Twenty Blue Devils

by Aaron Elkins

  And from there it was an easy matter to move it out of the country in the form of inflated payments for purchased goods. You paid $10 for $1 worth of goods and sold the finished product for ten times what it was worth. You made out, the books balanced—and $9 had been laundered and was on its way back to Colombia. It was done in the gem trade, it was done in the metals trade...and, so it seemed, it was done in the coffee trade.

  "Are you telling me,” Nelson asked slowly, “that in the past five years, we've been responsible for supplying thirty million dollars to...to drug lords in Colombia?"

  "I'm ready to bet on it,” John said. “That Colombian coffee grower, Calvo Hermanos they wouldn't happen to be in Medellin, would they?"

  Nelson's face was all the answer that was needed.

  "And the other one, the one in Java, they're probably backed by some of the Colombian drug biggies. It's an old story, Nelson."

  "It's horrible,” Nelson said. He looked grim, almost sick. "Why?"

  John understood what he meant. “For money, probably. The dealers typically pay legit firms ten percent for this kind of service. So somebody here was collecting...oh, around..."

  "Six hundred thousand dollars a year,” Nelson said.

  "Right, but that's only part of it. Think it through; the inflated payments to the suppliers are made with drug money, not company funds, right? But—"

  "But,” Nelson said, speaking slowly as he took it in, “the inflated returns from our sales should go right into our own coffers—only they don't, do they? They've never shown up in our financial records. That means...that means..."

  "That we're talking about somebody raking off a lot more—a whole lot more than six hundred thou a year."

  Nelson groaned and pressed his hand to his forehead. “I feel as if I'm in a nightmare. John, how could he? After all Nick's done for him. Oh, I've never thought he was quite as perfect as everyone else did, but never would I have expected this from him. Not in a million years."

  It was time to let Nelson in on recent developments. “Nelson, Brian wasn't quite what we thought. There's a lot about him that you and I didn't know."

  Nelson's mouth hung open for a minute. “Brian? What does Brian have to do with it?"

  John was startled in his turn. “What?"

  "I'm talking about Rudy. Rudy's the one who actually buys the coffee. You know that, John. Rudy's the one who signs the purchase orders in the first place, and then signs off on the invoices—not Brian. Rudy's our buyer."

  "Rudy..." John sat back in his chair and digested this latest screwy twist, or maybe it wasn't so screwy. “What do you know?” he said half to himself. “Now that really throws a new light on things."

  "What's this about Brian?” Nelson said. “What didn't we know about him?"

  "A lot,” said John. “I'll tell you later. Right now I want to go over to the hospital and have a few words with Rudy."

  "But he's not in the hospital, he's right here, down on the docks.” Nelson turned in his chair and pointed out the window. “See the gray-and-white ship, the one with the block and tackle?"

  "The rusty one?"

  "Yes, the rusty one."

  The ship was the Beaune, Nelson said, an interisland schooner; that is, a small freighter with a regular local route. Every few months two or three thousand pounds of Paradise beans were put aboard to go to resorts and small roasteries on Bora Bora, Rarotonga, and Pago Pago. As it happened, the beans were being loaded this morning and Rudy was on board overseeing things.

  "Well, then, that's where I'm going,” John said, standing up.

  Nelson got up as well. “I believe I'll go with you."

  "No, I think it'd be better if I talked to him by myself."

  "Pah.” Nelson breezed imperiously by him and through the door. “Don't be ridiculous, John. Of course I'm going with you. You don't know how to handle Rudy. It takes a delicate touch."

  Say hello to the old Nelson again. For a moment the hair on the back of John's neck automatically bristled, but only for a moment. Then he laughed and followed Nelson out.

  "Okay, big brother, show me how to handle Rudy."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 30

  * * * *

  Papeete's commercial harbor was out of another time, a lively, old-fashioned South Seas port from the days before there were huge, anonymous container ships and robotlike, hundred-foot-high cranes. Here, most of the quays were lined with battered, midsized interisland schooners that were being chain-loaded by their Tahitian crews one dented drum or one case of milk or canned goods at a time, for shipment to the outer islands. Lots of bustle, noise, cursing, and laughter.

