Dario Sava was eager to return to the comfort of his villa. He sat behind the utilitarian desk of the warehouse office, throwing pistachios at the chattering Capuchin monkey that caught, shelled, and ate the treat, then did a quick backflip to thank his master. Dario was still an attractive man, even in his late fifties. Known as El Callado, the quiet one, he had a mild disposition and a confidence that made him seem taller than his five-foot, eight-inch frame. He was calm and laconic, and a rare fit of temper was taken seriously by those around him. Few with his demeanor went into this business, which might explain his extraordinary success. Unlike the other men in his world, he had had one lover, his late wife Tala, and no children—by God’s choice, not his. He was not made for such things. As he waited for an update from his man, Rigo Mendaz, Dario revisited an old wound. Rigo had promised him, sworn to him, years ago that the gash to his soul, like an actual, physical injury, would scab and heal and perhaps scar but cease to hurt. Unfortunately, Rigo was mistaken. It had festered.
Unbeknownst to Rigo, Dario had put out the occasional inquiry, but his half-measures had only resulted in increased frustration with the lack of resolution. Dario Sava didn’t know how long he had on this earth; his business was not known for the longevity of its employees, and his health had always been poor. He did know, however, that his life felt... unresolved. It was an unsettling feeling for a man who dealt with incompetence and betrayal swiftly and with finality. So, on this day, the tenth anniversary of his wife’s death, he came to the conclusion that it was time to excise that old wound. His sense of, not so much justice as balance, demanded it.
Rigo appeared at the door. He didn’t spare a glance at the uniformed corpse sprawled on the floor. Apparently, the meeting with the local official had gone as expected. Rigo Mendaz looked more suited for a board meeting on Wall Street than the meeting with guerillas and mercenaries from which he had just come. He had traded in the traditional garments he had been required to wear in his previous work for Dario. He still wore the thobe when he traveled; blending in with hundreds of fungible Middle Easterners was an effective strategy for remaining anonymous. Rigo smoothed the lapels of his custom Savile Row suit, tightened his blood-red tie, and waited for Dario’s nod before entering the room, stepping gingerly around the body and taking a seat in the folding chair.
“All is as it should be,” Rigo spoke in gently accented English. Dario understood his colleague’s native Armenian and Turkish, but both men felt they would benefit from flawless mastery of the American language.
“Very well.” Dario admired Rigo’s economy of words. Dario delegated, and those whom he entrusted with assignments completed them to his satisfaction or were terminated, in both senses of the word. Under normal circumstances, Rigo’s response would be enough, but the importance of this particular order had Dario seeking more detailed information.
The turn of events had been quite serendipitous. A group of Chinese construction workers had been breaking ground on a housing complex in Harbin, Manchuria when they came upon a human skeleton buried in the soil. The workers concluded it was an adult male, based on the clothing. They also presumed he had been executed, based on the bullet hole in the back of his skull. More intriguing, however, was the square package, about the size of a lunch box, still intact, stuffed beneath the disintegrating coat. The Japanese writing and the date, 1945, stamped on the front made the discovery all the more puzzling. The workers left the package unopened—blissfully unaware of the danger—and followed the proper channels, but the inquiry to the local government had red flags flying. Subsequently, the item had been procured without incident by Dario’s men in the convincing guise of local officials. And since the item nestled in the pelvic girdle of the remains hadn’t been identified, the real local authorities had simply deleted the inquiry rather than reveal their incompetence. That wasn’t to say that the item had simply been forgotten by others who had heard the rumor of the discovery. It was found twenty-four miles east of what would have been a direct route from Harbin, Manchuria to the port for Kyoto, Japan’s base of operations in World War II. Most of the people in Dario’s orbit, white hat or black, knew what the item potentially contained, or at least where it had originated. Months of careful analysis and testing had confirmed his suspicions. Dario Sava had stumbled upon a gold mine.
After a brief follow-up with Rigo, Dario was satisfied that the item was secure and ready for transport, a decoy put in place, the bribes paid, and the buyers apprised of the purchase protocol. That done, Dario returned to the other matter.
“I want you to locate the girl.”
Rigo stared at the tiny monkey in the corner who stared back with a cocked head. Understanding dawned. Dario continued. “I suppose she is a woman now.”
“Dario, this is unexpected. How long has it been?”
“Fifteen years.”
Rigo shook his head as if to clear it. “So much has changed.”
“And one thing has not. This eats at me like the cancer.”
“El Callado....” Rigo began with the term of respect before attempting to contradict his employer, but Dario preempted further comment with an uncharacteristic bang of his fist on the desk. Then, in a voice as still and calm as a quiet lake, he said, “He took my child, hermano. I will take his.”