A brown haze had settled over the vast valley outside the bedroom window. Soon it would be winter. Everything would change. The pastures would be blanketed in snow, and a howling wind would lash them for months-- frigid and unending. Cavello's skin turned cold just thinking of it.
Still, it was worth it-- all that he had given up to be free. He had the largest ranch in the region. The extradition treaty with the U.S. was weak and rarely, if ever, tested. He had anyone who mattered in the local government on his payroll. He was safe.
And there were no delicacies like young Mariella back at Marion prison.
A couple of bodyguards, armed with machine guns, were lounging on the fence next to one of his Range Rovers, sipping coffee. At the girl's sobs they looked up and met Cavello's eyes. Hard to tell what they thought, and he didn't care.
"I told you to stop whining." He came back at the cowering girl. "You sound like a hen. Is that what you want-- to sleep in the barn with the other hens? Or maybe" --he undid his robe, feeling himself come alive once more-- "you want to screw Daddy again."
She reared up and cursed at him in Spanish. Cavello rushed forward and slapped her across the face again, slicing open her lip. He slipped off his robe and pushed her back on the sheets. He grasped her by the wrists as she struggled, staring at her perfect breasts, at her young pussy. "Yes, I think that's what you need."
Suddenly, he heard shouting downstairs, and then a loud knock at the bedroom door.
"Who is it?" Cavello snapped.
"It is Lucha, Don Cavello."
"What do you want? You know I'm busy."
"I'm afraid we have a little problem, Señor," Lucha called through the door.
Lucha ran security for him here at the ranch. He oversaw the men downstairs and the dogs that patrolled at night. All the local law enforcement people in Ushuaia were on Lucha's payroll. He was an ex-policeman from Buenos Aires.
Cavello pulled himself off the girl and belted his robe. He cracked open the door. "You're pissing me off. Not a good idea, Lucha. What kind of problem?"
"The girl's father. He is in the house right now. He is demanding to see her, Don Cavello."
"Pay him off." Cavello shrugged. "Get Esteban to give him a day or two off. I'm busy now."
"Señor Cavello, this one is different," the security man said. "The girl is fifteen."
"Pig! Filth!" The father's angry shouts rang down the hall.
Mariella threw herself off the bed. "Papa!" she screamed. Cavello grabbed her. She tried to break free and run for the door.
"This is not so easily disposed of, Don Cavello," Lucha continued. "If word gets out, it will draw attention."
The farmhand's loud voice could be heard calling him a pig-- and his daughter a whore.
"Bring him here," Cavello ordered. "I'll talk to him myself."
"Don Cavello?"
"Bring him here!"
Lucha nodded, and two of his men dragged in the burly, wild-eyed farmer. He glared at Cavello with venom in his dark eyes. He spit on the polished hardwood floor.
"He says he is dead to the world now, Don Cavello. And you as well."
Cavello stared into the farmer's angry eyes, while he stroked Mariella's slender backside. "He is right, Lucha. It is wrong to leave him in such shame. Give the man his wish."
"His wish, Don Cavello?" The security man looked on, unsure of what to do.
"Kill him. Shoot him. Bury him."
"No!" The daughter's eyes flared up. "No. Señor, no!" She fell to her knees, pleading with him in Spanish.
The security man hesitated. He was paid well to do as Cavello wished, and he would do what had to be done. "That will take care of one problem, Don Cavello." He nodded toward the girl. "But what of the other?"
Cavello looked at beautiful Mariella, disappointed. He knew he would not find one like this again.
"Kill her, too. Better yet, I'll kill her myself. Eventually."
Chapter 109
IT TOOK TWENTY-TWO HOURS, and three feature-length movies, to travel from London to Santiago, Chile, halfway around the world. Then another four and a half hours on LAN, the Chilean airline, down to Punta Arenas, a gray, ice-free port at the foot of the Andes, at the bottom of the world. We could have flown directly to Ushuaia, but if Remlikov had double-crossed us, I didn't want to be arriving there.
