by Jeff Siebold
Zeke approached the Ryūha and stood on the pier by her slip. He was fascinated by the large oriental character on the slack mainsail.
“Hello, son,” said a deep voice in unaccented English. “How do you like her?”
“She’s a beauty,” said Zeke, admiring the vessel. “Where was your last port?” He didn’t see the man, but he assumed that he was speaking from inside the salon.
“I just arrived from Grand Turk,” said the voice. It seemed to drift out from an open window on the near side, the port side of the boat. “Before that, it was Aruba.”
The man stepped up the interior ladder and out onto the deck near the cockpit and wheel. He was an average sized man, and to Zeke he did indeed look like an oriental camera salesman. He moved efficiently and effortlessly, although to Zeke he looked to be near fifty years old, certainly older than Zeke’s Dad.
“Hello,” he said. “My name is Eddie.” He held his hand out to Zeke, who took it and shook it from the pier. “I’m Zeke.”
“Are you visiting, Zeke?” asked Eddie.
“No, we live just over there.” Zeke pointed to the West Wind, moored two piers away.
“Aha,” said Eddie.
“What does that character on your mainsail mean?” asked Zeke.
“It means Tranquility,” said Eddie.
“I thought it might be the symbol for Ryūha, the name of your sailboat,” said Zeke.
“Ah, no. Ryūha is a school, like a ‘school of thought’,” said Eddie. He smiled at Zeke. “Japanese martial arts are classified into ryūha.”
“So, are you a Kung Fu expert?” asked the boy.
“No,” said Eddie, “that’s pretty violent. But I do know a little something about Jiu Jitsu.”
“What’s that?” asked Zeke.
“Well,” said Eddie, “it’s also a martial art, but it’s all about using your opponent’s force and momentum against him rather than meeting force with force.”
“Really?” said Zeke. “That sounds pretty cool.”
“It is,” said Eddie. “The Japanese developed it to fight the samurai years ago.”
“Could I learn it?” asked Zeke.
“I’m sure you could,” said Eddie. “Anyone can. It starts with the right mindset. Hence, tranquility.”
Chapter 17
George, The Accountant, was dialing a phone number that rang exactly 2,000 miles away, in a heavily protected villa in San Luis del Colorado, Sonora, Mexico. It was, actually, the largest villa in Sonora, George reflected, and calling it a villa didn’t do it justice. It was a castle, perhaps, but not a villa. The phone George was calling from was a pre-paid cell phone, and he had disabled its GPS tracking to make it untraceable.
The next step would be to re-establish contact with Cruz and make new arrangements to recover the stolen money and the plates. George was fairly certain that this time Jefe would expect that Cruz be eliminated at the drop point as collateral damage. There was too much risk, in George’s mind, to let him live. Already the Secret Service was involved, and no one could afford the trouble they could bring if they were pointed in the right direction. No, Cruz was a dead man walking, as was his immediate family in Sonora Rio. Someone else, someone local to them, would take care of that.
He heard the distant ringing, and after four rings Jefe answered. Perhaps he had been playing with the bambinos, George thought.
“Si,” said Jefe.
“Excuse me, Jefe,” said George. “I am calling to report.”
“Si,” said Jefe.
Continuing in Spanish, George outlined the activity at the coffee shop Friday evening. Cruz had not come, as promised, but had sent a man who resembled him to make the transfer. George had initiated action against the man, initially thought to be Cruz, but someone else had intervened and taken the backpack with the money and the printer plates. George had followed him and isolated the man’s activity to three buildings. Outside of the third building, he, George, had retrieved the man’s backpack, but found it to be empty.
“What do you suggest that we do?” asked Jefe. This was a dangerous question, in that it set George up as responsible for any future failures in his plan.
“Jefe, I will find Alberto Cruz and retrieve your belongings,” said George, because he knew that no other answer would be acceptable.
“Si,” said Jefe.
* * *
“I don’t care what it takes,” Fitch was saying, “You’ve got to find this guy.”
