An Acceptable Sacrifice

Texas hired by the Sinaloans? … The American government?”
    “I hope to know more soon, sir.”
    “Thank you.”
    Cuchillo rose and, carrying the Dickens, started for the library.
    He stopped. “José?”
    “Sir?”
    “I want to change our plans with the bus.”
    “Yessir?”
    “I know I said I wanted safe haven for all bus passengers in Sonora on Friday, that nothing should happen to the passengers here.”
    “Right, I told the men to wait to attack until it crossed the border into Sinaloa.”
    “But now, tell the men to hit a bus here tomorrow morning.”
    “In Sonora?”
    “That’s right. Whoever is behind this must know that I won’t be intimidated. Any attempts on my life will be met with retribution.”
    “Yessir.”
    Cuchillo looked as his security man carefully. “You don’t think I should be doing this, do you?” He encouraged those working for him to make their opinions known, even—especially—differing opinions.
    “Frankly, sir, not a tourist bus, no. Not civilians. I think it works to our disadvantage.”
    “I disagree,” Cuchillo said calmly. “We need to take a strong stand.”
    “Of course, sir, if that’s what you want.”
    “Yes, it is.” But a moment later he frowned. “But wait. There’s something to what you say.”
    The security man looked his boss’s way.
    “When your men attack the bus, get the women and children off before you set it on fire. Only burn the men to death.”
    “Yessir.”
    Cuchillo considered his decision a weakness. But José had a point. The new reality was that, yes, sometimes you did need to take public relations into account.

     
    At eight p.m. that evening Cuchillo received a call in his library.
    He was pleased at what he learned. One of his lieutenants explained that a shooting team was in place and would assault a large bus as it headed along Highway 26 west toward Bahia de Kino tomorrow morning.
    They would stop the vehicle, leave the men on board, then wire shut the door and douse the bus in petrol and shoot anybody who tried to leap from the windows.
    The communications man on the shooting team would call the press to make sure they arrived for video and photos before the fire was out.
    Cuchillo thanked the man and disconnected, thinking of how much he was looking forward to seeing those news accounts.
    He hoped the man who had shot at him would be watching the news, too, and would feel responsible for the pain the victims would experience.
    Glancing up from his armchair, he happened to notice that a book was out of order.
    It was on the shelf above the case containing the Ulysses .
    He rose and noted the leather spine. The Robbers . How had a Schiller gotten here? He disliked disorder of any kind, particularly in his book collection. One of the maids, perhaps.
    Just as he plucked the volume from the shelf, the door burst open.
    “Sir!”
    “What?” he turned quickly to Jos .
    “I think there’s a bomb here! That man with the book dealer, Davila; he’s fake. He was working with the American!”
    His eyes first went to the Dickens but, no, he’d flipped through the entire volume and there’d been no explosives inside. The assassins had simply used that as bait to gain access to Cuchillo’s compound.
    Then he looked down at what he held in his hand. The Schiller.
    “What is it, sir?”
    “This book … It wasn’t here earlier. Abrossa! He planted it when I gave him the tour.” Cuchillo realized that, yes, the book was heavier than a comparable book of this size.
    “Set it down! Run!”
    “No! The books!” He glanced around at the library.
    22,000 volumes …
    “It could blow up at any moment.”
    Cuchillo started to set it down, then hesitated. “I can’t do it! You get back, José!” Then still holding the bomb, he ran outside, the security guard remaining loyally beside him. Once they were to the garden, Cuchillo flung the Schiller as far as he could. The men dropped to the ground behind one of the brick walls.
    There was no explosion.
    When Cuchillo looked he saw that the book had opened. The contents—electronics and a wad of clay—colored explosives—had tumbled out.
    “Jesus, Jesus.”
    “Please, sir. Inside now!”
    They hurried into the house and got the staff away from the side of the house where the box lay in the garden. José called the man they used for making their own bombs. He would hurry to the house and disarm or otherwise dispose of the device.
    Cuchillo poured a large Scotch. “How did