by Ed Teja
“Your men trying to sneak on the boat last night was rude,” she said.
Hank's face went through a range of emotions. I think her directness caught him by surprise. “They were rude to you?”
“Damn right to me. What you thinking? We getting all settled in real nice and your men come throwing metal hooks on the railings. Course that interrupted a perfectly sweet evening, one that seemed made for romance. They turned the whole peaceful evening into some damn Bruce Willis movie.”
“I didn't know Martin would have—guests.”
She curled her lip. “Seems like what you don't know could fill lotsa books. And get this straight. Martin didn't hurt no one, except getting him wet. It's a matter of established fact that on a dark night, an angry little black woman with an empty rum bottle ain't nothing you want to mess with.”
“You should write that down,” Bill suggested.
“You mean—”
“I'm saying, don't get after Martin about that man getting his head broken, cause he not the one put him in the hospital. When he stuck that ugly head of his up over the railing, I cracked him one with my rum bottle. He didn't want to fall and grabbed the railing, so I had to smash his fingers next. A person who interrupts me when I'm having some good times is gonna pay. And if you send more men around, they gonna get worse.”
“Look, you weren't going to be hurt.”
“What you meant to happen don't matter at all. Just know this, a man who does things like that ain't welcome here. Marty says you fellas gotta talk, but after you eat this meal, I don't want to see you or your men in my place again. You are not welcome here.”
Hank looked startled.
Bill put his elbows on the table and leaned toward Hank, grinning. “You see, the truth of the matter is that your crack assault troops got routed by an experienced bar brawler.”
“You two had a hand in that,” he said.
“We did the cleaning up,” I said. “They were rattled after encountering Gazele's robust defense of our front line.”
Bill laughed. “You lost the skirmish. And now”—he shook his head—” somehow, you got yourself banned from Barracuda. That takes some doing, Hank. A hell of a lot of doing.”
Hank scowled. “Look, it wasn't an assault. There was no intention of hurting anyone.”
“So the stealth was only because you didn't have invitations and the automatic weapons were fashion accessories?” I asked.
He was sitting up straight, trying to think, but it wasn't working out well. He looked at Gazele. “They weren't ordered to hurt anyone.”
“Were they ordered not to hurt anyone?” Bill asked.
“That's what I said,” Hank said.
“No, that's not at all what you said,” Bill pointed out.
Gazele put her hands on her hips and assumed her battle face. “The thing being that you had no business sending them.”
“I apologize for whatever my men interrupted.”
Gazele sniffed. “I don't hear you sounding much like no man who means what he says, so there ain't much point in listening to any of it.” She pointed at me. “Keep that in your head, Martin.” Then she swished off.
“You have made yourself one formidable enemy, Hank,” Bill said. “I hope you didn't have plans to retire on St. Anne. She is a force around here and she’s known to hold a grudge. I doubt you'd have a long and happy life on this island.”
Hank's face sprouted an imploring look. “Okay, I screwed up, but it was important for me to talk to you and, for reasons I hope will become clear, I preferred not to make it all”—he waved his arms around—”so public.”
I laughed. “So, the grand strategist decided that the only available options for having a discussion involved the use of covert force? It didn't occur to you to try something that might be, well, subtle?”
“I doubted you'd come.”
Bill nudged me. “Hate to say it, but the man has a point, Junior.”
“There is also the point that if he kidnapped me, I wouldn't believe a fucking word he said.”
Bill's eyes twinkled with delight. “Sort of like now?”
Sally and Gazele came over carrying steaming plates of fried bonito, rice, and plantains. They put them in front of us with Gazele taking the opportunity to brush her wonderful body against me in a sensual reminder that the woman was not to be ignored. I patted her ass to let her know it registered.
Her concern still made her face hard. “Don't let him talk you into any shit, Martin.”
“If it is shit, I won't. Promise.”
Just then, Tim came in, smiling. He held up a hand, touching index finger and thumb together in the diver's signal that said things were okay. “What does a deep-water sailor have to do to get a glass of rum around here?” he asked.
“He has to start by smiling real nice,” Gazele told him. “If you show me a smile and some money, you don't need no more than that.”
When they headed for the bar, Bill and I dug into our meal with gusto. Hank took a long look at his plate, then sat back. Clearly, he hadn't brought his appetite, or it had deserted him. “I don't know if you know it or not, but my job involves running missions to intercept drug cartel operations... throughout the Caribbean. I work with the navy and coast guards in several countries. We offer intelligence, money, and the local authorities run the missions. This is part of our country's efforts to curtail drug and human trafficking.”
“But you obviously have your own people.”
“A few. We are limited in what we are allowed to do actively, however.”
“Another way of saying that other countries don't much like being interfered with. So they probably aren't thrilled with you running armed men inside their borders.”
He let out a breath that told me he agreed. “Not often enough. Not even when my men could move faster and more effectively.”
“Are we talking about the clown squad we met last night?” Bill asked.
