The Consequences of Finding Daniel Morgan

by Peter J Robinson

  “Look, Zip, we realise life’s different down here to back in the States. We’re only interested in finding out who the big players are. We need the information you have, and we’ll make sure you’re reasonably compensated without anyone knowing where the information came from.”

  More than his assurance of anonymity, Royle guessed it was probably his suggestion of financial reward that tipped the balance. Whatever the reason, Zip took a deep breath as he pushed away his empty plate, wiping his greasy hands down the front of his poncho.

  “The bird dealer you’re interested in is the same I mentioned recently, Jose Antonio Cordero. Trades out of a former industrial site and claims he breeds the birds he sells, but that’s total bollocks. Most were trapped from the wild, here in Mexico or various countries further south. Either that or they came into Mexico as eggs.”

  “Does he have any adults to explain away his possession of any young birds or eggs?”

  “Almost none. That’s what makes it so damned unbelievable he’s got away with it all this time.”

  Clearly Zip was emotionally involved, and it seemed to Royle there were two likely explanations. Either he felt concerned at the damage being done to wild birds with already more than enough problems, or more probably he objected to the unfair competition from people like Cordero.

  “Which birds are involved, or is it just parrots?”

  “Mostly parrots. He sold upwards of three hundred birds last year, around one and a half million dollars, tax-free. And that’s just what I know about.”

  “What I don’t understand,” Charlie interrupted, “is how he gets that number of birds into Mexico. Doesn’t he have trouble with customs? Or the border agencies?”

  Zip’s laugh sounded more like a duck being strangled. “Perhaps that’s how it works where you come from, lady, but down here money talks. Cordero can afford to make sure officials don’t look too hard, or pay people to cross borders unnoticed. Anyhow, birds are not the only things crossing Mexico’s borders illegally, so who cares about a few parrots?”

  “We believe you, Zip,” Royle interrupted. “You’re probably also going to tell us someone is issuing papers stating Cordero’s birds were bred in captivity. Either that or he sells them to people who don’t care where they come from.”

  Watching Zip gulp down the last of his coffee, Royle caught the waitress’s eye. “Of more immediate concern is how we get a look at Cordero’s place. Any thoughts?”

  The coffee arrived, and Zip was temporarily engaged in topping up his mug from a dented old flask he produced from beneath his poncho.

  “I considered that,” he mumbled, wiping his chin with his sleeve. “He gets lots of buyers from the States – tell him someone gave you his name. Just don’t drop me in it; these guys are dangerous.”

  Royle studied his friend for a moment. “Seeing as you raised the subject, you should know Dan was shot.”

  Eight

  Mid-afternoon they waved down a cab and gave the driver Cordero’s address, which turned out to be quite a large piece of land with a single entrance gate and high boundary wall. In addition to the old hacienda-style residence there were a couple of smaller brick buildings, retained from its former industrial life. Most of the site, though, was taken up with an assortment of wire-netted aviaries, some substantial in size and holding many birds.

  Royle had explained to Charlie why he needed to get a look around Cordero’s place – to both see what kinds of birds he kept there and hopefully get a feel for what else might be going on. He also explained that despite her Spanish it was advisable in these situations to claim limited knowledge of the language; it sometimes helped in the event of someone asking difficult or potentially embarrassing questions.

  “I can’t apologise enough for our lack of Spanish, but your English is perfect,” Royle suggested.

  Cordero nodded his acknowledgement. “Tell me what it is you want, and I’ll see if I can help.”

  “We’re mainly interested in parrots, but you have so many it’s difficult deciding,” Royle responded, hopefully sounding overcome by the sheer number of birds available.

  “Tell you what, why don’t I leave you to look around. You’ll find me in the office when you’re ready.”

  Royle could hardly believe their luck and was more than ready to take advantage of the offer. “That’s very kind of you,” he said, putting on his humble voice.

  With that, Cordero crossed the gravelled driveway and disappeared into a low building marked ‘Oficina’.

  “Creepy sod,” hissed Royle.

  “I have to say it’s arguable which of you two was the creepiest.”

  Charlie then followed as Royle moved from one aviary to another, drawing her attention to various parrots, and at times the noise was deafening. He also pointed out birds she was even less familiar with, including what he said was a falcon much in demand by bird-of-prey keepers worldwide. A single small building held nine or ten of these falcons, which he suggested sold for $10,000 each, though some buyers might pay twice that amount. There was between $100,000 and $200,000, quietly sitting there watching them.

  Royle frequently paused, either to scribble in his notebook or cautiously take photographs. On several occasions she watched him produce a small canister and spray the feet and bellies of birds clinging to the wire. He also explained that most of the parrots climbing around on the wire netting were still too young to fly.

  At one point they were standing by an aviary holding thirty smallish bright yellow parrots. All just a matter of days old, clinging to the wire.

  “Exactly what I expected,” he explained. “These are sun conures, probably from Brazil. The species is heading for extinction. There are too many for one pair of adults to produce, and anyway there are no adults.”

  “So, what do we make of all this?” she queried.

