Piranha

Behind it sat a stoic Alonzo Tallon warily eyeing Bazin as he walked toward him. Tallon’s silk shirt strained to cover a gut expanded by too much gourmet food and fine wine. His wavy black hair shined from the sunlight streaming in from the window behind him.

Tallon didn’t stand, didn’t offer a handshake. He simply motioned for Bazin to take a seat in one of the leather chairs opposite the desk and Bazin took him up on the offer.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Mr. Tallon,” Bazin said in English. Though French Creole was his first language, he’d been taught English at an early age by American missionaries in Port-au-Prince. He did not speak Spanish, and he knew Tallon’s command of English was quite good.

“Your demonstration was convincing, Mr. Bazin. Your intel about the raid by the DNE saved my organization a lot of money. We were also able to rid ourselves of five agents.”

The Dirección Nacional de Estupefacientes, Colombia’s antidrug agency, had targeted one of Tallon’s factories for destruction. Bazin’s tip about the raid allowed Tallon to shut the factory down before the operation and set up an ambush in its place.

“Call it a goodwill gesture on my part,” Bazin said. He smiled. “No charge, of course.”

“You said you had a business proposition that would continue to provide me the same kind of intelligence.”

“I do. It can be very lucrative for both of us.”

“You’ve worked in this line of business for a while?”

“Although I was born and raised in Haiti, I moved to France with my parents. I went to school there and joined the French Special Forces. I was asked to leave under unfortunate circumstances, so I’ve spent the last three years paving a new road for myself. This opportunity I’m presenting to you is my latest venture.”

“You are not even a citizen of Colombia, let alone inside the government. How are you coming by your information?”

Bazin paused for effect. “Mr. Tallon, do you believe in magic?”

Tallon’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Magic.”

“Of course not. It’s nonsense.”

“Too bad you feel that way. Because magic is what I’m selling.”

Tallon did not look amused. “Is this a joke? Is this what you came all the way from Haiti to propose to me? Magic?”

“It is. Magic is what will keep your product flowing from Colombia and into Mexico, where the cartels there handle the difficult task of smuggling it into the U.S. Magic will alert you to drug interdiction operations before they occur. It will tell you when the Army is pla

Tallon chewed on his lip. “Suppose I believe you can get me this information, magic or not. What would it cost me?”

Bazin rose and walked over to the bar. He nonchalantly picked up a bottle of 1939 Macallan scotch and sensed Portilla tense behind him. He had to be concerned that Bazin was so casually handling a bottle worth over ten thousand dollars.

“I’ve never tasted this vintage,” Bazin said. “I’ve heard it’s very good.”

“Pour yourself a snifter,” Tallon said. “Consider it my thanks to you.”

Bazin did so and swirled the peat-rich liquor in the glass before taking a sip. It coated his tongue like honey and went down smoothly.

“Its reputation is justified,” he pronounced.

“I’m sure you want to charge me more than that bottle of scotch would cover.”

“I do,” Bazin said, draining the rest of the glass. “Ten percent of your gross earnings.”

Tallon’s eyes went wide and flicked to Portilla. Then they both started to laugh.

“To call that absurd would be an understatement,” Tallon said. “I will decline your generous offer.”

Bazin frowned. “That’s too bad. Unfortunately, not contracting with me could leave you open to all kinds of business risk. Suddenly, raids could happen without your knowledge. Shipments could be disrupted. Bank assets frozen. Your whole operation could come to a standstill. Is ten percent such a high price to pay to ensure that these kinds of events don’t befall you?”

For the first time, Tallon stood, bristling at Bazin’s words. “Are you stupid enough to come into my office and threaten me?”

“‘Threaten’? No, of course not. I’m offering a valuable service to you. Surely I can expect to be paid a reasonable wage for this service. You see, I make more money when you make more money. It’s a very equitable arrangement, and we both have a vested interest in making as much money as we can.”

“I make plenty of money as it is.”

Bazin made a show of looking around the room. “I see that. But I can provide you with information that will make your life easier. And make no mistake, my intelligence-gathering capabilities know no limit.” He nodded at the Picasso. “For instance, there is a safe behind that painting. You access it by sliding a lever under the bottom right corner and swinging the painting out to the left. The combination is thirty-six, eight, seventy-two. Inside are one hundred thousand American dollars, two kilos of cocaine, a bag of twenty diamonds, and a matching pair of ivory-handled Colt revolvers. I can tell you their serial numbers, if you’d like.”

Bazin had been looking directly at Tallon as he recited the safe’s contents and the drug lord’s mouth gaped wider with the listing of each item. “I’m the only one with the combination to that safe. How do you know what’s in there?”

“I told you. Magic. Or maybe I have X-ray satellites watching this house. Or perhaps drones circling around day and night. I could have sent workmen in here to bug every room and plant cameras where you’ll never find them. Or . . .” Bazin paused for effect. “Or there’s always the possibility of a traitor in your midst.”

Bazin avoided looking at Portilla, but Tallon got the hint.

“You?” he screamed at Portilla. “You sold me out?”

Portilla had his hands up in supplication. “No, boss. I’m loyal to you, I swear. This guy is lying.”

“He’s not lying. He described every last thing in that safe. You betrayed me!”

“I swear I didn’t!”

Bazin edged closer to the bar, putting his hand by the drawer beneath it. To Tallon he said, “At least when I want to share in profits from your business, I’m upfront about it. I don’t want to skim it behind your back.”

“Is that true?” Tallon asked Portilla. “Are you taking money from me after all I’ve given you?”

“No! Please, Alonzo!” But Portilla’s eyes revealed the lie. With a look of pure rage, he pivoted and drew a nickel-plated Smith & Wesson from his shoulder holster.

Bazin didn’t know who Portilla pla

“You’ve suspected him for some time,” Bazin said. “I just did you a favor.”

Tallon stared at Bazin holding his hidden gun. “How did you—”

“I told you. Magic. Do we have an arrangement?”

Tallon nodded dumbly, then waved off the guards who had rushed through the door and now stood gaping at Portilla’s corpse.

Bazin walked over to the desk and dropped the Glock on it. He withdrew a slip of paper from his pocket and laid it on top of the gun. “The first number is the Cayman account where Portilla was stashing the skim. The second number is my bank account. I expect to see monthly deposits. And I will know if you’re holding back. By the way, he was also sleeping with your wife.”

Bazin left the office and made his way back to the helicopter. While his men got back on, his phone rang. It was the Doctor, likely calling to check on his progress.