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Authors: Mario Reading
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towards US Immigration.
US border control had no reason to delay a green-card holder – they had neither taken Abi’s fingerprints nor had they conducted an iris scan, which would have necessitated an instant change of plan. Abi was clearly considered a model permanent resident. Madame, Abi’s mother, owned an apartment block in Boston, which Abi managed, and from which he derived part of his income. This he could prove. If the situation changed and anyone quizzed him about his status, he would tell them that he had been away touring, and had paid for his groceries in cash and traveller’s cheques.
Once he had clearly established himself as being in the US, Abi returned across the Rio Grande illegally. US border patrols were watching for people coming into their country – not leaving it. Crossing back into Mexico with a bunch of cash-rich wetbacks had been a cinch. All it had cost him was $200 and a few startled looks. What was a gringo doing smuggling himself into Mexico? Hijole . These Yanquis were indeed crazy. The fact that Abi was actually French had passed them all by, which further muddied his back trail.
Abi collected the Toyota he had purloined from the narco boss and drove straight to Ciudad Juarez, drug capital of the world, and the town consistently voted the most violent place on earth outside of declared war zones. He abandoned the Toyota in a side street in the shabbiest district he could find, and left the locked and loaded Beretta in open sight on the back seat. It would be a miracle if either the M9 or the Roraima were still in place twenty minutes after he had left the area. It was an altogether more effective way of ridding oneself of potentially incriminating belongings than dumping them into a convenient lake and praying there was no drought that year.
Next, Abi took the four-hour taxi ride to Chihuahua airport and boarded the first plane out for Paris. This time he used the fake passport he had originally entered Mexico with, together with the regulation green exit permit that had come with it, and which he’d claimed to have lost passing out of Mexico the first time. Simple and legal. Well, almost.
As far as Interpol and the US Government were concerned, the real Abiger de Bale was staying in an apartment building overlooking the bay in Boston’s Battery Wharf, while the fictional Pierre Blanc was returning to France from a holiday in Mexico to reunite with his family.
Of Abi’s real family, left behind to drown in the cenote, Pierre Blanc thought not at all.
Cenucenca, Orheiul Vechi, Moldova
14 March 1986
18
Dracul Lupei endured his fifteenth birthday on 7 October 1985. Five months later, he enjoyed a belated birthday present.
The old monk who had saved Dracul’s life three and a half years previously died, creating a convenient vacuum in the Orheiul Vechi cave monastery tenant list.
Dracul had visited Orheiul Vechi less often in recent years – he had other irons in the fire. But from time to time he had kept up his old trick of blackmailing anyone dumb enough to wish to visit the monastery. As a result of one of these visits, he had been the first to find the old man. The monk had died in his bed. Of old age. Or so everybody thought.
In point of fact Dracul, fearing that his father was about to throw him out of the house, had crept up one night – whilst his father was in bed with Dracul’s eighteen-year-old sister, Antanasia – and had smothered the old monk with a potato sack. The monk had been due to die anyway, being sick with rheumatism and pneumonia, so Dracul felt that he was really doing the old man a favour by speeding him along to Paradise.
The fact that the monk had saved Dracul’s life, and had, for reasons best known to himself, not handed Dracul in to the authorities for the murder of the man in the astrakhan coat, counted for little in Dracul’s estimation of the situation. It suited Dracul to have the monk die – therefore he made it happen.
US border control had no reason to delay a green-card holder – they had neither taken Abi’s fingerprints nor had they conducted an iris scan, which would have necessitated an instant change of plan. Abi was clearly considered a model permanent resident. Madame, Abi’s mother, owned an apartment block in Boston, which Abi managed, and from which he derived part of his income. This he could prove. If the situation changed and anyone quizzed him about his status, he would tell them that he had been away touring, and had paid for his groceries in cash and traveller’s cheques.
Once he had clearly established himself as being in the US, Abi returned across the Rio Grande illegally. US border patrols were watching for people coming into their country – not leaving it. Crossing back into Mexico with a bunch of cash-rich wetbacks had been a cinch. All it had cost him was $200 and a few startled looks. What was a gringo doing smuggling himself into Mexico? Hijole . These Yanquis were indeed crazy. The fact that Abi was actually French had passed them all by, which further muddied his back trail.
Abi collected the Toyota he had purloined from the narco boss and drove straight to Ciudad Juarez, drug capital of the world, and the town consistently voted the most violent place on earth outside of declared war zones. He abandoned the Toyota in a side street in the shabbiest district he could find, and left the locked and loaded Beretta in open sight on the back seat. It would be a miracle if either the M9 or the Roraima were still in place twenty minutes after he had left the area. It was an altogether more effective way of ridding oneself of potentially incriminating belongings than dumping them into a convenient lake and praying there was no drought that year.
Next, Abi took the four-hour taxi ride to Chihuahua airport and boarded the first plane out for Paris. This time he used the fake passport he had originally entered Mexico with, together with the regulation green exit permit that had come with it, and which he’d claimed to have lost passing out of Mexico the first time. Simple and legal. Well, almost.
As far as Interpol and the US Government were concerned, the real Abiger de Bale was staying in an apartment building overlooking the bay in Boston’s Battery Wharf, while the fictional Pierre Blanc was returning to France from a holiday in Mexico to reunite with his family.
Of Abi’s real family, left behind to drown in the cenote, Pierre Blanc thought not at all.
Cenucenca, Orheiul Vechi, Moldova
14 March 1986
18
Dracul Lupei endured his fifteenth birthday on 7 October 1985. Five months later, he enjoyed a belated birthday present.
The old monk who had saved Dracul’s life three and a half years previously died, creating a convenient vacuum in the Orheiul Vechi cave monastery tenant list.
Dracul had visited Orheiul Vechi less often in recent years – he had other irons in the fire. But from time to time he had kept up his old trick of blackmailing anyone dumb enough to wish to visit the monastery. As a result of one of these visits, he had been the first to find the old man. The monk had died in his bed. Of old age. Or so everybody thought.
In point of fact Dracul, fearing that his father was about to throw him out of the house, had crept up one night – whilst his father was in bed with Dracul’s eighteen-year-old sister, Antanasia – and had smothered the old monk with a potato sack. The monk had been due to die anyway, being sick with rheumatism and pneumonia, so Dracul felt that he was really doing the old man a favour by speeding him along to Paradise.
The fact that the monk had saved Dracul’s life, and had, for reasons best known to himself, not handed Dracul in to the authorities for the murder of the man in the astrakhan coat, counted for little in Dracul’s estimation of the situation. It suited Dracul to have the monk die – therefore he made it happen.
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