by Jeff Siebold
“OK,” said Alberto, “I’ll pack the bait coolers.” Typically, the crew on El Barco would fish on the way out to meet the Colombian freighter in international waters, then wait in line to load bales of marijuana wrapped in black garbage bags onto the fishing boats. If they caught fish - usually Mahi Mahi or Yellow Fin Snapper - they counted the trip as a double success. Uncle Pablo was a thrifty, practical man.
The Colombian freighters would leave from Port of Buenaventura near Cali, and speedboats would rush out to meet them as they made their way north along the Colombian border and passed by Panama. Loaded with the bales, they would then cruise north in the Pacific Ocean, up the Gulf of California, and meet the local fishing boats in an isolated area off the Baja Peninsula. Then, in the dark of night and weighed down with as much as they could carry, the small boats would make their way back to their northern port.
Occasionally, Cruz noted, greed would cause a captain to overload his fishing boat; and in rough seas, that could be fatal. Most of the time, though, the shipments arrived without incident. The fishermen were paid for their delivery, and the bales were loaded onto an eighteen-wheeler and driven to their final destination. The rumor was that these shipments were transported across the border into the United States, but Cruz didn’t know how. Perhaps by small plane or tunnel, he imagined. Or maybe corrupt border guards.
Alberto was still a teenager when he started noticing the changes in Puerto Peñasco.
“Arturo,” Cruz said to a friend who crewed on the fishing boat that docked next to his Uncle’s boat in the City Marina. “I noticed that your father is driving a new car.”
“Yes, he saw that some of the other fishermen had traded their old trucks in, and it gave him the idea,” said Arturo. “How do you like it? We’re riding in style now! And with air conditioning that works!”
The car was a brand new, powder blue 1984 Cadillac Coupe de Ville and would have looked out of place parked in the marina lot a few years ago. The vehicles typical to that area were old pickup trucks, small mopeds and older compact cars, rusted by the salt air. They were, for the most part, work vehicles that were well used and looked it.
But that was a few years ago. Today, the new Cadillac was surrounded by luxurious automobiles, Lincoln Town cars and Mercedes Benz, among others.
Not much later, some of the fishermen bought new fishing boats, and a few of them bought two or three vessels, to leverage their profits. Alberto’s Uncle was angry.
“Look at this,” he said to Alberto, waving his arm toward the marina and the parking lot. “This is like advertising, saying, ‘We’re running drugs!’ They will get us all in trouble!”
Predictably, not long after this the Puerto Peñasco Police, with the cooperation of the US DEA, raided the Puerto Peñasco City Marina. By that time, almost every family in the town was involved in the enterprise in some way. Just about every adult male went to jail, including Alberto’s Uncle. And all of the new boats and cars were confiscated by the Puerto Peñasco police.
Alberto, now without means to earn money, found himself heading back to Sonora Rio. There he found work, first as a day laborer, and later as an auto mechanic, using the skills he had learned aboard his Uncle’s boat. After a few months, when he had earned enough, he drove his second-hand Volkswagen Beetle back to Puerto Peñasco each weekend to visit Graciela.
Chapter 19
Finding Cruz had been a huge win for Tracy and her team. They’d seen it as the possible beginning of a major operation, one that could make a serious impact on the flow of counterfeit money into the United States. They were all anxious; they all wanted this to work. And they all were leaning in just a bit too much, wanting it, needing it. Careers were made from this type of operation.
During their time together, Cruz had emphasized the language differences and used them to break the flow of the interviews. He was seemingly confused by wording, or misunderstood questions, not to the point that a translator was needed, but enough that he had time to gather his thoughts and undermine the rhythm that the interviewer was trying to establish. Occasionally, he would misunderstand a question or the intent behind it. But after a couple of days, the agents relaxed.
And during these days, Cruz remembered everything he saw. His life depended on it. He heard the agents on their personal calls, he knew who had children in school, who was ambitious and who was complacent. He found out who was married and who lived alone; and he memorized telephone numbers and passwords from watching the agents type on keypads on their phones and computers.
