An Acceptable Sacrifice

within the hour, they said nothing of luck, hope, or the pleasure of working together. Much less did they shake hands.
    “See you later.”
    “ Sí .”
    They climbed in, fired up the engines and hurried out of the lot.

     
    As he drove to Cuchillo’s compound, Alejo Díaz could not help but think of the bus.
    The people tomorrow, the tourists, who would be trapped and burned to death by this butcher. He recalled P.Z. Evans’s words yesterday and reflected that these people were also—to Cuchillo—acceptable sacrifices.
    Díaz was suddenly swept with fury at what people like this were doing to his country. Yes, the place was hot and dusty and the economy staggered and it dwelt forever in the shadow of that behemoth to the north—the country that Mexicans both loved and hated.
    But this land is our home, he thought. And home, however flawed, deserves respect.
    People like Alonso María Cuchillo treated Mexico with nothing but contempt.
    Of course, Díaz would have to keep his revulsion deeply hidden when he met Cuchillo. He was just a shopkeeper’s assistant; the drug lord was just another rich businessman with a love of books.
    If he screwed that up, then many people—himself included—were going to die.
    Then he was at the compound. He was admitted through a gate that swung open slowly and he parked near the modest front door. A swarthy, squat man who clearly was carrying a pistol greeted him pleasantly and asked him to step to a table in the entryway. Another guard gently but thoroughly frisked him.
    Then the briefcase was searched.
    Díaz regarded the operation with surprising detachment, he decided, considering he might be one minute away from being shot.
    The detachment vanished and his heart thudded fiercely when the man frowned and dug into the case.
    Jesus …
    The man gazed at Díaz with wide eyes. Then he grinned. “Is this the new iPad?” He pulled it out and displayed it to the other guard.
    His breathing stuttering in and out, Díaz nodded and wondered if his question had burst Evans’s eardrum.
    “Four-G?”
    “If there’s a server.”
    “How many gig?”
    “Thirty-two,” the Mexican agent managed to say.
    “My son has that, too. His is nearly filled. Music videos.” He man replaced it and handed the briefcase back. The Schiller novel remained undiscovered.
    Struggling to control his breathing, Díaz said, “I don’t have many videos. I use it mostly for work.”
    A few minutes later he was led into the living room. He declined water or any other beverage. Alone, the Mexican agent sat with the briefcase on his lap. He opened it again and smoothly freed the Schiller and slipped it into his waistband, absently thinking about the explosive two inches from his penis. The open lid obscured prying eyes or cameras if there were any. He extracted the Dickens and closed the case.
    A moment later a shadow spread on the floor and Díaz looked up to see Cuchillo walking steadily forward on quiet feet.
    The Knife. The slaughterer of hundreds, perhaps thousands.
    The stocky man strode forward, smiling. He seemed pleasant enough, if a bit distracted.
    “Señor Abrossa,” he said—the cover name Davila had given when he’d called yesterday. Díaz now presented a business card they’d had printed yesterday. “Good day. Delighted to meet you.”
    “And I’m pleased to meet such an illustrious client of Señor Davila.”
    “And how is he? I thought he might come himself.”
    “He sends his regards. He’s getting ready for the auction of eighteenth century Bibles.”
    “Yes, yes, that’s right. One of the few books I don’t collect. Which is a shame. I understand that the plot is very compelling.”
    Díaz laughed. “The characters, too.”
    “Ah, the Dickens.”
    Taking it reverently, the man unwrapped the bubble plastic and examined the volume and flipped through it. “It is thrilling to know that Dickens himself held this very book.”
    Cuchillo was lost in the book, a gaze of admiration and respect. Not lust or possessiveness.
    And in the silence, Díaz looked around and noted that this house was filled with much art and sculpture. All tasteful and subdued. This was not the house of a gaudy drug lord. He had been inside those. Filled with excess—and usually brimming with beautiful and marginally clad women.
    It was then that a sudden and difficult thought came to Díaz. Was it at all possible that they’d made a mistake? Was this subdued, cultured man not the vicious dog