Chapter 3
Avillo Guzman walked slowly down the sloping lawn to the gazebo. It was his custom to have a light breakfast consisting of fresh fruit, toast and coffee there every morning, and Avillo Guzman was very much a man of custom. He wore a pastel-blue silk shirt, black mohair slacks and a pair of Italian loafers made of kid leather with a stylish tassel where the laces should have been. At forty-six, Avillo Guzman was one of the most powerful men in Mexico, and he knew it. His body was surprisingly lean and hard, and he did exercises every day to keep it that way. His eyes were a bit too cold, like glittering steel; his nose a bit too Roman; his features too sharp, and his mouth too wide, too sensual, with lips that appeared to be mocking everyone and everything, but all of this was offset by a quick wit and a keen mind that had brought him to the top of the pack.
He took a deep breath, inhaling the fragrance of his beautiful Cuernavaca estate. The fifteen-foot high walls surrounding the three acres were covered with a thick, lush growth of bougainvillaea draping down with cascading splashes of red and yellow. Jacaranda trees dotted the grounds, their gorgeous lavender blue blooms filling the air with a sweet, fresh fragrance. A man-made stream wound through the heavy-turfed grounds with quaint stone bridges gracefully crossing it here and there. Birds or paradise, gladiolas, and even orchids grew in profusion in little gardens along the stream.
The main house was in the center of the property, surrounded by jacarandas and fruit-bearing citrus trees. Above the main house, on the highest part of the estate, was the Game Room, a separate building set off by itself. Servants' quarters, enough to house the staff of some twenty-odd necessary to run the estate, lined the west wall. The communications center, a building housing teletypes and a small telephone switchboard, was located in the far east comer, close by the giant swimming pool designed with a small, tropical island in the center, and a line of thatch-roofed cabanas along one end.
Remembering that the rainy season would soon be here, Avillo Guzman looked up at the bright blue sky. He couldn't see even the hint of a cloud, and this pleased him. It was warm, but a slight breeze from the west made the air fresh and pleasant. It was never uncomfortable in this City of Eternal Spring, he thought to himself. For years he had lived in Mexico City, forty-six miles to the north, but that was when he was on his way up. With his widespread network firmly established, he could now afford the gracious living of the wealthy.
The gazebo, covered with climbing jasmine and surrounded by lush tropical plants, was his favorite place on the estate. It provided him a certain tranquillity in the midst of beauty.
Mark Wilson, not yet accustomed to the Mexican way of life, was up early and seated at the table when Senor Guzman arrived. He stood and offered his hand.
"Good morning, Sir."
"Buenos Dias, Mark. Sleep well?"
"Like a log! This climate is unbelievable!"
Avillo Guzman studied the fresh, clean-shaven face of the young American. He had high hopes for Mark. A few years ago a man like Mark Wilson would have served no purpose in his organization, but things had changed. Now a man like Mark would be very valuable. He had realized this the day he met Mark, even under the rather strange circumstances.
Mark was graduated from Stanford last spring. His family were well-to-do and Mark decided to take a holiday in Mexico before settling down to work. He had specialized in public relations and had an offer from one of the top firms in San Francisco. His two-week holiday stretched into a month. He would have stayed even longer, but he was afraid he might lose out on the position he'd been offered. Crossing the border, Mark Wilson was arrested when the customs agents found two kilos of marijuana in his luggage. Because of his prominent family, Mark's arrest made headlines.
Avillo Guzman was in Juarez that morning. He immediately arranged for bond and had Mark brought to his hotel room in El Paso. It was through Guzman's organization that Mark purchased the marijuana, but that wasn't the reason for Senor Guzman's sudden and unexpected assistance. Mark was just the type of man he had been looking for, and he offered him a job while they talked.
Mark had been using marijuana for years. Convinced that it was harmless, he intended to continue using it. And when Senor Guzman explained that a felony conviction, which was certain, would ruin his career, prevent him from getting a decent job and even deny him his right to vote, Mark accepted his offer. He flew home, arranged personal matters, went through a bitter argument with his parents, and returned to Mexico to live. This was Mark's third week in Cuernavaca, and he loved it. He had a suite in the main house, delicious food, and had even experienced two delightful sessions in the Game Room. Who could ask for more?
Gradually, Mark was learning the ins and outs of the Guzman empire. His job, his employer had explained, was to handle any touchy situations which might arise, and to develop a long-range, hard-hitting program to insure that marijuana would maintain its current status in the United States. Any moves to legalize the use or sale of marijuana up north had to be thwarted. As a result, Mark found himself on the side of those he had fought against for so long.
"Where's Dr. Gorman?" Guzman asked, sipping the piping hot, aromatic coffee.
"He helped entertain that man from Washington in the Game Room last night, so I guess he's sleeping in this morning."
"Any word on the Horner girl?"
The workings of his employer's mind completely left Mark on this issue. Perhaps he could get him to explain, even though he had been unsuccessful in two previous attempts. Mark slid a fresh piece of pina onto his plate and spoke as he cut the sweet meat into small chunks.
"Gorman told me yesterday that he'd received a wire saying she would attend the conference. Our man at Aeronaves says she's booked on a flight to Mexico City this coming Friday...."
