Operation Due Diligence

by Owen Parr

  As the evening went on and he looked forward to their last stop, Alex was falling in love with Julia and hoped she felt the same. He had agreed to be honorable and was going to keep his word, but he was torn because deep down he wanted to be with her tonight.

  They kept their conversation simple during dinner. He asked Julia to talk about her business and how she started in the investment business, and he made sure to stay away from personal issues concerning either of them. Dinner was wonderful, and as far as he could see, they were both having a great time. They concluded the meal with after-dinner drinks.

  Testing the waters, he asked, “Julia, I had planned one last stop, but I will leave it up to you if you want to go back to the hotel.”

  “I’ve had a wonderful evening. What had you planned for the end?”

  “Well, as you know, the French have fallen in love with salsa dancing. I’ve heard of a local salsa place that is small and intimate, and I thought we’d test our Cuban heritage and show the locals how to do it.”

  “I’m in. Let’s do it,” she said smiling.

  Alex was a great dancer, and not to his surprise, so was she. At times the locals, making a circle around them, would let Alex and Julia take over the dance floor. They laughed and enjoyed every minute.

  The evening wore on, the music got softer, the lights dimmer, and the crowd smaller.

  It was during a slow dance that he felt, as Julia caressed the back of his head, that she, too, was falling for him, as he had fallen for her. After a few more slow dances seasoned with a few intimate moments, Alex decided to call it an evening with some anticipation.

  “Julia, how about we call it night?” He suggested.

  “I think we should.”

  As they walked arm in arm out to the limo, Julia dropped her hand to grasp Alex’s, and they walked hand in hand towards the awaiting limo.

  Inside the limo, he moved a little closer to Julia.

  “Seat belts, please,” she said.

  “Really?”

  “I told you, I’m anal about that,” she responded.

  “So, I see,” he said, smiling and buckling up. “Julia,” he said, softly.

  Before he could finish his thought Julia said, “I’ve had the best time—dinner, dancing, and enjoying your company. I have not had this much fun in years. However, I need you to remember your promise from earlier today. Can you do that for me?”

  “I can, but—”

  “Counselor, we had a contract,” she said, smiling.

  “I have not felt like this . . . well, since I don’t know when. I have a feeling it is mutual,” he said.

  “It is mutual,” she replied looking into his eyes, but I have never been unfaithful to my husband, and as much as I feel an inclination tonight, I need you to respect my wishes,” she said seriously.

  “And so it will be. But I want you to know that something that feels so right cannot be wrong.”

  “Sounds like legalese to me,” she said smiling.

  He laughed softly. “If I may paraphrase something my friend and Catholic priest, Father O’Reilly, has said, ‘Even if you are married but not in love, then having sex is an act of adultery,’” he remarked.

  “Well, that may be, but in my case I don’t want to end the evening with an act of infidelity. We have had a wonderful time, and I will not forget the hours we spent together, I will remember and cherish these moments we have had together tonight,” she said.

  Alex saw that she was dead set on ending the evening, and he respected her for that. “You work tomorrow, you said?” He asked.

  “I do. At about 2 p.m., I have an appointment in town. Tell you what,” she said.

  “Tell me,” he asked with anticipation.

  “How about you stop in for petit déjeuner tomorrow morning?”

  “It is tomorrow morning now,” he replied.

  “Smart-ass. How about later then? About eight or nine?”

  “Nine is good. I love chocolate filled croissants. Make sure you have some,” he replied.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Have a good sleep tonight.”

  “You are a nasty person,” he quipped. Seeing her smile, he laughed and immediately began thinking about breakfast with her.

  The limo was headed northwest on Rue de Turbigo in an area known as Châtele-Les Halles, a tourist area and underground shopping mall during the day, but at night not the best place to be.

  A car bumped into the limo from behind.

  “Oh, my God, what was that?” Julia asked.

  Alex, ignoring Julia’s question, looked behind them and saw two men in a black Peugeot following the limo. The car sped up and bumped them once again.