It was autumn in the southern hemisphere, and we were down at the very tip. The sky was slate gray, and a steady wind beat into our faces anytime we stepped outdoors. It took a day to adjust. Remlikov said Cavello's ranch was near Ushuaia, a twelve-hour drive.
"Where the hell is Ushuaia?" Andie asked, squinting at the map.
"South."
"I thought we were south." Andie smirked cynically.
I pointed at a dot at the very tip of South America. "All the way south."
For years, Ushuaia was pretty much noted for its remote prison. I had a book on Patagonia by a writer named Bruce Chatwin. He described a fabled and mysteriously remote land. Magellan had stopped there, and all he had encountered were Indians who didn't wear much clothing and huddled around fires in the most hostile climate. The Land of Fire, he named it. Tierra del Fuego.
As we sat there on the second morning in our rented Land Cruiser, ready to pull out, Andie said to me, "All I can say is, if Remlikov turns out to be a liar it's a helluva long drive back."
The route south and east was weather-beaten and winding, but the landscape was spectacular. Like nothing I'd ever seen anywhere. We immediately climbed up through the Andes. Craggy, saw-toothed mountains jutted from sprawling plains. Massive ice-blue glaciers nestled between the peaks. The channel coastline was rocky and irregular, as it must have looked a million years ago. As if God couldn't make up His mind between beautiful and desolate. At almost every turn in the road, swirling clouds opened to sudden chasms of the most brilliant blue.
We finally crossed the border into Argentina. The winding road hugged Beagle Channel, islands and peninsulas pushing out into a blue-gray sea that looked freezing cold. Occasionally men on horseback with scarves over their weathered faces waved silently from the side of the road. The landscape was barren and lunar.
We eventually came upon a roadside cantina, the first commercial establishment we'd seen for miles. There were gauchos sitting around outside, hearty-looking locals who looked us over and probably wondered if we'd gotten our seasons wrong.
"I get the feeling we ought to stop," Andie said. "The closest McDonald's is probably about thirty-two hundred miles away."
The meats at the cantina were roasted on open flames and served smothered in a green chimichurri sauce with vegetables on tortillas. Not outstanding, but not half-bad. We took a picture of a sign that read ANTARCTICA, 807 MILES in a dozen languages.
A young cowboy with a multicolored shawl let Andie climb up on his horse. Her smile was one I'd remember until I died. I hoped that wouldn't be too soon.
Andie looked wistfully at me as we climbed back in the car. "I wish Jarrod could have been here, Nick. All the things he missed."
When we came to the outskirts of Ushuaia there were no picture postcards. The last stopover before Antarctica.
The town sloped upward from the sea against a steep mountain, almost a wall. This was the other side of the world from Haifa, and not just geographically. The place appeared to be a pit. Narrow streets rose up from an industrial port, loaded with locals hawking everything from penguin dolls to Antarctica T-shirts. Packs of mangy dogs roamed the streets. The low stucco houses had these strange baskets atop stakes in front of them. The stunning beauty of our drive there came crashing down.
We found a modest hotel near the port called La Bella Vista that the guidebook said was decent. I shrugged in Andie's direction. "The Ritz was booked."
Our room had a queen-size bed, some pictures of the town as it was a hundred years ago, and a framed nautical map of Antarctica, which was as common down here as a print of St. Peter's is in a hotel room in Rome.
We ste
pped out on the tiny balcony overlooking Beagle Sound. The clouds were low and dark and swift-moving. Mountains rose from the flat land on the other side of the gray channel. A cold, nasty wind smacked us.
"Don't ever say I never took you anywhere interesting."
Andie put her head on my shoulder. "No, I can't say that about you, Nick."
We both knew the fun was now officially over.
Chapter 110
IN THE MORNING we went downstairs, and after breakfast, we made some inquiries at the front desk. The wavy-haired clerk greeted us as if we were lovers on a holiday, eager to tour the sites. "Would you like to see the penguins?"
"No penguins." I took out our map. "We're looking for ranches outside town. Maybe you can help?"