Before he could ask his question, Dr. Gorman strolled into the gazebo, exchanged greetings with the two men and sat down to take a sip of the steaming coffee the houseboy had placed before him. He lifted his cup in a mock toast and let the savory brew awaken his appetite.
"Mark tells me Miss Horner has taken the bait," Guzman said.
"She arrives late Friday afternoon," Gorman replied.
"Excellent! And the interception?" Guzman asked.
"Consuela leaves in the morning for the states. She'll pick up the flight at Chicago. It's arranged for her to have the seat next to Miss Homer."
"Very efficient. I'm pleased with the way you handle things, Doctor."
"I wish I understood just what it is I'm handling."
Mark opened his mouth to add his own question about the Horner incident, but another interruption arrived in the person of Juan Hinojos, one of the men in charge of the communications center. Beads of perspiration on his forehead made it obvious that he had rushed from the communications building to the gazebo.
"Senor Guzman...." he began, but Avillo Guzman silenced him with a wave of his hand. Guzman raised his arm, glanced at his watch, and spoke.
"Calm down, Juan. If you hurry like that you'll die young. Inasmuch as it's ten-fifteen, you've come to tell me you've just received a teletype from Juarez. Is that right?"
"Yes, sir...."
"And the teletype said that Jaime Rios was just arrested at the border and two hundred kilos of marijuana were seized. Is that correct?"
Juan looked at his employer, his mouth open and a startled expression in his eyes. Senor Guzman must have eyes in the back of his head, or, better yet, a super radio receiver in his ear! The incident had taken place less than twenty minutes ago. The teletype came direct from their man at the border, and Juan had rushed to the gazebo the minute he received it. How could he know? "Well?"
"Yes, sir, that's exactly what happened. I just don't see how you...."
"Never mind, Juan," Guzman interrupted, "you're doing a good job in communications. Just keep it up. I have a certain instinct about these things."
Juan, dismissed with a wave of the hand, walked dejectedly back across the lawn. "Mother of God," he muttered to himself, "he's done that to me five times! I don't see how he knows!"
"If I didn't know better, Senor Guzman," Mark said, "I'd swear you arrange these arrests!"
Senor Guzman looked into Mark's eyes for a moment. Mark thought he was going to say something, perhaps even answer him, but Guzman thought better of it and leaned back in his chair. Fresh coffee was brought and the three men sat in silence for a few minutes, each lost in his own thoughts. Dr. Gorman broke the mood with a snap of his fingers and leaned forward.
"Before I forget it," he said, "Consuela asked for a car and a driver in Mexico City when they get here. She said to make the car one of the tourist type taxis."
"Send Paco. He's trustworthy and a good driver. Arrange with Mornera to have a car for him."
"But he's so ugly," Gorman said.
Guzman whirled on Gorman, his eyes blazing momentarily with a cold fire. The storm went through him in a fraction of a second, and his voice was perfectly controlled when he replied.
"You don't have to be handsome to drive a car! Paco will handle everything the way I want it handled. Have him see me before he leaves."
What Mark had seen in Guzman's eyes for that one fleeting moment frightened him. He'd always found Guzman to be the perfect gentleman, suave, intelligent, and in complete control of himself. This cold rage was an entirely new facet of Guzman's personality, one he hoped he would not have an occasion to explore. Mark was about to question Senor Guzman about the Horner girl, when Dr. Gorman saved him the trouble.
"How about filling us in on what you have in mind for Miss Homer?"
"Yes, I've been wondering the same thing," Mark interjected. "You've gone to a great deal of trouble and expense to bring the Homer girl down here. What's it all about?"
"Have you read that material on Jane Homer I gave you yesterday?" Guzman asked Mark, leaning far back in his chair and lifting is coffee to hold the cup in both hands as he watched the two men at the table.
"Yes. I read it all last night," Mark replied. "It would seem our little Miss Homer is the goody-goody of all times, the purer-than-driven-snow virgin type."
"Miss Homer will be a much wiser goody-goody, as you call it, Mark, when she leaves us. As to her virginity, I think Paco can alter that state forever."
Mark Wilson had grown to hate Jane Horner in less than thirty minutes as he read about her life. His first reaction was that she was very attractive. Her photos made her look like a movie star and Mark's interest soared as he glanced through the file his employer had given him. This soon clouded over, however, when he realized that Jane Homer represented everything he had fought against for the past five years. She was a Bible Belt Baptist, one who believed every word of the Bible literally. Her campaign against marijuana was based entirely on emotionalism. Her organization ignored scientific facts that didn't fit their preconceived notions, and they made a hero out of any quack who said marijuana was evil. The thought of Jane Homer being tortured didn't bother Mark at all. In fact, he'd rather like to see that stuck-up blonde get the royal fucking of her life. But he couldn't see the logic of it from Guzman's standpoint.
"I'm sure it'll do her a world of good," Mark said with a smile, "but I fail to see how it will help our business. What's the plan?"
"I have no plan at the moment, Mark. But let me suggest several interesting avenues to be explored before Miss Homer arrives...."
Mark and Dr. Gorman listened attentively as Senor Guzman led them along a number of rather devious paths. This was Mark's first experience with how Guzman's keen mind worked, and he was openly amazed at the ruthless cunning displayed before him. No wonder he's where he is today, Mark thought.