  “Alex, what is going on?” She asked frantically.

  “It’s going to be all right. Just keep your head down,” he replied. He opened the sunroof over the backseat as Tony, the driver, handed him a black Browning Maxus Stalker shotgun.

  “Tony, do you see any other cars behind this one?” He asked.

  “No, I don’t,” replied Tony.

  “Let them catch up. I think we still have the element of surprise. Gun loaded?” he asked.

  “You have to ask?” said Tony, as he slowed down a bit to let the Peugeot get closer.

  “Alex, what are you doing?” Julia asked in a terrified tone.

  “I’ll explain. Tony, let me know the moment they are about to hit us again,” Alex said.

  The Peugeot was within four feet of the rear bumper of the limo. “Now, Alex, now,” shouted Tony.

  Alex stood up and stuck half his body out of the sunroof as he braced himself with his feet inside the limo. The Peugeot was now but one foot from hitting the limo’s bumper. He raised the Browning, aimed, and unloaded four twelve-gauge rounds, sweeping from the driver’s side to the passenger’s, and following up with another sweep from the driver’s to the passenger side. The windshield of the Peugeot exploded as blood and glass went flying everywhere. The Peugeot went out of control, and after colliding with a parked car, came to a stop.

  Just as the limo was beginning to pick up speed again, another car coming from Rue Tiquetonne on their right slammed into the front of the limo and sent it spinning onto the sidewalk, disabling it.

  “Get out of the car this way,” he said to Julia and pointed to his left as he opened the door. “Stay down.”

  All three exited the limo on the left side, shielding them from possible fire from the car that had rammed them. Both Tony and Alex pulled out their Glock 28 .45-caliber guns and waited for the worst.

  Two men got out of another Peugeot now disabled and stood behind the trunk of their car. Each of them armed with a Russian AK-47. “All we want is the lady with you,” said one of the men with a heavy Hispanic accent. “Save yourselves. Just get up and walk away. We won’t hurt you.”

  “Why me? What’s going on?” Julia asked excitedly.

  “You are to testify against Noriega, right?” Alex inquired.

  “How do you know that?”

  “We’ll deal with that later. These men are here to stop you from doing that. Understand?” He said.

  “These guys have Russian AK-47’s, brother. We have Glocks. Not a good match,” Tony said.

  Alex could see that Gordo, who was driving a Ford Explorer on Rue Tiquetonne, was approaching these guys from behind. He was moving slowly without headlights. “Tony, Gordo is approaching directly from behind them. We can’t shoot at them for fear of hitting Gordo. I think I know what his plan is. As soon as he accelerates and turns on his headlights, these guys are going to turn around. At that moment you move left, and I’ll move right. We’ll come at them at forty five degree angles. Empty your magazine on them, brother,” he said. “Julia, you stay put. Do not stand up.”

  Julia said nothing, as she nodded.

  Gordo turned on his headlights, accelerated towards the two men and began honking his horn. The two men were alarmed and reacted slowly. They turned towards Gordo and raised their AK-47s to shoot. Alex and
Tony were way ahead of these two. They began a barrage of shots from different angles, emptying their magazines. They made direct hits, dropping them on the spot. Reloading their magazines, Alex and Tony approached slowly to confirm their kills.

  “Gordo,” he said loudly, waving him over. “Tony, I am going for Julia. Get in the SUV. I’ll be right there.”

  All four left the scene in the SUV.

  “Who are you people?” Julia demanded.

  “Gordo, head for the safe house,” Alex said. “And, please, buckle up. Julia, I’ll explain when we get there.”

  They drove for about an hour into the countryside of Paris, all the while staying vigilant that they were not being followed. The safe house was one of three old farmhouses built on a knoll, surrounded by a rock wall of about four feet in height on a five acre lot. They parked the SUV in front of one of the houses.

  “Julia, follow me,” Alex said.

  “Where are we?” She asked.

