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 werenot 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’syourshit. 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 aseparate 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.
