Incitement Read online

  In the decade since its inception, Spartan had grown to more than 200 permanent employees scattered throughout fifteen countries, with three times that number on short-term contracts. Over the previous year, they had billed $45 million with a $110 million contract backlog, and analysts were bullish about their prospects.

  Brewer enjoyed the influence and celebrity Spartan had brought him. People as powerful as four-star generals and US senators listened carefully to what he had to say. So it rankled when he was reminded that he still had clear limitations, that there were still those who were far higher up on the food chain. It was even more galling when the reminder came from a lowly gun-for-hire like Larsen. He hated having to deal with the Dane who always gave him the impression that he viewed Brewer as nothing more than an expedient tool.

  “Does everything have to be so confrontational with you?” he asked. “We have to work together and it wouldn’t hurt to show a little cooperation.”

  There was no response to the remark and he decided the sooner they dealt with their business the better. “It seems Prague was enough to finally spur Madrigal into action. There were four attacks on the Fifteen Families’ assets last night. Two of them were significant enough to have been picked up by the international news services.” He smiled. “It’s going exactly to plan. These simpletons are going to tear each other apart.”

  “You don’t have a high opinion of them?” Larsen asked.

  “Of course not. They’re a bunch of peasants who were lucky enough to find themselves sitting on a gold mine. Whether it’s South America, the Golden Triangle or the Balkans, most of these guys are just common thugs elevated by massive firepower,” Brewer said contemptuously. “They rely on intimidation and bribery to overwhelm inadequately funded police forces. Now, they’re going to see what it’s like in the big leagues.”

  “All we’ve accomplished is the initial phase of the project and, even so, we’ve been fortunate,” Larsen said.

  “Nonsense, we’ve had meticulous planning and the success of the operations is a testament to that.”

  Larsen just stared at him, and Brewer felt as if his opinion was being summarily dismissed.

  “You have the information?” Larsen asked.

  “Yes, it’s first-class stuff. Here, I’ve added my own summary to it,” said Brewer, handing him a data stick. “We used contacts in Mexico, as well as a couple of proven freelancers in California, hired through a blind cover. There’s no doubt about it, Zaragosa runs their West Coast distribution. From San Diego to Seattle, if you’re shooting or snorting, it’s likely your money is heading back to Mexico via Francisco’s pockets.” Watching Larsen pocket the stick without any comment, he added, “You’ve got information there about his movements, the organisational structure beneath him and his two main residences. It’s surprising how freely he’s been able to operate without incurring any serious media or police scrutiny. My guess is that a lot of people’s incomes are going to suffer when he’s eliminated.”

  “Fine,” Larsen said. “One more thing; I’ll need another transfer of funds to the same five accounts. Two million, evenly spread.”

  This was another source of irritation for Brewer. The level of autonomy enjoyed by Larsen should never have been approved. He had argued that he should control all finances, releasing funds when operational plans submitted in advance met with his approval. After all, he compiled the shortlists of personnel from which the teams were selected and organised all of the intelligence on the targets. Larsen had objected, saying he would not accept the contract under those conditions, and that had been that. It was not the money itself that annoyed Brewer, although he was sure there was some skimming going on, it was the erosion of his role in favour of someone like the mercenary.

  “It must be good to have unlimited access to funds. You know, you’ve gone through quite a sum already. My offer to help you with the planning still stands. Honestly, for what you’ve spent, I could have organised the same operations three or four times over.”

  “With the same degree of competence that you showed in that Nicaraguan hit before you left the Agency no doubt.”

  Brewer was stung by the remark. Larsen’s casual attitude was one thing but this! It was infuriating that he would have had the audacity to do a background check on him and even more so to make such an arrogant judgement based on it. Who the hell did he think he was? For a moment he fought the urge to lash out physically. He soothed himself with the thought that there would be a reckoning down the line.

  “Is that it?” he asked.

  Larsen nodded, turning away without another word. Brewer stared at the back of his head for a few seconds, feeling his temper rising, before leaving for the long walk to the car park.

  Larsen watched the waves rolling in. The coastline here was reminiscent of Hanstholm, where he undertook training exercises more than fifteen years earlier. Young eager recruits going through a variety of exercises, throwing themselves from helicopters into the water. The pure joy and exhilaration was as fresh in his memory as if it had been yesterday.

  Despite the planning Brewer had crowed about, the odds had been strongly against them achieving the one hundred per cent success rate they had enjoyed to date. In contrast to Brewer, he had a healthy respect for the abilities of their targets’ senior personnel, particularly Madrigal, whom he had studied in detail. His greatest fear was that the Colombian would somehow identify the provocateurs.

  In many ways Brewer typified everything that had come to repulse him about the world he had descended into. The contract executive viewed himself as some kind of captain of industry, a mover and shaker; all Larsen could see was another pig, gorging himself at the trough while others paid in blood. The episodes that had made Brewer’s reputation at the Agency represented many of the organisation’s most shameful moments.

  He pushed the thoughts from his mind and reminded himself to concentrate on the objective.