  The Beaune was no exception. It was docked between two equally seaworn, equally work-scarred freighters, and you couldn't look at it without thinking of Joseph Conrad, and the old China Sea trade, and grizzled, bleary-eyed, seen-it-all sea captains in dingy whites. When John and Nelson got there, a line of four perspiring Tahitians was swinging the cargo onto the foredeck, where two more men used a block-and-tackle arrangement to get it down into the hold. There were cases of Hinano beer, of Twisties Cheese-Flavoured Snacks, of Biscuits Mckay ("C'est OK!"), of canned beef stew, of soap flakes, of frozen fish croquettes.

  "Your coffee's already stowed,” one of the men told Nelson. He shrugged his chin at the string of big plastic sacks of ice cubes that was being hefted along the line. “For the captain's drinks,” he said, laughing.

  "I don't doubt it,” Nelson said primly.

  They found Rudy on the enclosed bridge with Captain Thorwald, a big-boned, middle-aged Dane whose whites were by no means dingy, but who otherwise made a satisfactory old sea dog, what with his graying Captain Ahab beard and hard, bronzed, windburnt face. The captain bent over a drafting table to scrawl his signature across the bottom of a form, gave Nelson a brusque hello, and went off to speak to the harbormaster, leaving them to the modest comforts of the bridge.

  John and Nelson stood just inside the door. “Hello, Rudy,” John said.

  Rudy seemed to sense something in the air. He looked from one to the other, waiting for them to say something more.

  "Rudy,” John began, “we've been—"

  Nelson cut in, shrill and excited. “Where did all that money go, Rudy? What was it for?"

  John almost laughed aloud. Good old Nelson and his delicate touch.

  But it brought results. Although Rudy at first swelled himself up to protest, he changed his mind and decided to give it up before the first word was out. He looked stolidly, almost wistfully, at them for a moment—how could you ever hope to understand? he seemed to be thinking—then turned sadly away from them and walked to an open window, leaning on a built-in cupboard and staring out across the harbor toward the two sleek, gray missile cruisers tied up at the French naval base at Fare Ute.

  "It's a long story,” he said.

  Here it comes, John thought. He's cooking it up right now. I can practically see the gears turning. It was all Brian's fault, he's going to say. It was all Tari's fault. Anybody who was dead and couldn't speak for himself.

  But John wasn't even close. When Rudy turned back to face them he spoke only two words and they had nothing to do with Brian or Tari.

  "Don't move,” he said.

  He was standing about eight feet from them, no longer even remotely wistful, and in his right hand was an object shaped something like a snub-nosed revolver, like a .38-caliber Police Special, in fact, but made of gaudy orange-and-black plastic. John would have taken it for a clumsy Halloween toy except for the strip of black plastic that jutted down from the base of the grip and held a row of three red cylinders that looked convincingly like twelve-gauge shotgun shells. From where he stood John was uncomfortably able to look straight up the stubby barrel and see that a fourth shell was already chambered. With his thumb Rudy slowly cocked the hammer.

  "Now what the hell is that supposed to be?” John said.

  "It's a flare pistol,” Rudy said. “At lea
st I think it is."

  "You can't hurt anybody with a flare pistol,” John said, wishing he believed it. “They have to meet safety specs."

  "Do they? Well, we can find out easily enough. Who wants to be the guinea pig?"

  "You killed Tari, didn't you?” Nelson demanded. “He found out what you were doing."

  John looked at him with something like pride. Nelson had more than his share of faults, but lack of gumption wasn't one of them.

  Rudy moved the pistol slightly, so that it was directed more at Nelson than at John. That gave Nelson his chance to look up the barrel and now he quailed visibly, for which John couldn't blame him.

  Scared or not, Nelson didn't back down. “You...you wouldn't kill us,” he said, not quite bringing off the intended sneer.

  "Wouldn't I now?” Rudy said. “Let me assure you, Nelson, that underneath this feeble exterior lies a tremendous absence of moral character."

  It was the sort of wry crack he might have tossed off at a cupping session, and delivered in much the same tone of voice. He's not panicky, John thought. He's in control, he knows what he wants.

  "What do you want, Rudy?” he said.

  "I want out,” Rudy said. “Nelson, come here."

  "No!” said Nelson, white and trembling.

  The gun swung around to him again. Rudy extended his arm, took dead aim at his nose. “Nelson, come here!" Nelson moved a reluctant step forward and stopped. “Why?"