  To Royle the answer was inescapable. The obvious explanation had to be that these sun conures, and any other young birds they were seeing, had arrived at Cordero’s as eggs, had been incubated and were now being hand-reared ready for sale. It fitted what he knew went on worldwide. Eggs may be fragile, but they’re far easier to transport illegally than noisy smelly live birds.

  “Same again,” he announced at the next pen. “Twenty endangered thick-billed parrots, all young and unable to fly. With no adults that we’ve seen.”

  Cordero reappeared soon after, enquiring how they were getting along.

  “We’re doing fine,” Royle responded. “I’m particularly interested in the thick-billed parrots, though I’d still like to see what else you have.”

  However, even as he said this they were all three aware of a large black car crawling slowly up the driveway towards them. It came to rest just feet away, the two occupants wearing expensive dark suits, despite the heat. An immediate change came over their host, who now seemed extremely agitated. Ignoring the two agents, the newcomers addressed the dealer in Spanish, and even with his limited understanding Royle guessed this was not some friendly conversation.

  Cordero responded by apologising to Royle and Charlie for his brothers-in-law arriving unexpectedly, conveniently suggesting they continue occupying themselves while he attended to a ‘little family matter’.

  “Come and find us when you’re ready,” Royle responded.

  They watched the three men cross the driveway and disappear into the office.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Charlie said, only half smiling, “when I get married I hope I get on with my in-laws better than Cordero. His so-called brothers-in-law just offered to shoot his kneecaps off if he doesn’t pay up.”

  Royle grinned. “Are we suggesting they’re not actually related?”

  Charlie laughed quietly. “Could be a family matter that’s gotten out of hand. But a pretty dysfunctional family, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Do we know what it’s about?”
<
br />   “Something about Cordero not paying for birds.”

  “Well, then, that’s his problem,” Royle responded, a touch unsympathetically. “I suggest we continue while our dealer’s mind’s focused on retaining his mobility.”

  Twenty minutes later Charlie decided she’d had enough of this game. “The in-laws’ car has gone. Perhaps we should go see what’s left of Cordero.”

  Their host seemed in a surprisingly relaxed mood, presumably relieved to have resolved any financial misunderstandings.

  “Did you find anything interesting?”

  “Quite a lot,” Royle responded in all honesty. “I’m still interested in the thick-billed parrots, though I’m unsure how I get them back into the States. Anyhow, we have a problem.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “My wife’s just heard that her mother’s been taken ill, so I guess we must forget the parrots for now. You’ll have more next year, though?”

  “Come about this time of year and we’re certain to have those, plus most others you’ve seen. I get papers stating they were bred here in Mexico, and your government lets you take them into America.”

  Royle decided to play his naive card. “Don’t the people who issue the permits come to see whether you bred them?”

  Cordero smiled, a particularly arrogant smile. “Normally they never come.”

  Although unsurprised, they were both nevertheless taken aback by Cordero’s willingness to as good as admit that the birds he sold were illegal. Nevertheless, to Royle’s mind they had taken this as far as they could and asking further questions might be risky. He was also satisfied they had enough information to justify their little excursion down into Mexico on the Department’s budget.

  Charlie was still laughing as they searched for a cab out in the street.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You seem to enjoy those situations.”

  Her partner was obviously on a high. “It never ceases to amaze me how open these guys are about their dealings. He as good as admitted he’s smuggling in eggs, and that if he asks for a permit he gets one.”

  “What’s the spray stuff?”

  “It glows under ultraviolet light, plus it contains a unique chemical marker. My notebook shows details of all birds marked, plus the date, place and identifying batch number. If we meet those birds again anywhere in the world, we will be able to prove it.”

  * * *

  Charlie knew what Royle considered a major weakness in controlling international trade in endangered wildlife; he had outlined it to her in some detail during Thursday’s early-morning flight from Mexico back to Los Angeles.

  “A major failing is that birds legally bred in captivity are mostly exempt from international controls,” he had explained, “providing they’re accompanied by a certificate confirming they were captive-bred.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” she had asked.

  “A high percentage of these certificates originate in obscure countries around the world, which may not see things as we do. Plus, there’s the considerable difficulty of knowing which birds go with which certificate.”

  She had agreed that this might lead to a breakdown in the system.

  “The official view is that only so-called ‘developing’ countries are responsible for any certificate irregularities,” he had continued, “whereas informed opinion suggests the problem is rife amongst countries that should know better, largely due to a mix of corrupt and incompetent officials.”

  “Which countries?”

  “Well, you certainly can’t exclude America or Britain, and Mexico’s way up there.”

  “What’s the answer, then?”

  “Increased enforcement’s certainly part of it. Though Bamfield’s right, it would involve considerable extra cost.”

  It had all seemed perfectly understandable the way he explained it. But the bottom line, he had emphasised, was that the illegal trade went on whilst numerous kinds of birds and other animals, as he so eloquently put it, ‘continued to go to hell in a handbag’. He seemed particularly concerned that around one-third of the world’s parrot species were listed as in danger of extinction, suggesting it was debatable who was most to blame – the trappers, dealers, smugglers and bird collectors, or the politicians and government officials. Charlie decided he obviously had a thing about politicians. He had asked her what the difference was between a rat and a politician, and she had shaken her head.