In the Atlanta Field Office of the Secret Service on Spring Street, Cruz was an unusual visitor. Typically, witnesses taken there were interviewed and then turned loose to return home or to work. The offices didn’t really have a place to detain people, and suspects were usually taken to a different location, one with detention capabilities. But, because of the threat on Cruz’s life, the agents had secreted him in this office location. And it was not really set up or equipped for the retention of criminals. It was more an operational facility than a tactical one.
Consequently, the standard positioning with the interviewer on one side of the table and the interviewee on the other - normal questioning techniques in law enforcement - wasn’t possible. Instead, Cruz was interviewed either sitting next to an agent’s desk, in a small conference room, or in a sitting area in the interior hallway, furnished like a small waiting area in a typical hospital. And Cruz was often left waiting, while the agents he was working with attended meetings, or took phone calls, or filled out forms and reports, or talked with their bosses.
As the week progressed, Cruz became more and more invisible to the agents. Everyone knew that he was there because his life had been threatened. And everyone knew that he was under the charge of Tracy and Ron. So, most of the agents began to dismiss his presence, and he became more and more invisible. Agents talked on their phones in his presence, talked with each other about other cases in his presence, asked each other questions and devised strategies. Cruz spent his time filing away many small pieces of information.
By not playing the victim, and handling himself with a bearing that implied equality, Cruz was able to gain a position of semi-trust among some of the agents. He gave a polite distance and kept to himself, but without any attitude or fear.
* * *
The money is the next problem, thought Zeke. It was 10:30 on Saturday morning, and Zeke had spent most of the night awake, reviewing Friday’s events, and constructing likely scenarios of the motivating forces. Many things fit into place, but the money and the printer plates were still the problem. They were most likely safe for the weekend, and perhaps longer, but any number of things could go wrong. They could be discovered by the way the ceiling tiles bulged a bit. Or a random electrical repair - say a fluorescent fixture ballast or bulb replacement - would likely result in them being noticed. Or a footprint on a chair might cause the inquisitive office worker to look up, and to start thinking.
So, retrieving the hidden items was the next priority. Zeke liked the Student Union lockers as a secure, temporary place to keep it all. But getting them there would be the riskiest part of this operation so far.
The Accountant, George, was in Atlanta. And he knew about the money and the plates, and now he knew about Zeke. He was hunting, Zeke was sure, and he would stay focused on the campus, the area where he’d seen Zeke before.
The library was open every day including Saturday, although weekend hours were a bit more restrictive than weekdays. The library opened later, at noon on Saturday, and closed earlier, at 5:00 PM. Zeke looked at his watch, did a quick calculation, and decided that a short nap would be the best way to fill the interim hour and fifteen minutes.
Chapter 20
Cruz was watching for George. He was expecting that devil to show up at any moment, without warning. Jefe’s men were watching Cruz, and they had left him nowhere to run. But when the meeting took place, it didn’t happen the way he’d expected.
Alberto
had been lying low, hiding in his rented house in south Fulton County. He’d chosen that neighborhood because it was a short, direct drive to the airport, and even in traffic he could be there in 30 minutes or less. It was a small bungalow, one-story, brick ranch, in a tract neighborhood on a street populated by a rail worker, a mailman, an auto mechanic, a disabled guy, a bus driver for MARTA and several working single mothers. He wasn’t really sure what the mothers did...maybe some government jobs, or possibly they worked for a utility company.
The restaurant on the corner was adequate. El Toro, it was called. The food wasn’t really Mexican, but the portions were large, and he could blend in there, not stand out much. For lunch each day Cruz would go to either El Toro or, in the other direction to a fried chicken restaurant, a local place that served the chicken dripping with grease, along with sides of biscuits and fried okra. Sitting at his kitchen table at eleven-thirty that Saturday morning, Cruz thought about his options. Then he stood, picked up his hat, and walked out the front door, turning left toward El Toro.
