to the floor below. Every cell door was closed. The prison was in lockdown, but without the usual shotgun laden, lugubrious guards. All was eerily quiet. Felipe glanced enquiringly at one of those framing the door. With a malicious grin the guard gestured towards one of the men at Felipe’s side. Felipe turned and froze in terror as a gleaming silver knife from his own dining table caught the light. As if in a dream, he felt himself begin to struggle. Despite his years, he was strong and it took three men to turn him around in the narrow corridor and force him back against the bannister. He sweated profusely and strained every sinew to break free, as a large moon face with rotten teeth drew oppressively close to his own. He jerked his head backwards to escape the rancid stench. Instantly the man’s arm was resting on his forehead, arching Felipe backwards over the railings. He felt the knife press against his throat and, for a moment, was relieved by its obvious bluntness. As the pressure grew so did the pain and his increasing shortness of breath. He managed to screw his head to one side, but felt the blade beginning to cut and to track his movement as he did so. He heard a splatter, which could only be his own blood hitting the floor below. At the far end of the lower level stood his friend the Governor, arms folded impassively. He wanted to plead for forgiveness, but his larynx had been destroyed by the crushing force of the blade. Within moments he could not see and there was nothing left but terrible, all-consuming pain. He tried to cry out, but no scream would come: only a long, damp gurgle, as air bubbled up through the mess of blood and tissue in his throat.

The Governor turned and walked away. The men above pressed in on either side of Felipe to finish their butchery. Then they too were gone. All that remained on the top corridor was Felipe’s torso, seated, as if in a deep and drunken slumber, against the metal fence. A whistle blew. Cell doors automatically slid open and cautious figures began to emerge above and below. Still there were no guards. Small huddles formed on each side of the body and around the severed head, which lay smashed and staring amidst a scatter of sticky puddles on the lower floor. Someone picked it up and began running around the block in mock triumph, a bloody fist buried deep into the matted, curly grey hair. Everyone knew what this meant: a change to the order of things. Some inmates looked around warily and backed away into cells. Others joined the procession behind Felipe’s battered and frozen features. Soon there would be a reckoning.

Chapter Ten

Sierra Madre

Maria Barosso scaled the steep trail through the mountain homeland of her Aztec Indian community. The morning was clear and fresh and - for the first time since an unexpected visit from the local police chief and two polite, but intimidating “businessmen” - she felt relaxed. A heavy-dew worked its way from the thick scrub into her woollen poncho and leggings. As she struggled across slippery ground to the top of a ridge and looked down at a boulder-strewn riverbed beyond, she was surprised to see a foaming torrent snaking its way between the rocks. This valley was nearly always dry. At best it was a series of crystal clear pools in which her children would sometimes splash or pretend to fish. Not since her own childhood had she observed a scene such as this. That was before most of the old growth forest had been cut down for timber, and the local climate had dried.

Maria made several agile leaps from rock to rock across the flow, defying her advancing years. She squatted on the far bank to scoop two handfuls of water. It was unexpectedly cold as it trickled out between her fingers. As she feared, a small quantity of sediment settled onto her palm. She shook her head slowly and moved on. A flock of green parrots scattered as she pushed her way through the streamside vegetation and into a short stretch of pine forest beyond. The path meandered between the tree trunks then forked left and right. To the right the way would grow steep and begin to zigzag, as it made its way towards a grassy summit often favoured by courting couples. Maria branched left, following the contours of a second ridge, which descended steadily towards her, until she found herself at a col, staring down into a bowl of terraced fields beyond. A wisp of smoke ascended from a distant shack: her husband heating a kettle in their rudimentary fireplace.

Within minutes Maria could see the damage: muddy channels carved through fields, patches of sodden debris, and piles of stone where a wall had given way. Worst of all she had a clear view of the poppies. Between one and two feet high, these thick-set, pale green plants jostled for space and light and had been close to flowering. Everything was ruined now. Broad leaves lay as if painted on the ground. Stalks leaned at crazy angles or hung their heads in shame. Whole patches lay flattened or bent - sat upon by some giant beast.

It was going to have been a good crop this year - the family would have been able to afford their first car. They had already acquired a flat-screen television the previous season. Now Maria couldn’t help but think back to the weather-ravaged crops and food riots she had witnessed on her imposing new T.V. There would be no car now and the money they had borrowed to improve their home and to send their children to school would not be repaid. Worst of all, they could lose their land. Then they would join the dispossessed, tending fields they had once owned for the Mafioso bosses whom they had so recently entertained. She began to cry, as she recalled days of wheat and corn and fresh vegetables. Then she had been young and it had been her parent’s farm.

