“It must have been one of the bees from the flower beds.”
“I don’t care what it was. I want the apartment sprayed with insecticide and the flower beds, too.”
“Oh, but El Patrón never allowed that—” Celia began.
“El Patrón is dead,” the major said bluntly. “Another thing: I won’t eat food made by those creatures.” He waved his hand at an eejit stirring soup. “They haven’t the faintest idea of hygiene.”
“I tell them to wash their hands,” Celia said.
“Look at this!” Major Beltrán grabbed the soup stirrer’s hand and held it out for her to inspect. The eejit did a little dance like a jittery windup toy trapped behind a piece of furniture. It was an activity Matt had seen before when one of the servants couldn’t fulfill a task. “There’s dirt caked under his fingernails,” cried the major. “From now on you will prepare all my meals.”
“I thought I told you to stay in your apartment,” Matt said. The two spun around.
“He didn’t like the food I sent,” explained Celia. “What was I to do? He’s a representative of the UN. Muy importante.”
“He isn’t important here,” said Matt. “Last I heard, Opium wasn’t a member of the UN.”
“Ah! It’s the little drug lord,” said the major, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Tell me, don’t you feel lonely rattling around in this big mansion? Wouldn’t you like some other children to play with?”
“Please return to your apartment,” said Matt. He clenched his fists and then unclenched them. He didn’t want the man to know that the insult had struck home.
“Be careful, little drug lord. Your country is surrounded by enemies. It isn’t wise to offend an ally.” Major Beltrán let go of the eejit, and the servant grabbed the ladle and started stirring again.
“Get out,” Matt said.
“Make me,” jeered the major.
Too late Matt realized that he and Celia were the only Real People in the kitchen. He wasn’t strong enough to tackle the man by himself, and Celia was too old. But it was dangerous to let Major Beltrán get away with defiance. A weak drug lord was very soon a dead one.
“You’re only a boy,” the major said scornfully. “Or at least that’s the official position. I would call you something else. You can’t possibly inherit this country.”
Celia watched the man with large, worried eyes.
“You have no authority over me,” Major Beltrán said. “I will go and come as I please. All those who would have protected you are dead, and your only guardians are a fat, old cook, a deaf music teacher, and a half-wit bodyguard who can’t even speak.”
Casually, without any attempt to hurry, Matt walked over to the soup eejit and watched what he was doing. His mind was racing as he hunted for some way out of this situation.
“Quit stalling, little drug lord,” the major said. “Doña Esperanza sent you here to open the border, and she doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
Matt had gone to the stove with no purpose, or at least none that he was aware of. But once there a voice, deeply buried in his mind, whispered, He wants to kill you. It was so real that the boy glanced up to see whether someone else was in the room.
“I’ll open the border when I think it’s the right time,” Matt said, watching the soup eejit.
“If you do it now, Doña Esperanza will be merciful. She doesn’t have to be, you know. She has an entire army at her disposal.”
Matt felt the back of his neck prickle. He wanted to spin around, to discover what the major was doing, but he instinctively felt that this was bad strategy. He must look as though he were in control. Do it, the voice in his mind said. “Do what?” Matt said aloud.
Don’t waste time with stupid questions! thundered the voice. Do it! As though someone else had taken control of his body, Matt’s hands grabbed the pot, and he whirled around. The major was much closer than he thought, and Matt threw the boiling soup at him.
The major jumped back, but not quickly enough. The soup splashed over his coat, and he frantically pulled it off. A knife clattered to the floor. Celia screamed. In the same instant Matt was aware that Cienfuegos was in the doorway.
The jefe launched himself across the room, slammed the man into a wall, and punched him three times like a professional boxer. The major collapsed. Cienfuegos casually took a pitcher of ice water from the table and poured it over him.
“It was good strategy using the soup, mi patrón,” he said, “but next time throw it at his face.” He went to the hall and called for eejits to carry the major to his apartment.
* * *
Matt’s hands were shaking as he clutched the mug of coffee Celia had given him. He didn’t know which had upset him more—the major’s attack or Cienfuegos’s lightning response. “Would he really have killed me?” he asked. “If he had, no one could have opened the border.”
“He would have taken you hostage and forced you to do it. I’ve had my eye on him ever since he learned you were the sole heir,” said the jefe.
“You need more bodyguards,” said Celia, supervising the eejit who was cleaning up the spill.
“I don’t know why I threw that soup,” Matt said. “Something just came over me.”
“That’s how the old man was,” Cienfuegos remembered fondly. “He was like a samurai warrior, always in the present. No one had time to outguess him.” The jefe was lounging with his feet up on the table, holding a similar mug, except that his had pulque in it.
“I don’t really like to hurt people,” Matt admitted.
Cienfuegos gazed at him over his drink. The jefe’s light-brown eyes were intent, like a coyote watching a rabbit. “You get used to it,” he said at last.
Celia bustled around, preparing another pot of soup. “I’ve been thinking about possible names for our new drug lord,” she said. “How about El Relámpago, the Lightning Bolt, or El Vampiro?”
“I lean toward vampires,” said Cienfuegos. “They come out after dark and drink blood. Very scary.”
“For the hundredth time, I don’t want another name,” Matt said.
8
THE HOLOPORT
When they had finished, Cienfuegos led the way to the holoport, and Matt was surprised to recognize the place. He’d discovered it while exploring the secret passages El Patrón used to spy on people. It was a warehouse filled with computers and surveillance cameras, and normally it would have been full of bodyguards.
“I should have thought of this room,” the boy said. “It’s one of the few places El Patrón allowed modern machinery.”
“You’ve been here before?” Cienfuegos sounded surprised.
“El Patrón and I used to watch the surveillance cameras together.” Matt was lying. He’d never been here with the old man, but it pleased him to keep the jefe off balance.
“That’s odd. He never let his other—” Cienfuegos halted.
He never let his other clones in on the secret, Matt silently finished. You can’t use the word “clone” around the new Lord of Opium, any more than I can use the word “eejit” around you.