"Ahhh, la estancia," he replied, using the term for the sprawling farms that had been privately owned since the 1800s but were now tourist destinations in national parks.
I handed him the map. "We're actually looking for a particular one. It's called El Fin del Mundo."
"El Fin del Mundo," the clerk repeated, nodding. "The End of the World."
"You know it?"
"No." He shook his head. "But it is well named."
If I was here on official business there would have been dozens of ways I could have located Cavello. But unfortunately, they all involved the local police. I was sure privacy was a guarded commodity down here, and I didn't want to attract attention.
"There are many estancias north of town." The clerk took out a pen. He circled an area on the map. "Here, near the skiing. Or here." He circled another area to the west. "You have a car, Señor?"
I nodded. "A four-wheel drive."
"You will need every bit of it." He grinned as if in on a private joke.
We left town, taking a different route from the way we came in, toward the northeast. The road hugged the coast for a while, passing deserted islands. In the distance the mountains of Chile ringed the horizon.
Then we turned at the mountain road and started to climb, really climb.
"Let me guess," Andie said, feigning disappointment. "You really don't want to see the penguins?"
"After we find Cavello." I grinned. "I'll make sure we leave some time."
We drove up into the high valleys above Ushuaia. The plains were greener here, spotted with vegetation, the mountains sloping and tall. We passed a few wind-battered road signs. BRIDGES ESTANCIA. Another with an arrow pointing the opposite way. CHILE.
The scenery was spectacular-- frozen falls shooting down from steep, high cliffs, crevices packed with solid ice. We passed a beautiful lake, craggy mountains curling out of it that were twisted into shapes I had never seen before, bathed in a luminous bronze light.
We spent the next two hours bouncing up every marked road we could find. We passed a few wooden gates. All false alarms.
I was sure we were more likely to find Bigfoot up here than Cavello. On the way back, we wrapped around the mountains and came down to the west through the Tierra del Fuego Park. At some point we saw the biggest block of ice imaginable. It was at least thirty feet tall and covered the top of a valley between two peaks for miles.
We came across three ranches. Each was huge and in a beautiful setting, tucked into the mountains, overlooking barren coastline and sea. None were the one we were looking for.
I groaned, completely frustrated. Who knew what Remlikov meant by ‘near Ushuaia'? We didn't even know in what direction.
When we drove back to town around 4:00 p.m. the sun was heading down. It was one of the most scenic days of my life, but that wasn't why we came. We drove back through the seedy streets and pulled up in front of our hotel.
"Señor!" Guillermo, the desk clerk, waved as we came in. "Did you find it?"
"I found the end of the world." I snorted with frustration. "Just no ranch."
He seemed excited. "I asked my wife, Señor. She is Dutch. She works at el pasillo de ciudad. City hall."
I waited for him to tell me.
"El Fin del Mundo. She knows of this place."
I went over and let him fold back the map and indicate a point east of town, nowhere near where we'd been trolling around all day.
"Here. It is owned by an old local family. At least that is what the documents say. But my wife says it belongs to a foreigner. An American, yes?"
I patted Guillermo on the shoulder and smiled. "An American-- yes."
Chapter 111
WE DROVE OUT to find it the next day.
It was east-- not near the other fancy estancias but in a remote valley. We pushed the Land Cruiser up the narrow, winding canyon, cut through sweeping, rocky cliffs and overhanging glaciers. There wasn't a single road sign. We only pressed on because of Guillermo's directions.
We stopped the SUV on what I took to be a high sheep path overlooking the property and made sure it was out of sight.
Then Andie and I crawled to a hidden overhang and peered through the glasses. I knew it was Cavello's ranch as soon as I set eyes on it.
"He's here."
The property didn't look welcoming or open like the other ranches we'd seen. There was no sign over the wooden gate. Instead there was a tower and two men-- more like soldiers--leaning back on chairs, flipping cards.
"They're sloppy," I said. "That's a good sign. I hope."
