Chapter 46
The Ghost saw Reynaldo’s eyes widen comically, and he knew what would come next: compliance. Like everyone else who had ever
underestimated him, Reynaldo succumbed, saying, “Whoa, whoa, man, this isn’t necessary. I’ll come, I’ll come.”
The Ghost forced him out of the restaurant patio, moving awkwardly together, then released him, letting him walk alone across
the field to the cemetery. The Ghost remained close enough to kill, but not so close as to look weird. For his part, Reynaldo
seemed to believe that showing the Ghost the shipment would end their relationship. And it would have been, if he hadn’t known
about the Qatari passports.
They reached the entrance to the cemetery, just down from the basilica, and Reynaldo said, “Give me the pass to get in.”
The Ghost said, “No. We pay our way. I’ll use the pass later, without you. I don’t want you talking to friends.”
Reynaldo grimaced, but followed his instructions, walking through the iron gate, then a glass door to the information kiosk.
He purchased two tickets, was given a map, and they exited into the grounds of the cemetery.
It was unlike any graveyard the Ghost had ever seen.
It wasn’t a field full of tombstones, with a view across the entire expanse.
It was more like a cluster of a thousand little condominiums for the dead, with narrow brick-filled lanes in between the rows of tombs.
It held the remains of some of the most important historical figures in the creation of Argentina—the most famous being Eva Perón—but was also the final resting place for others who were not so famous.
One of which had been chosen by Reynaldo as the location for the shipment.
Reynaldo walked up to the map on a pedestal, scanned the names, then pointed, saying, “Here. Right here.” He looked at the
Ghost expectantly, like he thought his work was done.
The Ghost said, “Walk.”
Reynaldo shook his head, but began moving deeper into the cemetery.
The lanes were cloistered, the tombs on either side at least ten feet high, each fighting to outdo its neighbors and to prove
its occupants worthy of the opulent resting place. Some only had glass panes to allow a view inside, but others had iron gates
or wooden doors leading to the tomb of the person laid to rest. The majority were well-kept, some with fresh flowers left
by recent mourners. Others were slowly decaying, the power of the dead having outlasted the wealth of the living, the granite
now cracked and overrun by weeds and vines.
Reynaldo expertly cut from one lane to another, dodging between the tombs and avoiding tourists on the main paths. From what
the Ghost could tell, most of them were using a map to search for someone of relevance, while Reynaldo was leading him to
an area mostly forgotten.
Reynaldo took a right down a narrow brick path, the tombs to the left and right within arm’s reach of each other. He stopped
at one that was better kept than its neighbors. Made of black marble, it had two bronze plaques on either side of the door,
a testament in Spanish lionizing the dead inside.
Reynaldo looked back down the narrow alley to make sure they were alone, then slid in the key. He pushed the door inwards,
saying, “Get in, get in.”
The Ghost did, finding himself in a room the size of a closet, wilting flowers on a shelf next to a couple of pictures of
the entombed. On the far wall was a ladder with iron rungs leading down.
Reynaldo went to it, saying, “Down here.” He climbed to the lower level, stepped aside for the Ghost and pulled out a light, shining it around.
They were in a room barely six feet high, the walls rough-finished concrete, the fancy marble left for viewing upstairs.
Along the far wall were four wooden caskets on shelves, one stacked on top of the other.
Next to them were two Pelican cases and a duffel bag.
Grinning, Reynaldo pointed the light and said, “There you go. If there’s nothing in the cases, that’s not because of us. You
take it, and we’re done.”
The Ghost said, “The combination is eight-eight-seven-six. Open one.”
Reynaldo’s smile faded. He said, “If anything’s missing, that’s on you. We didn’t pack them. We only provided transport.”
“Open it.”
Reynaldo did, releasing the lid and revealing an expensive digital video camera, large enough to mandate an over the shoulder
carry. The Ghost pulled it out and studied it curiously, trying to see how an object like this could kill someone, but could
not in the dark. He couldn’t even tell if it was a weapon at all.
Satisfied of the bona fides of the shipment, the Ghost still had one last mission to accomplish. He said, “Open the duffel.”
Reynaldo said, “It’s your shit. It’s all here.”
“Open it and shine your light inside.”
Reynaldo shook his head, then stomped over to the duffel. He jerked the zipper harder than necessary, ripping it open. He
went to a knee and pointed his light inside, then turned, saying, “Satisfied?”