  “Easy – you can get to like rats, and there are some things they just won’t do!”

  * * *

  Back in Los Angeles they drove a rental car back down busy Interstate 5, ready to accompany Deming Akroyd on his routine visit to the Big Experience desert site.

  “Glad you could accommodate us,” Royle said as they met up mid-morning. “Who do these people think we are?”

  “Told ’em you were a couple of government pen-pushers needing to see how the real world revolves. Thought that might appeal to you.”

  However, at that same moment Royle’s mobile rang, and Charlie heard him tell someone called Angie that he would get back to her.

  “Your secretary in London?”

  “Not even close. That was Angie Watts in Australia.”

  “Another of your informants?”

  “Almost a relative,” he responded, reaching back into his pocket as the phone rang again. Clutching it to his ear, he listened attentively for quite some minutes. “How sure are we, Mac, seeing as the body’s been in the water a while?” Then he listened some more. “We’d appreciate it if you could leave any search of the apartment until we’re available.”

  “What’s happened in Miami?”

  “Steve McGill’s officers pulled a car out of the bay. The body looks like my airport photographer, in the driver’s seat with both hands tied to the wheel. They’ve got an address but Mac’s happy to wait for us before searching.”

  As Royle was explaining this they got their first glimpse of the bird farm, stuck out there in the desert like some military installation. It even had what appeared to be watchtowers at the four corners.

  “Not an easy place to sneak up on. What do they need to guard so carefully?”

  Akroyd was shaking his head. “It’s not what it seems; it’s an ex-government site. They’ve done a lot of grass laying, with one doozy of a water bill.”

  Royle heard what the man said but was less than convinced. For one thing, when they arrived at the gate Akroyd had to reach out, pick up a phone and announce not just who he was, but who was with him. Only then did someone remotely open the gates. They then drove through into the parking area, which as Akroyd had prophesised was surrounded by extensive lawns. The one word already going through Royle’s mind was ‘money’ – someone here clearly had a lot of it.

  An elegant, long-legged young woman appeared as they emerged from the vehicle, escorting them back into a smart reception area, where she picked up the telephone and reported their arrival.

  “Mr O’Reilly will be with you in a moment,” she announced. “Can I get you a drink?”

  Akroyd suggested three coffees would be appreciated and these quickly materialised, before the girl settled herself back behind her telephone, the two agents using the opportunity to carry out a cursory inspection. A few coloured photographs of various parrot species hung on the walls, each of which Royle was able to identify, including a pair of Australian princess parrots. Through a small window facing onto an inner yard they could just make out rows of back-to-back aviaries.

  Conveniently, just as they finished their coffees the door opened and a man in his early-thirties entered and exchanged pleasantries with Akroyd, who introduced his two visitors on day release from office tedium.

  “I’m Shaun O’Reilly, Site Manager,” he explained. “What is it this time, Deming?”

  Royle and his partner excha
nged glances, both recognising O’Reilly’s voice from Mindy’s recordings.

  “More of the usual, I guess. Checking you’re maintaining the hygiene standards and that there are no health and safety issues.”

  O’Reilly suggested they commence with a look at the birds. “Particularly as your colleagues haven’t seen them before.” Then he turned to the receptionist, “We’ll be in the rearing rooms, Roxie.”

  O’Reilly first led them to the enclosed area they had glimpsed through the reception window, each aviary containing single pairs of parrots of various sizes and colours.

  “We keep them in pairs for breeding. It takes time learning the different kinds, plus there’s the difficulty of telling males from females, and adults from young birds.”

  “Must be a problem for people like Officer Akroyd here?” Royle suggested, noting Charlie’s reproachful expression.

  But O’Reilly seemed to agree. “It sure is, though the authorities have really tried getting their act together.”

  Royle waved a hand, indicating the aviaries generally. “What are most of these birds? They’re all about the same size but some have longer tails.”

  “Mostly small South American parakeets, plus some from Asia.”

  Royle was aware that if you needed to know whether someone was lying, then you should already know the answer to at least some of your own questions. And one pair of birds had caught his attention.

  “Those are nice,” he exclaimed, indicating two Australian princess parrots.

  There was no doubting O’Reilly hesitated. “They’re Indian plum-heads; we sell lots.”

  Royle’s mind, though, had already moved on. “There don’t seem to be any young birds. Wrong time of year?”

  Their guide explained how they routinely removed any eggs and hatched them artificially, before hand-rearing the young birds. “That way they grow up used to being handled.”

  By now they had reached the end of the aviaries and were standing in front of a windowless single-storey building. They watched O’Reilly key in an eight-digit code, and as the door opened they were hit by a blast of parrot noise. Inside, the experience was not at all what Royle had expected, being more like entering a hospital’s intensive care unit. Regardless that the building contained upwards of perhaps five hundred live birds, it was nevertheless clinically clean. Most birds were housed in small wire-netted aviaries built against the outer walls, each holding around twenty-five individuals of a single parrot type. All were young birds, many still unable to fly.