Hank glared at him. “As a result, I need to pick and choose among the potential targets. It means, unfortunately, passing on many low-level operations, leaving them intact in the hope they lead us to bigger fish.” He made a face. “We let them run pot and other drugs in small quantities, as distasteful as that is.”
I paused from savoring my fried bonito. “And that involves Polly somehow?”
Again, he held up a hand. “Naturally, the cartels are well connected, and wield influence inside the government hierarchies of many small countries. They leverage that for protection and information. They've gotten good at it and managed to create their own networks of informers and so on. By monitoring their chatter—”
“And using your own informers and so on,” Bill said.
“Yes. Anyway, at times we get intelligence that is more of a political nature.”
“All useful stuff to track,” Bill said.
“It can be. The cartels used to be about brute force and intimidation. That left a trail. As they've gotten richer and more powerful, they've learned to operate smarter, which means working in a more businesslike manner. They model themselves after global corporations, using hundreds of legitimate front companies to cover their tracks.”
“It makes an account's heart beat with anxiety,” Bill said.
“One recent trend they've followed is outsourcing a lot of the low-level work.”
“Indian call centers are taking drug orders now?” I laughed. “They've always used freelancers to run drugs or people—independent operators, snake heads and coyotes—are nothing new.”
He nodded. “Right. And that's worked for them, although even for the cartels, the people who do those jobs on a freelance basis aren't optimum. They tend to be disorganized, greedy, unreliable, and generally hard to manage.”
“We came to hear about the nightmare of being the human resources manager for the cartels?” Bill asked.
Hank went on. “That worked fine overall. Crude results were all that
mattered, but the new generation taking over organized crime is more ambitious. They are looking for higher returns on their investments. To meet their needs, companies are popping up that offer those services, moving goods and people, but on a more consistent and businesslike basis. This new trend gives them more structure, more control. It's a more efficient and controllable business model and it still keeps the big players at a distance from the crime—nothing connects them to the transport of the illegal goods. Anything prosecutable remains at arm's length.”
Bill nodded. “I'd imagine that might become a priority, especially since the conviction of Joaquin Guzman in New York in 2019.”
“El Chapo,” I said.
Hank tasted his food for the first time. It had to be cold, but I didn't think the face he made was due to that. “Right. His conviction, at long last, showed his colleagues the dangers inherent in running hands-on operations. Besides, they were already motivated to adopt successful corporate models. Why not? This has produced a demand for new breed of middleman—guys and gals outside their circle, who bring specialist expertise to the table, who are willing to take on the highest risks in return for a share of the profit.”
“Makes sense to me,” Bill said. “Where do I sign up?”
“Part of the strategy involves using different kinds of front companies, businesses that are more or less already doing the job they need done. They simply tailor their services to the cartels' needs. Their independence, their legitimate existence in their own right, makes it tougher for the authorities to track them to the cartels, and hell to prove in court.”
I sipped some rum to wash down the lecture. “You are losing your audience, Hank. You buried the lead in your pitch.” I noticed him scowl. Seeing his displeasure amused me. “You have me wondering if you will ever get around to the bit about how and why this puts Polly in danger?”
“I'm getting there. You need to hear the background. Recent intelligence tells us that one of the fastest growing operations of that type is based in The Bahamas. I'm talking about a legitimate freight forwarding business that is engaged in moving cargo around the Caribbean, and even as far as the US and Europe.”
“That's not new,” I said.
“But it is changing and expanding. Their real profits come from their growing fleet of drug runners and human traffickers. The cartels subcontract their shipping to the middlemen that own these companies. They run the illicit cargo in parallel to the legit work. What's clever is that they do it almost in plain sight. The client cartel provides a manifest that tells them where to pick up the product and where to deliver it. The manifests are bogus but hold up to casual scrutiny.”
Bill smiled. “If you know all this for sure, why not sweep in and bust them? Dusted and done.”
Hank sighed. “Because knowing isn't the same as proving. They are smart enough to establish themselves in countries that need the boost to the economies they create by setting up or expanding legitimate companies. They employ lots of locals, pay taxes, and make themselves an important part of the local economies. With that as a cover, it's tough to convince that things they do elsewhere are enough to offset that. And without proof, we can't convince the host countries to let us go in and collect any evidence.”
“A conundrum,” Bill said. “And that is even without any government officials being bribed. Not that I would ever believe that a government employee would take a bribe.”
I sipped my rum and stared at Hank. His pitch sounded polished. Maybe he'd used the same line to explain to his superiors the challenge of trying to stop these people.
“Okay, Hank, that is a lovely story of current events. And I imagine that makes your job a real hell, but to get back to my point—we are here because you said this was about a threat on Polly's life. Last I heard she was a US senator and not a drug dealer, so how does this involve her? And if it does, why can't she know about it?”
“I just got there. There have been two recent developments concerning the way a particular Bahamian company operates. In addition to taking over freight forwarding operations—”
“A classy name for it,” Bill said.