The Ghost bent down next to him, pretending to search for something. He said, “Look in the corner.”
Reynaldo returned to the duffel, pulling one edge with his left hand while he shined into the end of the duffel with his right.
He leaned over, peering into the bag and the Ghost grabbed his hair just above the ear, then plunged in the ice pick right
behind the lobe, driving it deep and twirling like he was mixing a drink.
Reynaldo flopped across the duffel, his legs twitching and his bladder releasing, the urine pooling on the concrete. The Ghost
wiped the ice pick on Reynaldo’s shirt, then dragged his carcass to the caskets, rolling it underneath the lowest shelf.
He left the tomb, making sure to lock the door, and began to look for a separate exit from the one he’d used to enter the cemetery.
He found it near Eva Perón’s grave site, a wide flagstone path much larger than the others splitting through the tombs, running right out to the street to the plaza where he’d parked his car.
He exited, the death of Reynaldo not even registering in his thoughts, his mind running through the revelations about the
mysterious females possibly tracking him.
The mission was going to be complete in less than three days, but he felt like he was running flat out on a sidewalk that
had just been reduced to the width of a two-by-four. He’d expected that. Such a feeling always happened, but usually it was
at the moment of execution, and back then he knew if he ran hard enough he could make it to the other side by just momentum
alone. Now, it seemed the two-by-four feeling was happening before he’d even set foot on the sidewalk, and the momentum of
the operation wouldn’t be enough.
He’d need to rethink their financial operations and make a clean break from the credit cards that Cyrus had used. The mysterious
women may have stumbled onto their use, and that would have been catastrophic if it had been discovered when Omar and Cyrus
were conducting preparatory operations, but it wasn’t dangerous now. Mossad and/or the CIA were stabbing in the dark, at least
a day behind him. They had a credit card number, but clearly didn’t know what it meant, or they’d all be getting waterboarded
right now.
Then, like a person accidentally touching the prongs of a cattle prod, the shock of the connection became clear: they’d rented
the hotel they were in on the same card.
He started running to the parking garage, reaching the entrance, and then had another realization that was as jolting as the
first: the rental car was on the card. In fact, the damn garage parking was on the card.
He stopped short, thinking furiously. The garage charge wouldn’t reflect until he left, but the rental itself was already
posted. He couldn’t get back behind the wheel. The authorities would be searching for the license plate.
The revelations kept coming, a shock to his system each time as his brain made the connections: the fireworks he’d purchased were on the card, and the meal he’d just had with Reynaldo might also register.
He cursed, wishing he’d given Reynaldo more than a painless death for making him pay for the meal.
He pulled out his cell phone and dialed Omar, getting him on the first ring. He shouted, “Get everyone out of the hotel. Right
now. I’m coming to you. I’ll meet you on the street, but you need to get everyone out of the hotel.”
“What? Why?”
“Mossad! Mossad! They know about the credit card we used. They’re coming. Get the team out.”
Omar stuttered for a moment, and the Ghost said, “Trust me on this. Pack up right now! Don’t check out. Just leave the building.
I’ll meet you out front.”
“You’re driving back now?”
“No. We used that card for the rental, and I paid for the garage with the same one. It’s only six blocks. I’ll come to you
on the run.”
He hung up the cell and began sprinting through the separate plazas, drawing stares from the locals out enjoying the sunshine,
and eventually reached the street that led to the hotel. He slowed to a walk and called back. Omar answered, saying, “We’re
packing right now. Are you sure about this?”
“Yes, yes. Get the van out and load everyone up in it. Right now.”
He hung up and began sprinting through the streets again, dodging the traffic. He saw the entrance to the hotel, then saw
a squad of police in assault gear pile out of a van, all milling about in a beehive of activity, not yet in attack mode.
He stopped walking, sagging against a wall and thinking about his next steps. Obviously, the mission was done, all that remained
was survival.
He saw a van attempt to drive into the hotel entrance and be waved off by the police.
The van backed out and parked on the street.
He was astounded to see Omar exit and wave his hands at the entrance, then the rest of the team dragging bags and running to him.
They loaded the van in a hurry and left the circle drive while the police were giving final instructions.
The van disappeared from view just as the police aggressively stormed through the hotel doors, as if they were willing to
shoot anyone who got in their way.