By the time she reached the shack and threw open the door, Maria wanted to curse. Her fists were clenched and she would rage and scream at her husband. “How did we get into this situation? Why did I ever listen to you and your grand schemes?” Lo que siembres, cosecharás (what you sow, you will harvest). But she didn’t. At the sight of the guilt and defeat in her husband’s eyes as he handed her a steaming cup, all she could do was to set it down carefully with a trembling hand and hug him.

“Somehow, we’ll be OK,” Maria lied. She began to pray. Then she hugged him tighter, as both her body and his were wracked by heavy sobs.

Chapter Eleven

Ciudad Juarez

Luis was sitting in the general manager’s office of a large jeans factory in a small town not far from Juarez. Ever since Alfredo’s departure for England, he had been in a fire fight. Discipline was breaking down in one location after the other, as various loose-knit crime organisations and chancers tried to threaten or bribe their way into different aspects of the family business. The Contadona clan had managed personnel and security for many of the smaller factories and workshops in the main industrial belt around the central section of the US border for two decades. The larger multinationals also unwittingly employed staff hand-picked by them. This was one of Luis’ favourite roles. Not only had his father left him in full control, but it was also as near to legitimate commerce as his family came. Luis was proud that, in their twenty year involvement in the factory zone, serious crime in the area had all but disappeared and conditions for the workforce had greatly improved. This was why he was so angry with the man sitting in front of him.

“Why did you punch her in the stomach?” he hissed at the plant manager.

“She was always trouble, always complaining that the supervisors were harassing her.”

“Was she pretty?”

“Yes,” acknowledged the man, with a leering smile. He leaned forward at his desk, trying to connect with Luis, who was sitting at some distance across the room. It also helped him ignore the goons stood impassively on either side. “That was probably why we hired her in the first place.”

Luis’ features hardened. “So that’s how you deal with employees who cause you trouble? Do you think that hitting a sixteen year old girl in the stomach makes you a big man?”

The manager at last realised he had taken the wrong tack. He gave up trying to hold Luis’ gaze, drew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped it across his brow. “I thought she might be trying to hide that she was pregnant. You know no one stays on if they are expecting.”

Luis exploded, jumping to his feet, his chair clattering to the floor. “She was pregnant, you idiot. Apparently, she was raped by one of the supervisors you’re so keen to protect. Now the baby’s dead, the girl is fighting for her life in hospital and half of your workforce is out on strike. “

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re not sorry,” Luis shouted across the room, “you’re just scared for your own skin.” He turned towards a greasy, multi-paned window which overlooked a drab concrete courtyard. He folded his arms and looked out upon the scattering of individuals soaking up the winter sunshine below. “Have you got a daughter?”

“Please!” The manager shrank back in his seat and issued a plaintive visual appeal to the man on either side of him.

Luis walked slowly towards him, leaned on the desk, grabbed him by the hair and smashed a left hook into his face. As the man spluttered and bled onto the papers in front of him, Luis turned to retrieve his own chair. He sat down heavily and tried to recover his breathing, shocked by the depth of rage that had swept through him.

“You,” he growled, “are going to sort out this mess - I don’t care how, or how much it costs, then you’re going to resign and get your wretched arse out of this town!”

“Boss.” One of Luis’ minders was holding out his cell-phone. Luis snatched at it, letting it ring several times as he gestured to the bloodied figure to leave. “If I were you, I’d get your family out now, just in case that girl dies,” he hissed.

“Yes?” he yelled at the phone.

“It’s Gennaro. Don Felipe has been murdered.”

Luis disconnected. He did not react. He knew at once that he must not be seen to react. He calmly handed back the phone, his face the same impassive mask he always adopted when forced to do things not to his liking. He gestured to the others then waited for one of them to hold open the office door. As he descended the stairwell to his jeep the urges both to swear and to cry fought for supremacy. He did his best to do neither. Again he waited patiently as the passenger door was opened for him and his driver took his seat. Several bystanders now stood where they had previously sat, out of respect for Luis. He smiled an awkward smile of acknowledgement, but everything external was now a dream, whilst everything meaningful was drowning in turmoil within.

As the car passed the security checkpoint and sped out into the open landscape beyond, Luis did his best to focus on the detail of what was passing. He needed to get back to this world and to take control, even though he knew it was now one in which everything had changed. He could almost feel his family’s grip on power starting to weaken. In the ditch beside the road he saw the metallic blue sheen of water which did not reflect the sky: a soup of dye and other chemicals released whilst bleaching jeans in the factory. He remembered a previous labour dispute, with those who then farmed the wasteland he now stared across. The farmers complained the runoff from the factory gave their fields and crops the same metallic sheen. They’d waived a positive test for heavy metal contamination at him and he’d responded by buying their land off them at the full market rate. To Luis this had been a simple, humane and entirely satisfactory conclusion, but the looks of pain and defeat that had greeted his generosity now returned to haunt him. He wondered how it might feel to be torn from all that you know.