It was Saturday afternoon, and Tracy Johnson and Ron Marcus were sitting in one of the small conference rooms and briefing their boss on the current status of the manhunt. Through the window, the outside view of the Atlanta skyline was deceptively calm. Fitch was anything but calm.
Alan Fitch had been with the Secret Service for over twenty-five years, and had risen quickly to supervisory positions. His service record was stellar, and in his annual reviews he typically rated in the top ten percent of the agents. Fitch was active in Personal Protection Details in his early career, both because of his physical prowess and his intense focus and commitment.
At six feet five inches tall, Fitch began his work in the Personal Protection Detail, and within eight years had attained the prestigious position as one of the “human wall” that surrounds the President of the United States in times of trouble. His career in this position spanned three Presidents.
Then, in May 2005, President George W. Bush was giving a speech in the Freedom Square in Tbilisi, Georgia, a part of the former Soviet Union, when a live RDG-5 Soviet hand grenade was thrown at the podium from which he was speaking. Unfortunately, Fitch had been on duty that day, and although the grenade did not detonate, the political shrapnel was enough to derail his career. He was moved to Atlanta shortly thereafter.
Today, Fitch was angry. His face was red as he paced the small room.
Tracy noticed that the active pronoun had shifted from first person plural to second person plural, from “we” to “you”, as in, “You’ve got to find this guy.” There’s no “I” in “team”, she thought. And there’s no Fitch in “team” either.
Setting up a perimeter would have been impossible, considering that the time of the hit-and-run was 4:50 PM on a Friday evening, almost exactly the time that most of the office buildings in downtown Atlanta, a city of almost a half million people, called it a day. Traffic north and south along the Interstates would be bumper to bumper, and there were just too many alternative routes out of the city for the Georgia Highway Patrol to cover.
A door-to-door search had been considered, but the idea was dismissed due to the transient nature of the neighborhood, the students and the downtown activity. Officers were stationed at Cruz’s hotel, both in the lobby and in the corridor to his room. His cell phone GPS was being actively tracked (it appeared that the phone was off), and BOLO’s had been sent to all the rental car agencies, the airport and TSA, the bus terminals, taxi cabs, the Amtrak personnel, MARTA police and, because of the proximity, the Georgia Tech campus police. A few younger sheriffs’ deputies in plain clothes were circulating around the campus, stopping in shops and restaurants and watching for the illusive Mexican. And watching for the missing printer plates.
Further, if Cruz used any of his credit or debit cards, red flags would fly, and Tracy’s office would be notified. If he turned his cell phone on, they would be alerted immediately. If he bought a ticket, rented a car or hotel room, took a cab or grabbed some dinner, the Secret Service would know.
That’s how Tracy had spent her Saturday. Since then, almost 24 hours from his no-show at the coffee shop, the Secret Service offices had been commandeered and were being used as a com center, a clearing house for any and all information and coordination in finding this critical target. At the same time, everything Cruz was being re-looked, re-thought and reviewed by an independent team of agents from outside the original operation. They had arrived this morning from D.C and had spent the day sifting back through every note, every conversation, every vi
deotape, and every communication that had taken place with or about Cruz. Two of the team had been assigned as deep background researchers, looking specifically at Cruz’s habits and history.
We’ve got to catch a break, Tracy thought. Something has to happen. Tracy figured that Fitch was upset because he’d let the counterfeiting plates go and was bound to lose face if they weren’t returned. It would be his second strike. Maybe not career ending, but certainly uncomfortable and embarrassing. Sort of along the lines of losing his weapon to a perp, she thought. But it didn’t reflect well on her either, she admitted to herself.
“So, boss, do you think Cruz insisted on having the original printer plates at the exchange for credibility, or do you think he planned this all along?” asked Ron, who was sitting across from Tracy.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Fitch. “What matters is that we find him and the plates and get it all back here where they belong.” Cruz had been very convincing as he described Jefe’s operation and the need for “authentic equipment” at the exchange.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” said Fitch, and he left the conference room with a scowl on his face.