As he walked toward the restaurant he was feeling a bit exposed. He took a seat in El Toro, a small diner-type restaurant, in a booth with high-backed vinyl bench seats and a patterned Formica tabletop. He had ordered at the counter and was eating a plate of black beans and rice when suddenly two men sat down with him.
One took the bench across from Cruz, and the second slid in next to him, effectively blocking him into the booth. The movement was abrupt and rough, and the second man ended up pressed against Cruz’s thigh. Cruz moved uncomfortably toward the window a bit, creating a small space between himself and the man. He looked up at them.
What he saw was two Hispanic men in their early thirties, not fat, not thin, with yuppie haircuts and designer jeans. He saw two open-necked dress shirts and no t-shirts, just black chest hair. He saw open faces and four brown eyes, looking at him. He thought, Mierda, but his eyes showed nothing but a question.
“Hello, Alberto,” said the man next to him. The men spoke in Spanish, Mexican Spanish.
“Do I know you?” Cruz asked.
“Jefe sent us to visit with you,” the man continued. “I’m Ricardo, and my friend here is Umberto. You have something that belongs to Jefe, we believe,” said Ricardo. “Something he values.”
Cruz’s stomach froze and then sank a bit. He spoke his fear. “Are you here to kill me?” he asked.
The men glanced at each other and smiled, an inside joke, apparently. “No, Alberto, we’re not rough guys. We’re the guys Jefe sends out first, to negotiate, to recover his property, to set things right. We’re sort of like management consultants. They find out about a problem in the organization, and we’re sent out to fix it. Troubleshooters. Usually, that takes discussion, maybe negotiation, or maybe some retraining. Like that. We try to look for a mutually acceptable solution to these problems,” said Ricardo, “to keep the business productive and the money flowing. Umberto and I, we both have MBA’s.”
Cruz didn’t believe them, so he smiled absently.
“And, if we can’t fix the problem, Alberto, then they send out a different man. And he’s the one you would be worried about.” This from Ricardo. “Think of how expensive it would be to send that guy, the Accountant, out to solve every little problem. It might damage the organization unnecessarily, too. He’s not so much about discussions and negotiations and training, you know? He is heavier handed. They call him the Accountant because it’s his job to erase the liabilities. So you see, we’re like the advance scouts, the first wave, your chance to bring this thing to a more civilized and reasonable conclusion.”
Cruz took a mouthful of beans and rice, filling his mouth to stall for time. He was thinking.
He swallowed.
“Yes, I see,” he said. “That makes good sense. Why waste resources, right?” He smiled again, pretty certain that nothing would happen in the crowded restaurant. He was in no hurry to leave the premises. “What can I do to help you, my friends?”
Ricardo continued. He was obviously the chatty one. Or, perhaps he spoke better English than Umberto. Oddly, they had shifted to speaking in English. “As I said, you have something that belongs to Jefe, something that he values and that he wants back.” He stopped talking and just stared at Alberto, waiting for a response. No blinking, no looking away, just a wide-eyed stare, the expectation of an explanation.
“You mean the printer plates, I presume,” Cruz said. Alberto looked up at the men, and then moved his head a bit to his right. “I think we may have a common problem, my friends,” he said. “I have also been the victim of theft. I’m glad you’re here to help me find and return these items.” He put his forefinger on his lips to stop himself from talking more and looked back at Ricardo.
“Who took them?” asked Umberto. His first words.
“It was someone at the hotel,” lied Cruz. “When I first arrived here, I stayed in a hotel downtown for a few days. While I was out, my suitcase with the counterfeit plates in it was stolen. I haven’t been able to find it. I don’t know what to do.” Cruz pouted a bit and took a final bite of his food. And he swallowed again.
Umberto looked at Ricardo. Ricardo glanced at him, and then looked back at Cruz.
“Oh, this is not good, amigo,” he said, and shook his head.
“My friends, I will help in any way that I can,” said Cruz. He looked at each of the men, but neither was smiling.