Luis understood, instantly, what Felipe’s death meant. It meant an enemy more powerful than they. The prison at Rochas Blancas had been in the absolute control of the family: that was why Felipe had chosen to serve his sentence there in the first place. Luis mentally scrolled through the options for what may have occurred. If someone at the jail had gone rogue, Gennaro would have mentioned it and it would already have been dealt with. Barrio Fuerte had the most obvious motive for murder, but they surely did not have the manpower or the financial resources on this side of the border? It was unlikely to be the Mexican Government, as they could not be seen to be favouring one criminal organisation over another. It could possibly be the CIA, but why would they do something as difficult as infiltrate a Mexican jail, when they could take out Luis or numerous others on the streets of Juarez? That left either another family or one of the sprawling, faceless, drug cartels that had taken over the eastern and western seaboards. Luis hoped it was the former. At least then he would know the nature of the threat.

He focused again on the passing scene. They’d entered a grid of squalid dirt streets on the edge of the industrial zone. He could smell the rotting garbage, the rancid swamps of winter and the open sewers. They passed a school, the pupils in the overcrowded yard resplendent in brilliant blue and white uniforms. There was the hope, he thought, but his eyes couldn’t help but wander to a younger child beyond the gates. He was drinking, knelt as if in prayer, from a fetid pool. Home after home flashed by in an endless reconfiguration of cardboard, plastic, stick and sheet metal construction. The jeep dodged barking dogs and muddy wallows as it slid along the street. Luis leaned forward.

“Where does the girl live?”

His driver didn’t hear him. Luis shouted and the vehicle pulled over. There was a turn, half a block in front of them and to the right. “I want to walk - you follow. Sound the horn when I get to the right house.”

He stepped out into the familiar muddy ochre, and hopped onto the broken concrete slabs which served as a sidewalk. Fat women in narrow doorways held their babies a little closer as he passed. A drunk span away from him, mumbling. Three small children laughed as they poked a kitten with a stick. He crossed behind a swaying, smoking bus and briefly stopped at a metal-grilled kiosk to buy cigarettes he didn’t need. Marcelo must die like his brother, he reflected. There was no other way. It was his organisation which had started this war, whether they were responsible for Felipe’s death or not. His father would know how to do it.

Luis turned the corner, still deep in thought. Marcelo’s death would solve nothing, but it would reduce the number of variables. Alfredo was in exile because of Marcelo, but Luis was not a vengeful man. “It’s just business,” he mouthed to himself, but it left a more bitter taste than his newly acquired cigarette.

The horn sounded and he looked around him. His destination was just another hovel, just another woman on a doorstep. As he approached, she turned and called to those within. An old man and two teenage sons parted a dirty net-curtain screen and shuffled nervously up behind her, over-awed by the appearance of three sharp-suited gangsters.

“Is this the home of Gabrielle Jimenez?” Luis enquired.

The men of the house dropped their wary stares and looked at the woman. She gazed fiercely back at Luis through a traditional braided headband, weighing him up with the stubbornness of someone who’d suffered more than anything Luis might be able to inflict. Eventually she nodded in tired affirmation.

“I’m sorry for what has happened. The men responsible have been dealt with.”

The woman still said nothing. She stared straight through him with piercing green eyes, but nodded again. Luis stretched a hand behind him and passed the thick wad of notes that was promptly placed there on to her. Immediately the old man shuffled forward, took the pile and disappeared, with a wary glance, within.

“All the hospital bills will be paid. Your daughter’s getting the very best care. I hope she pulls through.”

There was no response. Luis and his two attendants turned to leave. The woman spoke at last in a deep and distinctive voice, betraying her southern, Mayan origins: “For one who is alive, nothing is quite enough. For one who is dead, anything is too much.”

Luis knew the expression well, but had never felt its force or futility before. He half checked his stride, thinking of Felipe and wanting to cry. Then he walked mechanically away.

Throughout his current sojourn in Jaurez, Don Paulo had been staying at Hotel Catalina, the same pink-fronted establishment that his son, Luis, used. More precisely, he was staying in Luis’ room. His bodyguard, Eusabio and the rest of the team, which included Paulo’s personal cook and medic, occupied the remainder of the top floor. This had no impact upon Luis, who lived quietly with his American wife, Alex, in a distant desert suburb of El Paso. Like thousands of other Mexicans legally ensconced in the USA, Luis commuted back and forth across the border. Except for the recent addition of the scar on his face, this middle-aged and seemingly respectable businessman looked much like any other.