“So, we know that Cruz worked for Jefe in his counterfeiting operation,” said Ron. “And we know that he’s been there for a long time, years. So then, all of a sudden, Cruz decides to leave town on the run. Why?”
“He could have been in danger in Mexico,” Tracy said. “Or maybe he crossed Jefe somehow. He could have been skimming off the top, and was caught.”
“So, for whatever reason, Cruz gets in his car and drives to Phoenix, and then he flies to Atlanta to escape. But somebody spots him leaving, and when he gets here, he realizes that he hasn’t escaped at all. They watch him and they make it clear that he’s on borrowed time.”
“Sounds right so far,” said Tracy, and she nodded. She noticed that it was after five o’clock, and as she glanced around she realized that no one in the office was even thinking about going home yet.
“And,” continued Ron, “Cruz took printer plates and several hundred thousand dollars worth of counterfeit money with him.”
“Maybe more than that,” said Tracy. “We don’t know what he might have held back.”
“Right,” said Ron. He thought some more.
“So, Mr. Cruz is renting a house not far from here when he realizes that he’s caught, he’s been found out,” Ron continued. “The tough guys are coming to town, and Cruz is no fighter. He’s an artist.”
“Yep,” Tracy nodded again. “So he runs for the closest help he can find, the police.”
“Who basically tell him they won’t babysit him, that no crime has been committed, and that there’s nothing they can do. When he mentions counterfeiting, they tell him he needs to talk with us.”
“Right,” said Tracy, “and since he’s on a limited time visa, and since there’s the counterfeiting crime involved, the political brass decides that they should pawn this off on the Feds. It’s too volatile to ignore, and they don’t need any bad press that comes from the situation. The easy move is to wrap Cruz up and deliver him here, to the ‘counterfeiting specialists’. That would be us.”
“So the week he was here, he spent every minute in this office with some of us,” said Ron. “We thought we were keeping him close to keep an eye on him, but Mr. Cruz was staying here for his own protection. Clever man. He even agreed to sleep here the first nights, when Fitch brought it up.”
Tracy nodded. She was wearing a green cable sweater, an Irish looking color, over boot-cut jeans and black ankle boots. Her brown shoulder length hair was worn down today, framing her features, and her makeup was minimal.
“So,” she said, “The arrangement to return the printer plates, the exchange, Cruz ran on his own game plan there, too.”
“He did. He found a substitute to meet with Jefe’s man, knowing that there was a good case for his demise at that point. I’m sure he had an idea that the substitute might end up dead,” said Ron.
“Maybe, but it will be tough to prove it,” Tracy said.
“And Mr. Cruz is a magician. While we were all watching the diversion, he made himself disappear.”
Chapter 18
Alberto Cruz was very careful. Especially now that he’d escaped a potentially deadly trap and had essentially disappeared from sight. Being an artist, and a careful and cautious one at that, Cruz knew how to first visualize the end result and then bring the small supporting components – the brush strokes – into play. He understood deception. Cruz had long been a survivor.
Cruz was nothing if not cautious. As an artist, he was predisposed to slow, painstaking detail and extensive preparation. He had once spent 56 and a half hours copying the detail of Benjamin Franklin’s face from a US $100 bill, only to discard the results and start over. He was a perfectionist; that was certain.
For years, Cruz had avoided being on the cartel’s radar screen, working behind the scenes on smaller and less valuable forgeries. He had settled for less in order to avoid being visible, a position that, as he had known instinctively, he would lose both control and freedom. Although he acted simple and at times ignorant, and although he looked short and squat and disheveled, Cruz was a man of extraordinary intelligence and craftiness. He combined street smarts with a unique cleverness that his appearance belied.
