“Watch where you’re going,” snapped Mazorca. He bent over and picked up his hat, which had fallen beside the boy. He placed it back on his head and continued on his way.
For several moments, the boy sat on the ground and watched Mazorca go. Then he stood, grabbing his bread and brushing off a few specks of dirt. His parents would never know that he had dropped it. But there was something else that he suspected he would have to tell them. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the photograph that the soldier on Connecticut Avenue had given him-the picture of “a very bad man who needed to be found as soon as possible.”
Rook did not recognize the man in the doorway to Scott’s office, but Seward clearly did.
“Thank you so much for coming, Ambassador,” said Seward.
“My pleasure, Mr. Secretary.”
Seward put an arm on the ambassador’s back and swept the other one toward Scott and Rook, who also had risen.
“Allow me to introduce Senor Don Luis Molina, the minister to the United States from the Republic of Nicaragua.”
The men shook hands. Rook noted Molina’s firm grip. In a moment, all four were seated, facing each other.
“I asked the ambassador to come here because he may have some information about Mazorca,” said Seward. “Before this morning, I had not heard the name. It is certainly unusual. I repeated it over and over-Mazorca, Mazorca.” He was enunciating the name, vibrating his tongue as he trilled the R.
“I came to the conclusion that it sounded vaguely Latin, and specifically Spanish.”
Here he paused, as if expecting a dollop of praise for his ingenuity. Nobody spoke, and he continued.
“So I sent a note to Ambassador Molina, whom I first met last month, when he was formally received at the White House by President Lincoln. He speaks Spanish, and more to the point, he knows a great deal about the affairs of Spanish America. But best of all, he is a great friend of the United States.”
Seward paused again. This time he looked directly at Molina, who nodded in acknowledgment.
“So I sought the ambassador’s wise counsel and asked if he had ever heard this name, Mazorca. He replied in the affirmative, and we arranged this meeting.”
“It is good of you to come,” said Scott. “What can you tell us about Mazorca?”
Molina folded his hands in his lap. “I have not encountered this name in some time, and I certainly never expected to rediscover it here in Washington.”
The ambassador spoke with an accent, but his English was good.
“The name comes from Argentina. It is not my home, but I know something of it. Have any of you heard of Juan Manuel de Rosas?”
Rook shook his head. The name meant nothing to him. Scott did not seem to be familiar with it either. Finally, Seward spoke, with some hesitance in his voice. “Was he the ruler of Argentina?”
“That is correct,” said Molina. “He was a rancher who became a dictator. He moved in and out of power, but he dominated the politics of Argentina for more than twenty years until he was finally ousted, once and for all, in 1852. Today, Rosas lives in exile, in London. During his reign, Argentina fought with its neighbors. Inside the country, Rosas ruled by fear. One of his instruments of terror was a secret police force-a gang of thugs and killers. Its members were fanatically loyal to Rosas. Within their ranks, they were so closely united that it was said they were like the kernels on an ear of corn.”
Molina illustrated the point by pressing his fingertips together. He squeezed them so hard that they turned red.
“In your language, there is another word for corn,” he continued. “You don’t use it as much, but you know it. The word is maize. In my language, corn is called maiz and an ear is oreja. Put them together in an ear of corn, and you have la mazorca. This was the name that the secret police of Rosas used for themselves.”
Seward straightened his back. “I see we’ve come to the right place,” he said with obvious satisfaction.
“There is something else as well,” said Molina. “Mazorca is a joke-what I think you call a play on words or…” His voice drifted off as he searched for the term.
“A pun,” said Rook.
“Yes, a pun,” said Molina. “Mazorca also means mas horca.” He paused for effect. “Mas horca means ‘more hanging.’”
“That is all very interesting,” said Scott. “But what does it have to do with our man here in Washington?”
“I cannot answer with certainty. What I have said up to now is based on fact. It is all true. What I am about to say is speculative. But it is also reasonable.”
“We’re all ears,” said Seward, who suppressed a chuckle when he remembered that this was no time for laughter.
Molina ignored him. “During the final years of the Rosas period, the mazorqueros were less active than they had been previously. Yet they maintained a horrifying presence. The most ruthless among them was said to be a foreigner-an American. He arrived in Buenos Aires shortly after your country’s invasion of Mexico and conquest of Mexico City.”
“We marched into Mexico City on September 14, 1847,” said Scott. “The country had become ours in just six months.”
“Yes,” said Molina, replying to Scott. “It would have been shortly after that. It was always presumed that this most brutal of mazorqueros was a deserter or a criminal who had decided to venture south rather than return home.”
“What happened to him after Rosas was deposed?” asked Seward.
“Again, I do not know for certain. But I have heard that after the fall of the Rosas regime, this man left Argentina and sought occasional employment from individuals who required special services-sinister services, if you will. I was given to understand that those who seek him must approach intermediaries in Cuba.”
“How can you be sure of all this?” asked Scott.
“I am sure of nothing. But you will recall the recent history of my region-the internal strife that has plagued my country, combined with the external pressures of British colonialism and American filibusters such as William Walker. We have lived through turbulent times. We have known dreadful violence. And we have suffered from the acts of men who murder for money. If the Mazorca you are worried about right now is the same man who operated in and around my country just a few years ago, then I am truly fearful for the safety of your leaders.”
“So our Mazorca is a professional killer-an assassin for hire,” said Rook.
“I believe that is a sound assumption. It is certainly an assumption that will prevent you from underestimating him. He is most dangerous when he is underestimated.”
Rook caught the eye of Scott, who quickly looked away. The general was chastened.
“Be warned,” said Molina, leaning forward in his chair in order to emphasize his point. “This man is a destroyer of lives. He will let nothing stand between himself and those whom he has marked for death.”
Beside the murky waters of Washington’s oozing canal, a woman leaned her back against a wall. Mazorca could see her only faintly in the dark. She held a small box in her arms, and her shoulders trembled. When she raised a sleeve to her face, Mazorca assumed that she had sneezed and was wiping her nose. But she continued to shake. Mazorca realized that she was crying. For several minutes, he watched her take turns between looking at the box and raising her head upward, toward the heavens.
Mazorca stood motionless in a doorway, about thirty feet from where she wept. Eventually the woman suppressed her tears and approached the edge of the canal. The stench rising from the canal was strong enough to repel anybody who did not have a good reason for being there.
The woman dropped to her knees and raised the box to her lips. Its top was open. She kissed whatever was inside. Then she set it down beside her and adjusted its contents. She appeared to pull out a small, rectangular object, flip it around, and set it back in. She fidgeted with the box for a few more seconds and then placed it in the water. For a moment it bobbed up and down and Mazorca thought it might sink. Yet it appeared to steady itself and began floating with the lazy current. By the time it had drifted in front of Mazorca, the woman was gone.