  "Because you and I are leaving. And John will just stay there like a good little fellow and not say peep while we climb into the van and get on our way. Otherwise...well."

  Nelson licked his lips but stood his place. “How do I know you won't kill me anyway?” He was barely able to get it out.

  The question, a pretty sensible one from John's point of view, seemed to irritate Rudy. “Oh, for God's sake, Nelson—"

  "Rudy, what's the point?” John said. “You know you can't get off the island."

  "Of course I can get off the island."

  And of course he could. There were a thousand places along the shore from which boats could leave and find their way to just about anywhere in the Pacific.

  "John,” Rudy said, “you'd better tell him to come here. You know I mean business."

  "Go ahead, Nelson,” John said.

  "Backward,” said Rudy.

  Nelson shuffled backward toward him. His frightened glance met John's once, then dropped miserably to the floor. Rudy put a hand on his shoulder to halt him and moved up closer behind him and a little to the side, the pistol digging into Nelson's hip.

  "Now, John,” Rudy said, “we'll be leaving. Move away from the door. Sideways. Lie down over by the wheel, on your face. And stay there, John. I warn you."

  "No, I don't think so, Rudy."

  Rudy's face twitched. So did the hand with the gun. That shook him up, John thought. Great, now both of us are shook up.

  "John—"

  "Forget it, Rudy. I'm not moving, you're not leaving,” he said in his calmest, most resolute voice, hoping Rudy couldn't hear the whomping in his chest. He didn't want Rudy panicking; he just wanted him to decide that he had no chance, that his only recourse was to give up. “Now put that damn thing down and we can talk this over."

  "I'll kill him, John,” Rudy said and dug the flare pistol into Nelson's side. Nelson stiffened.

  "And then what?” John said. “Where does it get you?” His lips were dry but he kept himself from licking them. “You kill him and what do you do about me? There's only one cartridge in that chamber. I'll be on you before you can load another."

  "You know, you're absolutely right,” Rudy said. “Maybe I'd be better off killing you instead.” He was getting very edgy now. His glance kept darting through the windows at the activity going on on the deck below. Who knew when someone might decide to come up to the bridge?

  "Same problem,” John said. “If you kill me, what do you do about Nelson?"

  Rudy was still able to dredge up a dry laugh. “Nelson I think I can cope with.” He moved the gun a little away from Nelson's hip so it was leveled at John's belt. “I'm really sorry, John.” His eyelids squeezed together twice, a queer, nervous tic. Nelson stood frozen, staring straight at John. His eyes looked like bull's-eye saucers.

  Christ, John thought, I played him wrong, he's actually going to do it... “Rudy,” he said quickly, “think for a minute, will you? If you shoot that thing off you'll have everybody on the ship up here in two seconds. What good is that going to do you? I'm telling you, you don't have any way out. Don't make it any worse for yourself than it already is..."

  But Rudy wasn't listening and John knew it; he was steeling himself to pull the trigger. The barrel came up a little higher to point at John's throat. John's mind was buzzing. He saw only one thing he could do, one thing he could try, and it didn't have much going for it: duck unexpectedly and spring for Rudy's legs. Rudy would have only one chance, and if the shot went over his head or merely winged him, maybe he could...

  Rudy pressed his lips together. Here it comes, John thought, even as he flung himself down. The squat orange barrel followed him. He was too late, too slow, he was going to take the shot in the face—

  Nelson's arm jerked. His hand clamped on Rudy's wrist.

  "Damn you, Nelson—” Rudy said testily.

  And all hell broke loose. Smoke, flame, noise—banging, whizzing, spitting—and an incredible, hissing, crackling eruption of red-hot sparks, spurts, and streamers that went off in every direction at once.

  John stayed low on the floor, on his stomach, while burning chunks of the flare went ricocheting around the room for what seemed an impossibly long time. At one point something fell onto the back of his head and he hurriedly thrust it away before he realized that it was only the flare's unopened parachute.

  "Nelson!” he called when he dared to raise his head. The explosions seemed to be over, but bits of flare were still sizzling here and there, visible only as red glows in the billows of acrid smoke that now filled the room. “Are you okay? Where—” He broke off, coughing.