Growing up in San Luis Rio Colorado, or Sonora Rio, as the locals called it, was difficult. It called for a level of guile, of invisibility, of deception. During the summers this was the hottest place in Mexico…and one of the hottest places in the world. In the summer months, the temperature ranged between 77 degrees and 113 degrees Fahrenheit, with the desert dryness being the only saving factor. Cruz remembered the debilitating heat and the afternoon searches for shade and breeze. The latter was an unusual meteorological occurrence, usually preceding the occasional summer storm.
As a child, Alberto had developed slowly. In his early years, adopted by an aunt, Tia Romana, he had been round and overweight and introverted. He had been bullied mercilessly in school and had ultimately dropped out of the High School on Calle 31 to avoid the constant abuse. At fourteen, Alberto had moved south to work with his dead mother’s brother, his uncle, in the port town of Puerto Peñasco, the Rocky Point. Uncle Pablo was a fisherman, a proud man who supported his family and extended family through hard work and meager living. And through some shady activities.
Uncle Pablo had acquired a boat, El Barco, a few years before Alberto moved to the port city. It was a solid fishing boat, with rusty-but-working cable arms for traps and large rigs for netting fish and shrimp. Alberto came aboard as a teenager and spent the next four years working with his uncle. Eventually, there was nothing aboard the boat that he wasn’t able to do, from mending the nets with the other men, to repairing the engine, to scaling and cooking the fish for lunch or dinner.
In what little spare time he had, Alberto read and learned. He ingested any books that he could find, reading them many times, books in both Spanish and English, books new and old, from whatever the source. He never tired of the Puerto Peñasco Public Library, and visited there whenever he was off the boat.
The Puerto Peñasco Public Library is where Alberto met his wife. At seventeen, he had grown leaner and, although still short and barrel chested, like many young men he had acquired an air of confidence. He returned a book at the counter, and as he pushed open the library door to leave he saw a beautiful young woman approaching from the parking lot. He paused and held the door open until she arrived.
From his perspective, she looked to be eighteen or twenty years old, with long black hair and dark eyes set in a soft round face. Her hair was pulled back and tied in a small scarf with Indian patterns on it, and her look was a serious one. She was wearing a cotton dress that matched the scarf and fell to just below her knees. Her shoes were black with a single strap.
Cruz immediately looked around for her chaperone, probably her mother or an aunt. It was unusual for young, single Mexican girls to trave
l alone in Puerto Peñasco. But he saw no one else.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Cruz said in Spanish, still holding the library door open, “Your look is so serious…can I help you?”
“Oh, no, thank you, senor,” she said. Her unexpected accent caused him to rethink her origins, and he was now leaning more toward South America, perhaps Ecuador.
“You aren’t from around here, are you?” he asked politely as she passed through the door he held.
“Thank you,” she stopped and looked back at him, “for holding the door, I mean.” She was deciding something, he could tell.
“De Nada,” he said. “You’re sure I can’t help?”
“Well,” and then she made her decision. It didn’t hurt that Cruz had grown into a strong, good looking young man while working on his uncle’s boat. “Well, my car has stopped, and I was able to get it into the library parking lot, but no farther. I was going to ask the librarians for help, or to call someone.”
“I’m very good with engines,” Cruz said. “Let’s take a look at it.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I am Graciela,” she added.
“I am Alberto,” he responded.
* * *
Over time, Cruz’s language skills grew and by watching shows on U.S. television, Alberto was able to lose his accent. By then, he was both crafty and instinctive, characteristics he had learned from Uncle Pablo and from his time on the streets of Puerto Peñasco.
“Tonight we’ll make another run out to the freighter and bring in some square grouper,” said Uncle Pablo. “We can take Raul and Franco with us; it shouldn’t take more than three or four hours each way with these calm seas.”
The freighters would come as far north as the Isla Angel de la Garda, Archangel Island, and would wait there, offshore and concealed in the dark. They ran with no running lights and were skittishly ready to disappear at any moment. Those ships had been fitted with stationary machine guns, fore and aft.