That morning’s commute had gone smoothly, but rarely had Luis felt less like meeting his father. He had arrived home in El Paso late the night before, after his diversion to meet the woman in the township. He had neither had time to process the news of Felipe’s death, nor to tell his wife of their loss.

By the time he reached the room, Gennaro, Eusabio and several others were seated around Paulo. Even as Paulo had aged, even after extended treatment for prostate cancer, he had maintained a defiant strength. Now Luis was struck by how incongruous this frail old man looked in a room full of gangsters. It was his time to be strong.

“Papa, I’m so sorry about Felipe.” Just the saying of it made Luis almost break down. They had lost one of the cornerstones of the family. More than this, Luis had lost his boyhood hero and the only older male with whom he could readily share affection. Being strong was not going to be easy.

His father gave him a baleful look then shook his head. Both understood that they would have to wait until they were alone to grieve for Felipe.

“I feel like raising that prison to the ground,” Don Paulo almost hissed.

“Someone wants a war and we shall give them one, but first we need to be clear who we are fighting.” Luis slumped into the chair that Gennaro provided for him then looked up, expectantly. “Do we know any more about what Marcelo was up to?”

Gennaro rested a comforting arm on Luis’ shoulder. “We think that someone powerful has been leaning on Barrio Fuerte. Whoever this was forced them to take a shot at Alfredo. It was probably meant to make us turn on them. Don Paulo asked me to get rid of Marcelo, but then we heard from our sources in his organisation. They were clear that Marcelo had decided not to go through with the assassination. He was actually doing his best to stop his brother. Now that his brother is dead it would be wrong to go after him. He may even work with us again. Perhaps he will have little choice?”

“So who are we fighting?” Luis noted the frustration in his own voice, but Gennaro remained calm.

“We’re still not sure, but it makes sense that when your brother, Alfredo, went away they would target someone else. Both your father and I know that we should have responded more quickly and increased security. I am very sorry for that, Luis. It must have been the same people who forced Barrio Fuerte’s hand who arranged the death of Don Felipe. Either that or God has finally tired of us.”

“But how did they get to him, Gennaro?”

“We don’t know that either. Money wouldn’t do it, nor could they have just leaned on other prisoners, as they are mostly our men. Whoever we’re dealing with was big enough to turn the prison governor, the mayor and the local police. That would take some serious muscle and a lot of organisation.”

“Xterra.” It was Paulo who spoke. Once again he held Luis’ gaze.

“Madre de Dios!” Eusabio exclaimed, looking appealingly at Gennaro.

Gennaro continued. “Unfortunately, I think Don Paulo is right. They’ve been extending their operations inland from the east coast for a long time, and now seem to be opening up the south. What we don’t understand is why they want a war with us?”

“Perhaps too many of their own border crossings are being blocked?” speculated Eusabio. “Ever since Calderon, our beloved leaders have been pouring troops into their territory. Violence begets violence, as our priests always say, but the government would never admit to that. They just want to keep the pay cheques coming in from our dear white American cousins, so they keep on stirring up trouble.”

“Maybe,” considered Gennaro, “but a lot of Xterra’s operations are Caribbean based. They fly drugs into various islands. With all the tourist traffic it is easy for it to be shipped on to the USA. They also seem to be making money from the oil rigs out in the Gulf. We’re not entirely sure how. Perhaps they’ve muscled their way into the supply and distribution companies, although commerce is not usually their thing. If they’ve changed tactics then maybe they’re looking at our factories too?”

Paulo held up his hands. “If it is Xterra then what they want is our poppy fields. Nowhere they control can heroin be grown. The coastal lowlands are too hot and dry. They must know how our operations have expanded into the northern mountains, now we’ve discovered a strain that grows well there.”

Gennaro patted Luis’ balding pate affectionately then returned casually to his seat. “What I don’t understand is why they haven’t left us a more obvious calling card?”

“Because,” said Luis, “they want to keep us guessing. Maybe get us to panic. If nothing else, it is a test of our strength and organisation. I was all for killing Marcelo, but you’ve done well, Gennaro. Killing him would have played right into their hands. Marcelo is still someone we can deal with and he’s obviously not just a tool for Xterra. If it is Xterra and Marcelo knows this, he’ll also know that he’s not going to get drugs from them. It would make no sense for them to buy narcotics and then transport them all this way. It would be too obvious what they were up to, and the Authorities would have to act. There is also no simple means of shipment.”