  “Tim, ignore them – they’re nothing: anonymous suits who’ve never had a creative thought in their life. You’re the reason this project exists. You’re the talent; remind them of that. They keep whining on about the shooting going over budget. Disappear again; they’ll soon see sense.”

  Francisco Zaragosa was seated at an intricately carved nineteenth century Louis XV fruitwood table with breche d’alep marble top. He was speaking into a gold antique Stromberg Carlson phone, telling one of Hollywood’s biggest stars to walk off the set of a $125-million movie. Looking out through the glass doors over the veranda, he watched the sprinklers burst into life and begin dousing the beautifully manicured lawns. Beyond the perfect sea of green, the rest of the impeccably landscaped gardens stretched majestically. It did not get any better than this.

  “They’re busting my balls, saying I can’t just go to Acapulco for a week in the middle of shooting. They don’t seem to appreciate the pressure I’m under. I don’t know, I want to tell them to, you know, go fuck themselves but ...” Tim Mitchell, star of countless action movies, known far and wide as a no-nonsense tough guy, wavered.

  “Tim, there is no ‘but’. Don’t you see this is what they want. First you start second-guessing yourself and then, before you know it, you need their permission to breathe. Someone like you shouldn’t have to put up with this. Stay in your trailer; refuse to see them.”

  “They’re hovering outside like vultures.”

  “I’ll ask Joanne to go over with a little something to help pass the afternoon,” he reassured the fretful actor. “Let these guys stew. They’ll soon see all their power trip has resulted in is the loss of another precious day’s shooting. They’ll get the message. Later.”

  Francisco put the phone down and thought about Mitchell. He was sure he liked the actor but was faintly aware of a small degree of contempt mixed in somewhere. He knew his advice had been good but was not about to lose sleep over it one way or the other. It was amusing to see what passed for a crisis in the actor’s life. Spending so much time with people like
Mitchell caused him to sometimes see them as his peers but nothing could be further from the truth. He wondered how his pampered acquaintances would fare if they were asked to fill his shoes, for even a week.

  Looking at his watch to see how long it was before his next appointment, he decided to take a walk around the grounds. Whenever possible, he made a point of enjoying his beautiful gardens – a leisurely stroll around the tree-lined paths and he felt completely restored. Whether he was uptight about some business-related matter or just burnt out from an all night partying session, his worries and fatigue melted away.

  When the opportunity to purchase the estate had arisen five years earlier he had decided he would use it to create something as close to a perfect environment as possible. He had overseen all aspects of the transformation, whether it was restoring the architecture, furnishing the interior or landscaping the gardens. Nothing had been done without his approval and more than once he had changed his mind about some small detail or other, requiring huge amounts of work to be scrapped. He appreciated the perfection of form wherever it could be found and had an encyclopaedic knowledge on all aspects of classic and contemporary art and design. He could talk at length about subjects as diverse as a painting by Caravaggio or a Le Corbusier chaise longue. He had been determined that concerns of time and expense would not compromise his labour of love. Because every facet of the project had to wait until he had time to address it, the transformation of the estate, formerly owned by an actress from Hollywood’s golden age, had been painfully slow. The long wait had merely meant he would never take it for granted.

  The estate, like everything else in his life, was a tribute to hard work and a testament to his unspoken conviction that he was different. His spectacular successes had vindicated his uncle’s patronage. Even more remarkable than his material wealth was the social position he had attained. He had arrived from Mexico seven years earlier, a virtual nobody. Today his circle of friends included the most celebrated and powerful in California. The only restriction placed on him was the care he had to take not to be caught directly in the spotlight himself. Being the nephew of Esteban Zaragosa, a man who dominated the Mexican drug scene, had definitely been a blessing but it brought with it certain limitations. He had been determined, though, that his observation of these limitations would not mean spending all of his time skulking in an illicit world. Someone as special as he was should have a special life and, as he had proven to himself and others, when he felt he should have something, nothing prevented him obtaining it.

  When he had been forced to come to the States, his uncle had left him with no illusions of how important it was that he make the most of this chance. Esteban had no children of his own and as a result doted on him. Growing up, Francisco had never had to recognise the boundaries of acceptable behaviour most people had to observe. When difficulties arose, they quickly disappeared once it was made known whose nephew he was. When his striking good looks had matured as a young man, they had only accentuated his proclivity for trouble. Other young people from privileged backgrounds gravitated towards his company and were willing to go to any lengths to win his favour. He revelled in the attention and did nothing to discourage them. It wasn’t long before the spoiled group developed quite a reputation. They became fixtures around the exclusive haunts of Mexico City, a king and his court engaging in all night drinking sprees before finally collapsing into any available bed.

