Final Bearing

by George Wallace

  "Ah, that is exquisite. How brilliant!"

  De Fuka explained the additive being developed to increase the addictive properties of the cocaine they would be distributing. When he mentioned that an early version had already been shipped to America, Sui’s eyes grew wide.

  "Then it has been tested? It works?"

  "We have already placed prototype shipments in test markets. The additive was one hundred percent successful in developing a strong addiction in our customers within the first two uses. Once they have tried it, they must have more and more."

  "It is ready to ship in quantity?"

  "We are entering the production phase now. We expect to be able to ship adequate stocks within two months, which should coincide with the final implementation of the first phase of the submarine delivery system. We believe the entire operation is on schedule and proceeding according to plan."

  De Fuka hoped the Oriental had not heard of the slight problem they had encountered with the test. The discovery that the product was so addictive that users could not get enough of the stuff and that some had accidentally overdosed.

  Sui leaned back and contemplated the glowing embers on the end of his cigar for a second. "Excellent, most excellent,” he said, almost to himself. “A plot worthy of Sun Tsu." He looked up and his eyes were brighter than the burning ash on the cigar when he spoke. “This is all quite exciting, Senor de Fuka. But one thing puzzles me. Why do you need my participation? It seems you and Senor de Santiago have all the pieces in place to achieve domination of this lucrative import/export enterprise without having to bring in partners to share in the bounty.”

  De Fuka paused, ostensibly to sip his dark coffee, but actually to order his thoughts. The pitch had been made. It was now time to close the deal.

  “That is quite true, Mr. Sui. But it is important for you to recognize that, unlike yours, our organization must work on two fronts. We are not strictly in the import/export business. We must also continue the revolution of our people as we attempt to overthrow the oppressive, corrupt regime that has its boot heel on our throats. As you are aware, the Americans, as they are so eager to do, have meddled in our own country’s affairs at a great cost of money and heroic lives.” De Fuka was pleased to see Sui’s head nodding slightly. He was all too familiar with the havoc the Americans could set loose with their self-righteous interference. Even here, on the far side of the planet. He would be equally aware of the potential of profiting from such chaos. Sui was a living example of the possibilities, after all.

  De Fuka leaned forward. “Were we merely in this business for profit, we would seek to be your most formidable competitor. And I say this with all respect, our goal would be to remove you from our mutual business. But since we also are seeking the liberation of our people, we must recover the monetary loss we have suffered at the hands of the imperialists and their cohorts in order for our initiative to continue and to prosper. We have no problem with allowing you to share in our eventual enormous profits in exchange for your investment at this juncture.”

  “Yes. Yes, that I can understand,” Sui was saying, his head still nodding.

  De Fuka felt like a salesman, looking for “buying signals.” Sui had just shown him a basket full of them.

  "The laboratory, the submarine, and the other facilities are not without expense. We have already bought the services of the world’s foremost authorities in each area. They are not inexpensive. As you well know, the price of silence is considerable indeed.” De Fuka paused for effect. Sui was waiting breathlessly for the figure that would allow him to partake. “Our proposition to you is for a seventy million dollar investment now and a ten percent cut on your gross revenue on the product you supply for the operation."

  The big gantry crane gingerly lifted the pallet upward and out of the hold of the freighter. The shipping labels were stamped in large letters: “Kockums Shipbuilding AB, Howaldtswerke-Deutsche Werft AG, Karlskronavarvet.” The white cross on the blue field of the Swedish flag was stenciled boldly over the names.

  Phillipe Zurko looked on in amazement. He had not believed it when Sergiovski called to tell him about the telex he had received. It reported the departure of the shipment from Karlskronavarvet and predicted a delivery date. Zurko and Sergiovski had been feverishly developing alternative approaches to power the mini-sub ever since the SPETNAZ team had failed to return to the fishing boat. Without the vital fuel cells, the mini-sub was little more than a large and very expensive toy.

  Neither the Russians nor the Chinese seemed to have any technology that they could make work. The Italians and the Germans were guarding theirs too closely for them to attempt to steal the plans, though they were still considering the possibilities.