“Yes. They've added new services that included high-tech money laundering. They use European affiliates to convert the payments they get for their work into cryptocurrency. They then use that to pay for the things and people they need. The cartels often overpay them, and the company converts the extra cash into cryptocurrency that they send back, minus a fee. It can't be traced.”
“And?”
“You know Polly is on the Senate Banking Committee, right?”
“No, I didn't, but that makes sense, given her degree in finance.”
“She has spent the last several months—more like a year now, working with international organizations and her committee to find ways to regulate crypto, cripple it as a currency that can be used for illegal and criminal activities. She's spearheading the effort and, in some cases, dragging the finance ministers of a number of countries to the table, kicking and screaming. She is putting them on the spot where they have to say they are in favor of what she is doing, or they support organized crime.”
“Polly's never been afraid to twist arms,” I said, noting the dark look Hank gave me.
“Seems this effort has earned her serious enemies. In particular, the principles in this company see her activities as a direct threat to their business. The latest chatter is that they intend to take her out.”
“Chatter? You sent storm troopers to kidnap me because of some chatter about bad guys in The Bahamas?”
Hank poked at his fish, then gave up and dropped the fork. Clearly food wasn't interesting. “We have reports of a viable threat, Martin. Without going into detail, I've checked into it and it's real, which classifies it as credible.”
“I insist on detail, Hank.”
“If you agree to help, I'll give it to you. The point is that the man running the operation in The Bahamas has the means to carry it out. We have to stop it. That gives me two valid reasons for taking proactive measures—and one of those is keeping Polly from being killed.”
I took a deep breath. I'd known that would be his closing argument, but I'd nurtured a hope it wouldn't be. I'd also nurtured the fantasy that I could tell him it wasn't my problem.
The tension that gripped me told me that walking away wasn't happening either.
“So, where is my lunch?”
I turned and looked at the woman who'd walked up to the table. She sounded like an American and looked to be in her late twenties, maybe: medium height, fit, with short dark hair and a big grin. She wore a Grateful Dead tee-shirt and cutoff jeans.
“Who are you?” I asked.
She plopped down next to Hank. “Hey Marty. I'm Amy, your teammate on Hank's laugh-filled Caribbean island tour.” She looked from Bill's face to mine and started laughing. “Hank didn't tell you about me at all, did he?” She slapped his arm. “I'm hurt that I wasn't worth mentioning, Hank. After all, nothing is happening without me. And if you expect these guys to volunteer, they should know the makeup of the team.”
“Damn it, Amy. I told you I'd explain things to them and then introduce you when we got to Exuma.”
She took Hank's rum glass and sipped it. “That would be fine if I trusted you not to try to cut me out entirely. I thought it would be nicer to show up unannounced and meet Hank's other dupes. From the little I overheard, I'm glad I did. “
“Who the hell are you, Amy?”
She laughed again and patted my hand, which was resting on the table. “I'm going to become your new combat buddy, Marty.” She watched my expression and rolled her eyes. “Damn, I can see that Hank's obsession with compartmentalizing things has made that a surprise. He thinks it keeps thing simpler, but he always manages to complicate everything. I think they teach that at the academy. At any rate, apparently, unwinding this story is going to be a lot of fun.”
“Then why not get started?” Bill asked.
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She finished the rum and plopped the glass down in front of him. “I'd be delighted, Ugly Bill, but to do that I'll need a refill.”
6
While Bill refilled Amy's glass, I took a moment to sit back. I stared at Hank, trying to get a handle on what was going on and enjoying watching his scowl deepen. Things being out of his control didn't agree with him at all. He already had more lines in his face than was right for someone his age and these would just add to the texture, making it seem that he found things out of his control fairly often.
I suppose it didn't speak well of me that the thought pleased me.
“Damn it, Amy,” he said as she sipped the rum. “We had a deal. You were supposed to stay in Exuma while I came here. We were going to meet and discuss—”
“Wrong,” she said, laughing. “You told me you were coming here to get the team and we would meet when you got back. I never agreed to a damn thing.” She looked at us and nodded. “I do apologize to you guys for jumping into this meeting uninvited, but I didn't think Hank was playing straight—that he was trying to work around me. I thought I'd better find out what he was up to.”
“And did you?”
“Of course. Sneaking around and spying is how I learned he was involving you guys, civilians in this.” She smiled at us.
“Involving us in what?” I asked.
Her head popped up and her eyebrows formed tiny arches. “You don't know the mission?”
I shook my head. “We didn't even know there is a mission. All we got was”—I held up my hand, almost touching my index finger to my thumb—” about this much of the why. We heard about some bad guys, but he's not mentioned anything about who, where, or what he thinks we are supposed to do. Of course, to him those are the kinds of details, things Bill and I call facts, that military types can't accept that anyone else has a need to know or the intelligence to process.”
“In his defense, that comes with the territory,” she said. “Loose lips sink ships and all that.” Then she pursed her own lips. “I do understand you were once a military type yourself, Captain Billings.”