They seemed to realize that they had reached an impasse in this crowded place. Their message delivered, along with the non-verbal “We can find you whenever we wish,” Umberto and Ricardo glanced at each other and stood simultaneously.
“I suggest that you make an effort to contact those with Jefe’s money and printer plates, and retrieve them. We’ll come by your house in a day or two, and we can discuss your progress then.” Umberto said this with an air of certainty, as if there would be no trouble finding Cruz at any time, and there was no question of his cooperation.
“Si, yes, of course,” Cruz said.
Cruz remembered the meeting as if it had taken place yesterday. But it had been six days ago. After that encounter, Cruz immediately hired Clive and The Agency to protect him from Jefe’s men.
Chapter 21
The second time that Zeke met Tracy Johnson face-to-face she was wearing tight, cuffed jeans, low-cut boots and a loose, red sweater. Her dark, thick hair was again pulled back from her face into an organized, full ponytail, and her understated makeup still did little to emphasize her outstanding features. She was sitting in a brown leather wingback chair in the lobby of the Embassy Suites Hotel, across from the front desk. There was a second, identical chair across from her, and a small glass coffee table between them.
Zeke dropped into the second chair, looked at her for a moment and said, “Hello, Tracy Johnson.”
“Hello, yourself,” she said, as she looked over at him. Her smile implied that this might be more than a business meeting. “You surprised me with your phone call.”
“You should be used to getting calls from available young men,” Zeke teased.
“Why do you say that?” she asked.
“No wedding ring,” he continued. “It’s obvious that you take care of yourself. You dress well, have good posture, and you seem competent and intelligent,” he continued. “School?”
“Wharton,” she said.
“So, competent and very intelligent. Are you in a relationship?”
“Just with my job this month,” Tracy sighed.
“I’m guessing that you’re not long alone, maybe out of a relationship within the last six weeks.”
“Why do you guess that?” she asked.
“And probably a workplace romance,” he continued.
“Probably,” echoed Tracy.
“Not my business, I suppose,” said Zeke. “I’m more interested in your future than in your past.”
“Nicely said.” Tracy paused. “Can we chat about Cruz now?”
“That’s why we’re her
e, isn’t it?” asked Zeke.
* * *
“I did have some questions for you,” said Tracy after they had traded information about Alberto Cruz. “I have to admit, I Googled you before this meeting.”
Zeke had been careful, revealing only information about his client that Tracy already knew, or that could be obtained from public sources. “There’s no hiding from the Internet,” he said.
“You were in Sydney in the 2002 Olympics. Were you on the Judo Team?”
“As an alternate. I spent most of my time on the practice squad, getting bounced around by the really good guys.”
“How did you get into that sport?” she asked. She gave him her full attention, leaned forward to hear his answer and looked at him directly with wide-open eyes. He has great eyes, she thought.
She’s flirting, he thought. Nice.
“I blame Eddie for that,” Zeke said, smiling again.
“Eddie?”
“Eddie was a fellow I met when I was a boy, the man who brought me up after my parents died.” He paused for a second. “He was in the military, stationed in Japan originally, and he also studied Judo in Okinawa.”
“Your parents died?”
“It was a boating accident. I lost them both when a fuel tank exploded on our motorsailer. I’d gone ashore to buy a Coke and heard and felt the explosion from the little store. That’s a long time ago,” he added.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“So Eddie took me in, and over the years he taught me Judo and Jiu-jitsu. He was really quick and tough, and I guess he was a good teacher, because the next thing I knew I was practicing in Colorado Springs.”
“What’s there?”
“The U.S. Olympic training facility,” Zeke said. “Hey, let’s grab some lunch.”
“OK,” Tracy said.
* * *
The hotel Bistro was pretty much empty and the shift had apparently just changed, Zeke noticed. The bartender was busy checking inventory and the server looked alert and fresh, her hair still neatly arranged and her clothing without a wrinkle or stain. She smells a bit like fresh cut cilantro and lime, Zeke thought as she approached.