  Zurko was already steeling himself, trying to conjure up the words he would use to tell El Jefe of their plight. That’s when Sergiovski told him of the strange telex.

  It didn't seem real, not possible. During the month while the freighter transited from Karlskronavarvet, Sweden to Tumbes, Peru, they waited. They kept their fingers crossed, hoping that it was not some horrible hoax, maybe a trap set when the divers had been captured or killed.

  The journey down the mountains from Cajamarca to the port was filled with anxiety. The closer they came to the wharves at Tumbes, the surer Zurko was that it was all an elaborate ambush. When they tried to take possession of the shipment, Guitteriz's goons would certainly surround them; laughing uncontrollably at their naivete as they gunned them down.

  The shipping agent routinely confirmed the freighter's arrival, along with the pallet-load of material. Sergiovski signed the documents.

  No troops. No ambush. No spray of bullets.

  They now smiled and toasted each other with warm beers as they watched the crates being lowered onto the flatbed trailer behind their truck. Its suspension groaned in protest as the ten tons settled down on its bed.

  They drove out the gate with their new power plant and headed up the highway, back to Cajamarca.

  Juan de Santiago replaced the phone in its cradle. He grinned broadly.

  "Good news, El Jefe?" Guzman asked, but the answer was obvious. There had been so much bad news lately, when something good finally happened it was clear in his leader’s face.

  "My friend, this is a great day in the revolution! A greater day even than when we routed El Presidente's troops from the field in the battle at Los Llanos and I slit the throat of Colonel Blanco with my own knife blade." De Santiago stood and stretched his cramping back muscles. He seemed energized and the bodyguard would not have been surprised to see him leap for joy. "Come, Guzman. The horses. Let's ride. Saddle that new Arabian stallion, El Cid, for me."

  El Falcone cursed quietly and replaced the listening device in its hiding place. De Santiago was about to leave the perimeter of the sensitive eavesdropping network, just as it appeared he was to tell Guzman of some new triumph of the revolution, something that might be of great interest to the government and the JDIA.

  Patience was a virtue with which El Falcone was well acquainted. De Santiago loved to boast. He had done so only the day before about the location of the new, remote coca fields. That boasting uncovered far more than the leader would ever divulge if he was aware his every word could be heard. He would again brag about whatever this new success was. When he did, El Falcone would be listening.

  Someday this bastard’s crimes against the people of his country, committed in the holy name of freedom, would be revealed, avenged. How could so many be duped by his rhetoric? How could they so blindly follow someone who would steal from them and rape them just as surely as had the other revolutionaries, the other governments that had come and gone before him?

  El Falcone stood behind the curtains and watched with a seething hatred as de Santiago and Guzman rode away from the estate, off toward the jungle in the distance.

  The two men charged out of the hacienda at a gallop, flying across the fields and down the rough jungle roads. The miles melted behind them. At last t
hey reined in the lathered horses.

  They had arrived at a ridge top, looking out over a large valley below.

  "Guzman, at one time my family owned this valley, as far as the eye can see. And before that, it was all part of the kingdom of the Incas. El Presidente stole it all in the name of ‘reform.’ Today we are infinitely closer to taking it all back. It will be mine again, and soon." Reaching down, he patted affectionately the neck of the large black horse he straddled. "Today, Sui agreed to join us and is forwarding his down payment to our accounts in Macao. That is great news. Better still, the power plant for the submarine arrived today and is on its way to the mountains. We have all the weapons to kill the dragon, my friend. And soon…very soon…we will still its hot breath, once and for all." Three or four hummingbirds darted past them and disappeared into the trees. “Lastly, I have given much consideration to the identity of El Falcone. Guzman, I am convinced I have narrowed the possibilities and I have a plan to deal with the traitorous bastard. If you are horseman enough to catch me, I may just reveal it to you!”

  With that, he spurred his mount and galloped off into the jungle again, yelping and crowing with unabashed joy.