“But maybe that’s why they want the poppy fields,” observed Paulo. “Then they’d have the local supply and Barrio Fuerte would be the obvious distributors.”

“Perhaps,” sighed Luis. For a moment he sat quietly, unsure how to proceed. He was a good manager of people and a hard worker, but he’d never had to be a strategist before.

Don Paulo again filled the gap. He looked like a care-warn pensioner, but the habits of a lifetime were not so easily put aside. “Now we need to do several things and we need to do them quickly. First, we must set up a meeting with Marcelo. Next, Eusabio should fly a team out to the mountains, to find out if there have been any signs of Xterra up there. Gennaro, I want you to do what you do best. Lean on as many people as possible in Rochas Blancas. We need confirmation that it was Xterra. Take some old hands: no punks; no amateurs. Go heavily armed and spill a little blood, but make sure you eliminate only definite trouble-makers. We don’t want the locals turning against us too. Don’t take out the prison governor or the mayor. We may need them later on. If we hit anyone too senior, we may end up dealing with the state or national government, as well as Xterra. Luis, we need to talk further. It must be the two of us who meet with Marcelo. Then he will know that we are sincere.”

Luis nodded and the others stood up to leave. “I’m going to ask Alfredo to come home,” he announced, with as much conviction as he could muster. It was important to demonstrate his determination whilst Eusabio and Gennaro were still present. Both dutifully sat down again. “That is the best way to show the world that we’re not afraid of Xterra.”

Paulo nodded his silent approval and smiled at Luis. Gennaro and Eusabio pressed their heavy frames from their chairs and took turns to kiss Luis’ and then Don Paulo’s hand. As the door closed Paulo sighed deeply and Luis could see that there were tears in his eyes. “Now we can talk of Felipe,” he sobbed. For the first time in many years Luis put his arm around the old man. He met no resistance.

Some while later the conversation turned to practical matters. “Do we need to worry about the strike?” Paulo enquired of Luis.

“No, it was just the usual sort of mess: poor management, rather than anything to do with another syndicate. I stopped by the family of the injured girl and gave them some money. That’ll help to smooth things over. We will put a new company director in place. I’ll get some people to lean on anyone not back at work by Monday.”

“Nice touch, Luis, to visit the family. You’ve always been in tune with working people. We would not have factories now if it were not for you? I was never that keen. We only started so we had more control over the workforce. Then we just wanted to clean our cash. It was you who showed me there were legal ways for the family to make a profit.”

“Thanks, Papa. I am proud of our factories.”

“You know, Luis,” Paulo sighed, “you always were the best of us. You even have a wife who still loves you and one day soon you will have a family. Your uncle Felipe said you would be successful, even before you were old enough to work. You’ve proved him right. One day I’d like this family to be clean - to pay our taxes and stick to the law. To go to church on Sundays, like your mother used to insist we do. Do you remember that, Luis? That could be your legacy. That is my dream.”

Luis said nothing. Getting up from the end of the bed, he walked towards the window.

“Now that I’m old,” Paulo continued, speaking to Luis’ back, “I wish there were no more drugs and no more violence. I wish I was leaving you something to make you proud of me.”

Luis stood still, fingering his moustache. As he did so he could sense the life drifting out of the old man behind him. He didn’t know at that moment how he felt about Paulo, his father, Felipe, his uncle, or Alfredo, his brother. But he knew how he felt about the factory girl whose mother he had met. He felt angry for her and for all those like her. The anger now helped him find more strength.

“I’m not going to be the one who meets with Marcelo” he said, to his own image, reflected in the glass. “We’ll offer him a large amount of money in compensation for his brother’s death. Then we’ll wait for Alfredo to return. It should be Alfredo who meets with Marcelo. That’s the only way we can regain the trust of Barrio Fuerte. It is also a clear statement to Xterra and to everyone else that we’re not afraid.” He turned around and Paulo smiled, although almost consumed by tiredness.

“I’ll call Marcelo and Alfredo now, but once I’ve arranged this I’m going to join Gennaro in Rochas Blancas. I need to show I can handle your side of the business now, Papa.”

Don Paulo waved a weak, but appreciative hand. His eyes were almost closed. Luis stooped to take off the old man’s shoes and help him into bed. As his father’s eyes shut, Luis stroked his long grey strands of hair. Luis contemplated his sallow features and worried at the fitful nature of his breathing. For so many years he’d been fearful of this small but tough and wiry man. Now he felt sorry for him. He also felt something else, and wondered if it was love.