Mexico City, Prime Minister's Office.
The ashtray in front of Casare was already filled with cigarette butts, and he had just shattered a cup, its shards scattered on the expensive carpet.
An abstract of Jeff Bennett's investigative report lay open on the table.
The boss had almost been taken out.
On his own turf, in broad daylight.
"The British..."
Casare gritted his teeth, his jaw muscles tensed.
Public evidence? Diplomatic protests?
That's too civilized, too damn unsatisfying.
The other side played dirty, almost costing the Leader his life, so they must retaliate in the same manner, tenfold, a hundredfold. The Leader can't say such things openly, but Casare knows what to do.
That was his own boss, after all.
He picked up a satellite phone from the table, dialing an extremely complex number, the signal bouncing through numerous relay stations.
The phone rang a few times and was picked up. There was no sound on the other end, just calm breathing.