  Guzman shook his head then urged his own horse to follow after the leader of the revolution.

  13

  Tom Kincaid walked stiffly down the jetway, favoring the knee he had wrenched in some long-ago-forgotten tussle. The warm, golden glow of the California sunshine spilled through the broad glass windows of the terminal as he emerged from the blue-gray steel tube. It was good to see sunshine again. Seattle’s sunny days could be spectacular, but they seemed to have been few and far between lately, serving to match the dour mood in which he so often found himself. The San Diego weather was already having a therapeutic effect on him. He could feel his spirits rise.

  It wasn’t only the sunny weather. Tom Kincaid had a purpose again, a quest, and he was a happier man for it.

  "Hey, you lost?"

  The sound of Jon Ward’s voice was as heartening as the sunlight. There he was, standing off to his left, Ellen next to him, waving excitedly.

  “Lord, I’ve been looking forward to seeing you guys!” he said.

  The two of them made as handsome a couple as ever. A quick montage of memories of shared college days flashed through Kincaid's mind. Competing with Jon for Ellen's affections when the two of them first met the pert redhead. The late night discussions, the parties, the ball games. Then there had been the awful year when Tom’s sister died. Of course, Ellen and Jon had been there the whole way, helping him through that darkest time of his life. He would not have made it without their firm, solid friendship. He had served as Jon’s best man at their wedding, accepting the inevitable when Ellen chose Jon.

  All that seemed to have happened only a few years ago, but he noticed the gray just beginning to streak her hair, the crow's feet around Jon's eyes. Had it really been twenty years already?

  Kincaid boldly pulled Ellen close to him, hugging her warmly before kissing her on the cheek. She didn’t resist and embraced him tightly. Then the two men hugged and clapped each other on the back.

  Kincaid said, "It's sure good to see you two!"

  "Yeah, it's been far too long,” Ward replied warmly. “We got a lot of catching up to do. Come on. Let's get your bag and head out to the house. Ellen’s making the best carnitas you’ve ever tasted and I’ve had the margaritas on ice all day."

  "You sure you don’t want to just drop me off at a hotel? Maybe let me grab a sandwich at McDonald’s?" Kincaid asked, trying to keep a straight face.

  “Well, that could be arranged if…”

  “Shut up and lead the way to baggage claim!” Kincaid laughed. “I can taste that jet fuel you call a margarita already!”

  Ellen laughed with him, then grabbed Tom's right arm and Jon's left. Both men noticed how natural it felt, having her there in her usual position between them, dead center in the middle of their close friendship. So did she. Together they marched in almost perfect lock step through the terminal, the strikingly beautiful, shapely, redhead flanked by the two tall, handsome, clear-eyed men.

  "Alright, Tom. Fill me in."

  The two men lounged in comfortable chairs arranged side by side on the redwood deck behind Ward's house on Point Loma. They could hear Ellen inside in the kitchen, putting the final touches on dinner. Both men knew she had finished preparing the meal already, that she was staying purposely out of their way. She intuitively knew that the real purpose for their old friend’s visit was business, and that both men wanted to get to the point as soon as possible.

  Kincaid touched his tongue to the salted rim of his margarita glass. He couldn’t remember when he had been so relaxed. The Wards’ backyard was lush, neatly tended. No doubt Ellen spent many hours here while Jon was off protecting the oceans. The scent of star jasmine and bougainvillea drifted over from the huge trellis of large red and tiny white blooms that entirely filled one garden wall and climbed the side of the stucco bungalow. The aroma blended with the meal Ellen was finishing up in the kitchen. The sun was dipping below the horizon, the garden filling with shadows. The gentle breeze was warm, soothing. Point Loma's flock of wild parrots cried raucously as they flew overhead, likely bound for their nightly roost somewhere up on the ridge.

  “How can you ever climb aboard some smelly old submarine and leave this place?” Tom asked. Both men knew it was more than the “place.” They could hear Ellen inside singing.