  He was answered by a hacking cough off to his right, and he scrambled toward it on elbows and knees, swept out his arm, caught hold of the collar of Nelson's jacket, and dragged him with the same movement out into the fresh air of the gangway, where they sat with their backs against the wall of the bridge, choking and blinded by tears.

  "You all right?” John said when he was able to.

  Nelson still couldn't speak. He nodded.

  "Rudy's still inside,” John said, pushing himself up and wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He realized for the first time that his knuckles were singed. His cheek too. “I have to—"

  "Help,” someone shouted wetly. “I don't—” There was a break for coughs and gurgles. “I don't swim very well."

  John went to the rail. There was Rudy in the water fifteen feet below, sputtering and flopping around in a pathetic attempt at a dog paddle. Apparently he had fallen or jumped through one of the open windows when the flare went off.

  "Oh, lordy,” John said, preparing to go over the side but not liking it. Hawaiian or not, he wasn't much of a swimmer either.

  But before he could move, one of the Tahitians dove casually into the sea, rising directly under Rudy and hauling him up the ladder in a fireman's carry, then dumping him on the deck. Rudy lay flat on his face, panting and jelly-limbed, hanging on to the metal deck rivets with his fingertips as if he were afraid of rolling off.

  "Keep him there,” John called. “Be right down. I'm with the FBI."

  The crewman laughed. “Don't worry, this guy ain't going nowhere."

  John sank briefly down beside Nelson again. “Nelson, you saved my life. I can't believe it."

  Nelson, still hacking away into his handkerchief, shrugged.

  "You could have been killed yourself,” John said. “He could easily have pumped that thing into you. I just want you to know that I—I mean, that was really brave of you; that took gut
s. Not many people—"

  "Oh, shush.” Nelson waved him into silence with the handkerchief and finally got his coughing under control.

  "I mean, really,” Nelson said peevishly. “You're my brother, aren't you?"

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 31

  * * * *

  "...highs in the upper thirties, with more of the same— low clouds and drizzle, occasionally turning to sleet—continuing right on through the week. But cheer up, folks; by Friday chances look good for the occasional afternoon sun-break..."

  "What's funny?” Julie asked.

  "Nothing,” Gideon said, “I was just thinking it's nice to be home."

  He reached contentedly across the seat to squeeze her knee and switch the car radio to KING-FM. The Pachelbel Canon in D Major came on, and they listened in cozy, heated comfort to the calm, stately, inexorable chord progressions as Julie swung the car around the forested curves of Highway 101. Downslope on their right, visible through the firs, was Sequim Bay, gray and rain-pelted. On their left, the foothills of the Olympics rose, disappearing into the mist about two hundred feet up. The windshield wipers, making their slow sweep every second or so, kept steady time with the music.

  Gideon had arrived in Seattle two hours earlier. He and John had stayed in Tahiti for another day after Rudy's arrest, leaving depositions with Bertaud (they would both have to return for the trial) and having a last sad, hilarious dinner with Nick and what was left of the clan. Then, leaving John to spend another few days with his family, he had boarded the 12:15 A.M. flight to Los Angeles and caught an 8:50 A.M. hop to SeaTac, where Julie had been waiting for him. They decided to go the longer, more scenic way, and she had taken the wheel for the drive across the Tacoma Narrows Bridge and on to the Olympic Peninsula and Port Angeles. For most of it he had been filling her in on the latest developments from the South Seas.

  Rudy, he told her, had so far refused to make a statement on the advice of his avocat, but Gideon, John, and Bertaud had pieced together a first, rough set of events that seemed to fit the facts. They believed that the money-laundering operation had been Brian's—that is, Bozzuto's—idea; perhaps he'd had it in his mind from the very time he arrived. Bozzuto, after all, had the racketeering contacts and the firsthand experience with slippery bookkeeping. As if to confirm this, the tricky business with the prices had begun only a few months after he had come to the farm. Besides that, Nelson had now turned up some accounting and telephone records that seemed to show Brian's hand in several of the phony transactions. But Brian wouldn't have been able to do it alone. In the first place, coffee-bean purchases weren't made from the farm but from Whidbey Island, Rudy's turf. In the second, Klingo Bozzuto, even with a new face and a new name, wouldn't have been crazy about going anywhere near his old, betrayed gangland associates.