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with black hair and a differently shaped face. The only photographs of him known to exist were from his construction security pass when he’d been part of the crew building a convention center in Baja, and he’d taken care to alter his image for that shot. Cotton stuffed in his cheeks had created marked jowls, short-cropped ebony hair parted on the side and a bushy moustache sculpted a classic Mexican laborer look, as had the skin dye that had darkened his complexion by three tones.
    The only thing that man had in common with the aristocratic young proprietor of the shop was a frigidity to his gaze. There were some things you couldn’t change. The slightly tinted Dolce and Gabbana eyeglasses were sufficient cover, though, given that he was an unknown in Argentina. He’d considered contact lenses, but discarded the idea as unnecessary. After all, he was on the other side of the world from his hunting ground in Mexico and was now a respectable business owner dealing in curios and knick knacks for the tourist crowd.
    He’d bought the business for a song from the old woman who had owned it for a decade, and even though it barely made enough to cover the rent and his lone employee, Jania, he was happy with the bargain. It gave him something to do, without placing any demands on him. Jania took care of the sales and bookkeeping, which was simple, and he frittered his time away in an innocuous pursuit. Most of his day was spent in his comfortable little back office, and it was relatively rare that he had to deal with customers – a strong positive from his standpoint because interacting with patrons was the one aspect of the business he disliked.
    He unlocked the glass door and glanced at his watch. Still two hours before the shop would be open, which meant that Jania would be there within an hour and forty minutes. She was always punctual, along with being very attractive and conscientious, making her the perfect employee. At times, he sensed she would be receptive to a more intimate relationship, but he didn’t want to mix business with pleasure. His life was fine with the bevy of dancers at the strip clubs he frequented. Those relationships were simple and efficient, and nobody probed too deeply into his life. Which was how he liked it. Clean, with no baggage or explanations required; everyone lying as part of the transaction and nobody surprised or concerned about it.
    He relocked the door and made his way to the back office, where he reclined in his executive chair and savored his rich cup of brew. He had developed a number of bad habits since relocating; coffee being one of the vices he’d taken up and red wine another. It was impossible not to drink both in Mendoza, so he’d adapted, although strictly limiting his intake to two cups of coffee per day and one glass of wine. He offset these by spending two hours at his gym, an hour spent on hard cardio and another on isometric exercises and weight training, and he’d joined a martial arts studio, where he attended classes four times a week. It was a somewhat tedious routine, but he’d resigned himself to it as necessary, especially since he was number one on the Most Wanted list in Mexico for an attempted execution of the former president. Better to be a dull boy than to invite unwanted scrutiny. He was fully aware that Interpol had circulated a bulletin with his photo on it, and even though he had three passports in different names issued from dissimilar countries, he was still on guard, regardless that almost a year had gone by since his narrow escape and with each day the likelihood of pursuit diminished.
    Antonio, as he was known in Mendoza and in his Ecuadorian passport, powered on his computer to check on the markets. He’d invested most of his twenty million dollars in a basket of commodities, from silver and gold to copper and iron ore, as well as some currencies that showed promise, such as the Chinese Yuan and the Aussie dollar. He was now up seventeen