  “We are in a safe house. We’ll be fine here. Our men are around the perimeter,” he replied.

  “Mister, you have lot of explaining to do,” she said, very agitated. “When am I going to get my stuff from the hotel?”

  “All your stuff is here. Francine packed it for you and brought it here,” he replied, showing her the luggage by the living room.

  “Francine? Who is that?” She asked.

  “She is part of the detail that was guarding you at the hotel,” he replied, waving Francine over to introduce her to Julia. “Francine, please, show Julia her room. You may want to change into something more comfortable.

  “Sounds good, but I want answers. Understand?” She said, rather upset.

  Alex waited outside for her by a glowing fireplace.

  “So,” she began, as she walked into the living room and sat on a leather sofa adjacent to the fireplace. “Who are you?”

  “Right,” he said. “We are U.S. government employees sent here to protect you. The DST should have been doing that themselves. After all, you are here at their request.”

  “Well, that’s probably my fault. I told them I would arrive tomorrow. Instead, I showed up two days early,” she said. “How did you know I would be here?”

  “Our own Department of Justice is very interested in what you know about Noriega and his banking transactions. They are going to need your testimony back in the states,” he said.

  “So, you are not an attorney. What are you? CIA?”

  “It happens that I am an attorney, but I work for the U.S. government,” he replied.

  “Okay, so you’re CIA. Who was after us?” She asked.

  “After you,” he corrected, as he began working on the fire. “Fortunately, they must have thought I was someone you met and did not associate me with being there to protect you. Otherwise, their attack methods would have been very different. Both times we caught them off guard, which worked to our advantage.”

  “About that,” she began. “This whole thing has been a charade? The meeting by chance, the bull crap about fate, the drinks, dinner, and dance. All of it was just a mission for you? All a— what do you call it? An operation?”

  “It started out as an operation,” he said, looking into her eyes. “However, the moment we spoke, something happened to me. That hour at the café? Well, I fell for you then.”

  “Give me a break. An hour drinking wine, and you fell for me?” She demanded.

  “This whole day has been incredible,” he replied. “My mission to protect you became doubly important after I met you. Yes, I had a job to do. I had to protect a person, but suddenly that person became very important to me. Someone I care for, admire, and want to be with.”

  “So, what part of the story is bogus?” She questioned.

  Looking up to the exposed wood cathedral ceiling, he said, “No part of it is bogus. It is what it is. I can’t help the way I feel. It happened. It’s never happened before. I know that. Also, I know there is a reciprocal feeling from you.”

  Closing her eyes and ignoring words, she asked, “What’s our plan tomorrow? How do I meet with the DST?”

  “They blew their chance. We have a plane tomorrow afternoon taking you back to the states. You’ll have protection once you land. The DST can take your testimony in the states. My question to you is this. Are you likely to incriminate yourself with your testimony?”

  “You want to be my attorney?” She asked rhetorically. “Up until recently, Noriega was aligned with the CIA. He’s worked for our government for years. Now, there’s been a lover’s quarrel, and he’s our enemy.”

  “I haven’t done anything wrong. My firm, our attorneys, our compliance people—we’ve all looked at every transaction we have ever done. We are fine.”

  “Well, it goes beyond a lover’s quarrel. Noriega worked for us until he started selling our secrets to the communist regime in Cuba and aligning himself with communist factions in Central and South America,” he said.

  “Agreed,” she said, “but his laundering and drug smuggling went abetted for years. Someone was looking away, don’t you think?”

  “Can’t argue that,” he replied.

  “Well, Mr. Government Agent, Counselor, etcetera. I didn’t have time to thank you for saving my life today,” she said, getting up from the sofa and moving toward Alex.

  He got up and stood in front of her with the warmth of the fireplace beside them.

  “Thank you,” she said, embracing him warmly. “I am sorry that I will not have the chocolate croissants for our petit dejeuner tomorrow.