Flocks of sheep grazed on land that swept up the steep mountain walls. But the wire that stretched from the closed gate wasn't to keep them in. It was barbed. It was to keep others out.
The men in the tower were armed. Two automatic rifles were leaning against the wall. I spotted four other guards patrolling the periphery with dogs. I wasn't looking at a ranch, I realized, but a fortress.
El Fin del Mundo.
The property was so vast I couldn't even glimpse the main house or the setup. I had no way to determine what the complete security situation was. So I focused on the guards at the gate. The damn thing might be electrified; at various intervals I spotted cameras.
I passed the binoculars to Andie. She took a nervous sweep. I'm sure she never spotted the weapons in the guard tower, but after she surveyed the property, she put the glasses down with a defeated shrug.
"Any idea how we're going to get in there, Nick?"
I leaned back against a rock, picked up a handful of gravel, and flung it loosely to the ground.
"We're not."
Chapter 112
WE WATCHED CAVELLO'S ranch the next day too, from the narrow sheep path about a quarter of a mile away. Each time, we hid the car and huddled in it against the rain and chill, just looking over the ranch, waiting for something to happen.
On the third day something finally did.
The front gate started to open. In the tower, the guards stood up. I zoomed in closer with the binoculars.
In the distance, two black blurs were approaching down the road. I hopped out of the Land Cruiser. Andie sensed that something was happening. "Nick? What's going on?"
I didn't answer, just trained the glasses on the advancing vehicles --maybe a quarter mile away-- which turned out to be two black Range Rovers. The guards at the gate picked up their rifles and jumped to attention.
The Range Rovers slowed to a stop at the estancia's front gate. I couldn't see into them. Their windows were tinted black. One of the guards in the tower waved and said something to the lead driver.
I knew he was in there. Dominic Cavello. I could feel his presence in the pit of my stomach. It was the same terrible feeling I'd had when I saw Manny and Ed lying on that beach in Montauk.
Then the vehicles pulled away, down the valley road, heading for town.
"That's how we're going to do it, Andie." I kept my eyes on the Range Rovers as they bounced down the mountain road toward Ushuaia.
"He's going to come to us."
Chapter 113
WE HAD TO BE a little patient; we'd known that from the start. Twice a week, Cavello emerged from his compound. It was always on Wednesdays and Saturdays, in the two black Range R
overs, and always around noon. Cavello would drive the first car, while two capable-looking guards followed in the second.
On Saturday we waited at the edge of Ushuaia and picked up his convoy as it headed into town. Was this our chance?
Cavello came in to have a meal --always at the same cantina-- pick up some newspapers and cigars, and get laid.
We'd learned from a local bartender, and a waitress, that the American ate at a café called Bar Ideal on San Martin Street
, near the port. He sat at the same table in the front window. He sometimes grabbed and flirted with a hot little blond waitress there. A couple of times they had been seen going off together, after her shift, to a hotel down the street. Cavello and the girl usually came out after about an hour or so.
Then, like a sated bull, he would wander over to a smoke shop a few blocks away, on Magellanes, his bodyguards a few paces behind. He'd buy a box of fancy cigars. Cohibas-- Cuban. Then he'd take a USA Today and a New York Times from a newsstand down the block. Cavello seemed to be fearless here. Who would recognize him? Occasionally he would sit at a different café, order a coffee, open his papers, and light up a cigar. Merchants seemed to cater to him, as if he was an important man.
As I glimpsed him getting out of his car, I felt my insides ratchet tight. All the anger and anguish from so many deaths came hurtling back at me. I could only watch silently, my skin numb and hot.
How was I going to do this? How could I get him alone? We had no bait.
How was I going to get close to Cavello? And then, what if I did?
That night, we stopped to have dinner in a small café outside of town. Andie seemed unusually quiet. Something was weighing on her, and I was feeling it, too. We'd been so close to Cavello-- and he was a free man here. Finally she looked at me. "How are we going to get this done?"
I took a sip of the Chilean beer. "He's well guarded. I don't know how to get close."
Andie put down her beer. "Listen, Nick, what if I can?"