  “Same reason you get up and go to work every day,” Jon replied. “Because we’re both deluded enough to think that we can still make a difference in this damned cockeyed world.”

  “I suppose so.” Kincaid took a sip of the drink. His shift in gears was almost audible. It was time to get down to the business at hand. "Jon, it's like I told you over the phone. A couple of weeks ago, a body turned up under a bridge down by the waterfront in Seattle. Young girl named Sandy Holmes. Pretty. Apparently smart. Very dead." Even in the gathering twilight, Ward could see the look in his friend's eyes, hear the strain in his voice. Tom Kincaid saw his sister in this girl. He knew that. The wound was still as open and raw as ever, even after all these years. "This was not something I would usually get a call about, but I’ve got a detective friend up there with a good nose. Ken Temple sensed something and gave me a heads-up. Sandy was an OD, but things didn't add up on this one. She was not just another stiff." Kincaid paused to take another sip of the margarita. "Boy, these are good. You have this recipe down pat."

  "It's all in the tequila,” Ward answered. “That's El Tesoro anejo. It's handmade in a fabrica that doesn't even have electricity."

  Kincaid smacked his lips appreciatively before he continued.

  "Anyway, she had none of the signs of a hardcore user. No history according to everybody we talked to. In fact, it looked like she was a first-time binge user." Kincaid now took a long, thirsty drink and seemed stuck for a moment on what to say next. He gazed out over the sunset for a long time. Ward knew his friend was not even seeing the Technicolor show the falling sun was putting on for them. He was seeing another young girl dying during a drug binge twenty years ago.

  “I wouldn’t think that would be unusual,” Ward said, trying to get Kincaid out of his reverie. “I’m sure it happens. Somebody gives the stuff a try at a party. Likes it too much. Boyfriend pushing it on her so she’ll show him the proper appreciation for supplying the snacks.”

  "No, it’s not that unusual, not even in Seattle," Kincaid went on. "At least, not every once in a while. Something was out of kilter on this one. Temple smelled a rat. So did I. Then, we had five more just like her within a week. Bodies just turning up in out-of-the-way places. All young and reasonably well to do. All seemingly smart enough not to do something stupid like this. All of them looking like first-timers with plenty to live for. All with enough coke in their systems to bring down a bull elephant. It could have just been some greedy bastard of a dealer cutting the stuff with something poisonous. Forensic
s confirmed it was simply cocaine…but lots of it. No poison. And there were far too many of them too close together for a little place like Seattle. Jon! We aren't talking about New York here!"

  "Okay, Tom. That still doesn't tell me why Bethea and the JDIA got interested. Or why he called you. Or, for that matter, how my name came up."

  Kincaid paused for a long minute and shifted in his chair. The wind chimes hanging from the eave of the bungalow tinkled softly in the breeze. The happy sound was a direct counterpoint to the conversation the two men were having.

  "We started to see a pattern. After Sandy Holmes. I began to make some calls. I thought I might be over-reacting, looking for something just to justify my existence up there. But the bodies kept turning up. The more I talked with Temple, the surer I was that I was onto something. Somebody was dumping some super-powerful stuff on my town and I had to find out who it was and how the hell they were getting it in. I tried to call most of my old contacts. Not a whole lot of them left, though. Taylor really did a wonderful job of screwing that up. Anyway, I convinced the old friend in Cartagena I told you about to sniff around for me and he reluctantly agreed. The only time we talked he said that he had heard rumors that a drug lord named Juan de Santiago had some new additive that caused almost instant addiction. You know what that means? The shit he’s been smuggling in already was dangerous enough. Now, if he can just get people to try this new strain, look out!"

  The color had drained from Ward’s face already.

  "You told me that the other day. I can’t even begin to imagine what the ramifications of that might be. Ready-made customers who simply have to have the stuff! Talk about taking the schoolyard pusher to a new level! Are you sure, though? You know some of the things you hear about these drug lords are half-truth and half myth. They want it that way, too. They want people to think they’re omnipotent, bigger than God. How reliable was this guy? This informant of yours?"