  Alex returned the embrace. “I am happy I saved your life today—by the way, twice,” he said, softly. “Francine brought me chocolate croissants for tomorrow. I’ll wake you in a few hours. Get some rest.”

  “You better share those,” she said, laughing.

  “Trust me, I will,” he replied.

  CHAPTER NINE

  MIAMI BEACH, FLORIDA

  TEN YEARS LATER, THE YEAR 2000

  Rick Ramirez was at his home this morning on Star Island, one of a group of small islands on Miami Beach where the residents were mostly celebrities, sports stars, or the ultra-rich. The lure of the islands was the consolation that security gates protected the residents with guards allowing only them or their preapproved guests to enter.

  Rick was sitting in his second floor studio library gazing out through open sliding glass doors to the calm bay as a handful of boaters were going about their business.

  “Carmen,” he said, as one of his maids responded to his call for her. “Please, bring me a café con leche y tostadas, and close the door on your way out.”

  “Sí, Señor Rodríguez,” she responded.

  He picked up a satellite phone and dialed.

  “General,” he said.

  “Sí, Ramirez. Buenas días. ¿Cómo estás?” General Garces asked.

  “Bien, jefe, ¿y usted?” He said.

  “Fine. Tell me what’s up?”

  “First, we lost one of the boats last night to the Coast Guard. The other five made their arranged deliveries safely.”

  “How much did they get?”

  “About ten million in street value.”

  “¡Coño su madre!” Garces said. “What about the crew?”

  “As usual, they don’t know shit, so I am not concerned about that.”

  “Anything we could have done differently?” Garces inquired.

  “It’s a big ocean. We never know where these puddle pirates are going to be, so, no, not really.”

  “Bueno, Rick, what can we do? It’s not the first time,” said Garces. “And, what else?”

  “My sources tell me that the Cuban Council in Exile voted yesterday to elect Julia Muller as president of the council.” Without pausing, he stood up to look at some topless ladies as they sailed right in front of his home.

  “Are you kidding me?” Asked Garces, loudly.

  “No, General, but she has not accepted yet. As a matter of fact, I am told she is not even aware that she
was selected.”

  “That’s fucking ironic, isn’t it? How does that play into our offering?” Garces asked.

  “Well, she has no knowledge—no one has any knowledge—of the connection between MonteCarlo Industries and you guys. So, I am not concerned about that. But it is quite ironic, as you say, that on one hand she is taking us public, and at the same time, if she accepts the appointment of the council, she’ll be working to remove you guys from your roles as leaders and Governors of Cuba,” Rick replied.

  “Is it going to affect the offering, you think?” Garces asked.

  “No, I don’t think so. We are done with the domestic road shows. I do have one more trip scheduled with her to Paris to visit some institutional clients. We still have to work on the final pricing of the shares and finalize the allocation to the member firms.”

  “What about market conditions? Still favorable?” Garces inquired.

  “We had a downturn in the first quarter of the year. Expectations are—as we have already seen—that it will recover in the second quarter, and that is when we launch in a few days. So, I think we are fine.”

  “Okay, Ricardo, there are other things in the works that I cannot share with you now. Can you fly in tomorrow? I am going to be at Cayo Piedra. There’s something I need to share with you at this point. This whole Cuban Council bullshit may be short-lived anyway. So, deal with the offering, and let’s make sure that it is a success,” said Garces.

  “Bien, General. Hablamos mañana,” said Rick, as he disconnected the call. He got up from his desk and opened the door to his studio, which signaled his staff that they could come in.

  Carmen walked in with his café con leche and toast.

  “Carmen, please, set it on the table on the patio,” he said.

  “Señor Ramirez, el Señor Sergio is here to see you,” said Carmen.

  “Sergio Abreu?” he asked, somewhat surprised.

  “Sí, Señor,” replied Carmen.

  “Bring him to the patio and get him a cafecito sin azucar with a glass of water,” he said. “Also, Carmen, let Art know that we are flying tomorrow morning.”