The Lord of Opium

“Of course not! What a crazy idea! What’s wrong with all of you?” Matt, more than anything, wanted to hug her, but she seemed afraid of him. Daft Donald and Mr. Ortega were standing at attention. Only Major Beltrán looked comfortable.

“You told them, didn’t you?” Matt accused the pilot.

“It was not a secret.” Major Beltrán seemed amused. “Doña Esperanza said I was to find the highest-ranking Alacrán and make a deal with him. Only, there is no such person. They’re all dead.”

“What do you mean, deal?” said Matt.

The pilot shrugged. He was a handsome man with glossy black hair and a film star’s face. His spotless appearance made Matt aware that his own clothes smelled of horse and that his face was covered with acne. “We have to open the border,” Major Beltrán said. “This place is in lockdown, as you saw when we flew in. Only El Patrón’s successor has the power to cancel it, and until I got here, I didn’t know who that person was.”

“That person is me. Esperanza said that I was his successor.”

The pilot shrugged again. “You’re a child, and your claim is open to question. El Patrón’s great-grandson should have taken over. Or one of his great-great-grandsons. Now, of course, you’re all we have left.”

Matt realized—how had he missed it before?—that Major Beltrán didn’t like him. The ingratiating smile meant nothing. The mocking eyes said, Three months ago you were a filthy clone, and in my opinion you still are. Never mind. I’ll make do until I can find something better.

That alone made Matt determined not to cooperate. “I am the Lord of Opium,” he said quietly. He heard Celia gasp behind him. “I will deal directly with Esperanza. The servants can find you an apartment, Major Beltrán, if they have not done so already, and when I open the border, you can fly home.” Matt was trembling and desperately trying not to show it. He wasn’t used to giving orders to adults.

Major Beltrán swallowed, and his eyes became cold and distant. “We’ll see,” he said, and left the room.

Matt collapsed into a chair. He was afraid to speak in case his voice betrayed how nervous he was, but there was only admiration in the eyes of Celia, Mr. Ortega, and Daft Donald.

“¡Caramba! ¡Le bajó su copete! You sure put him in his place,” exclaimed Mr. Ortega with the slightly flat tone of the deaf. Daft Donald clasped his hands over his head in victory.

“He’s been swanking around ever since he got here,” Celia said, “giving us orders like he owns the place. He said that international law made you a human the minute El Patrón died—not that I ever doubted it. He said that in the eyes of the law you were El Patrón, but you were too stupid to know what to do. ¡Chale! I don’t think so!” She enveloped Matt in a bear hug, but very quickly let him go. “I can’t do that anymore.”

“Yes, you can,” said Matt, hugging her back.

She solemnly unwrapped his arms and put them down at his sides. “No, mi vida. Whatever you may wish, you’re a drug lord now and must learn to behave like one.” She called a servant to take him to El Patrón’s private wing. “You look exhausted, mijo. Take a bath and a nap. I’ll send you clean clothes.”

3

EL PATRÓN’S PRIVATE WING

A servant girl took Matt along various passages and unlocked the heavy wooden door that led to the private wing. It was an area only the most trusted allies of El Patrón had been allowed to visit. A haze of dust hung in the air, as though the windows had been closed for a long time.

As a child El Patrón had been so skinny that chili beans had to wait in line to get inside his stomach. The wealthy ranchero who owned his village had amused himself by casting centavos to the boy. El Patrón had to grovel in the dirt to collect them. He had never recovered from this humiliation. He wanted to become so rich and powerful that he could grind the ranchero under his heel. Unfortunately, the man died long before El Patrón could carry out his plan.

The insult was forever green in the old man’s mind. He built a magnificent hacienda copying the ranchero’s estate. That was why most things in Opium were a hundred years in the past, but El Patrón’s private wing was even older. He had brought back entire sections of Iberian castles. He had plundered El Prado, the finest art museum in Spain, for paintings and tapestries. These he studied carefully, for his goal was to become nothing less than a king.