  Something was bound to happen, and it finally did one night at a packed nightclub. An off-duty policeman partying with his friends had inadvertently pushed into Francisco, causing the young man to lash out angrily. The ensuing altercation had quickly degenerated into a melee between the two groups. One member of Francisco’s group, most likely as a result of his exhortations, got carried away. A gun was produced and the policeman was shot dead. The entire incident had been captured on the nightclub’s closed circuit TV and the story ran in all the dailies the next day. Editorials called for the guilty parties to face the same consequences as anyone else would have to. Esteban moved swiftly to protect his nephew. Within days no copies of the tape could be found, the youth who had fired the shot had committed suicide and key figures in the police force had been mollified with some generous “donations”. The press was taught to keep their fervour under check in the future as well. Two of the most outspoken editors were gunned down before the charges had even been dismissed.

  When everything had died down, Francisco was summoned by Esteban and for the first time in his life subjected to his uncle’s anger. He sat through the long tirade during which the man, who had never so much as raised his voice to him before, poured out his frustration at his nephew’s behaviour. It ended with Esteban telling him it was time for them to map out his future. Despite the fact that the shooting seemed to have been resolved satisfactorily, he had decided that it would be better for everyone if Francisco started over somewhere new. Esteban told him that he was going to take an enormous gamble. He had impressed on his nephew how a failure to validate his faith would have consequences for both of them.

  It had been arranged for him to go to California and to work under Enrique Montoya. Montoya was an old man and one of Esteban’s most loyal allies in the cartel. Francisco stayed in the background, assisting the old man in long-term planning, mostly learning but also offering the benefit of his fresh perspective. He was never involved in the day-to-day running of the business and only interacted with a very limited number of key personnel. It did not take long, however, for him to make his mark. Voraciously reading books on a wide range of topics from marketing to terrorist tactics, he realised he had a skill for gleaning what was relevant and applying it to the cartel’s situation. As a result of his suggestions, the sales of drugs to teens rocketed. Schools, rock concerts, nightclubs and even youth clubs were all targeted with specific promotional drives. Attractive, exciting brand names were introduced, helping to build product loyalty. Every six or nine months, they phased out products that were struggling and replaced them with new ones. Using a cell structure, they recruited their sales force exclusively from the ranks of the young and attractive, a resource California had no shortage of. These recruits, encouraged by generous bonus incentives, built up their own teams in turn. This pattern repeated endlessly and resulted in the market size growing and their share increasing exponentially. Occasional setbacks were easily handled as the recruitment mechanism ensured that key personnel were so far removed from the retail transactions that they were unknown to the authorities.

  Francisco also formulated strategies that allowed them to systematically out-flank the competition. Starting with their weakest competitors and working upwards, they concentrated on geographic areas of strategic importance to their rivals and began flooding them with large amounts of highly subsidised drugs. They would pursue this to the point where only one outcome was possible. Lacking the revenue to continue, the competition was forced to abandon the marketplace. Twice, when the process was taking longer than projected, he had advised sudden shows of force so savage in nature that they had immediately resolved the matter. These displays had required not only the murder of specific individuals in the rival organisations but also the elimination of their entire families. He had hated being forced to act so brutally and had derived no pleasure from the slaughter. Indeed, he had agonised long and hard before he had advised the second action. Subsequently he had tried to ensure that others could recognise without his help when such a response was required.

  In parallel with his advancement of the cartel’s business, he had set about his social advancement. Initially a stranger in town, it had not been long before his natural charisma, not to mention his wealth and unlimited access to high-quality drugs, began to attract a new retinue. The constantly growing circle of friends included people from many walks of life, although close inspection revealed a few common traits. First was their desire for his company; second, they were invariably either wealthy, attractive or both. No one with a tendency for violence or a
history of serious brushes with the law found a way in. He had learned well from his experience in Mexico. The cartel’s business satisfied any thirst for adventure that he might have and this other life remained totally untouched by strife. In time the most exclusive sections of society opened up to him. Whether they were politicians, celebrities or even select members of the judiciary, he had complete access. Between his plausible cover of property speculator, considered contributions to political campaigns and shunning of direct publicity, he avoided any unwelcome scrutiny.

  As difficult and demanding as this double life was, he knew he needed both aspects for total fulfilment. When his uncle had recently suggested that he withdraw more from the cartel’s dealings, he had rejected the idea. Nothing matched the thrill of outmanoeuvring rivals and operating beyond the sphere of the law. Perhaps in a few years his appetite for such dark excitement would be sated, but not yet.

  He stopped on his walk and took a moment to look around. It would be difficult to feel further away from the daily stresses. Unable to even see the house from this part of the path, it was as if he had been transported to another place and time. In order to preserve this atmosphere, he had left strict instructions that no one, not security, not friends, no one but the trained staff who tended the garden, were allowed to enter these areas. And so his surprise was all the greater when a figure emerged from the bushes and moved swiftly towards him. Surprise briefly gave way to outrage and by the time fear surfaced, the black-clad interloper had closed the distance. The intruder struck him viciously, driving a fist up into his solar plexus, followed swiftly with a knee to his groin. As Francisco fell, the attacker wrapped one of his arms tightly around his victim’s neck and prevented his pain-wracked body from crumpling to the ground. Francisco fought to retain consciousness but the pressure of the hold combined with his own dead weight was too much and darkness overtook him.