“Jesus,” Jones said after he’d examined the body. “This guy’s really messed up. Broken neck. Broken back. Looks like he’s been hit by a truck.” He asked Sergeant Rivero for the flashlight and looked into the gaping mouth. “Somebody gave this guy a tonsillectomy, and then some. His tongue’s been sliced out, clean as a whistle.”
Alvarez had seen a few drive-by shootings in the streets of East L.A., but he’d never seen anything like this butchery. The corpse had a look of horror frozen on its face that he knew he’d never forget. His stomach flirted with the idea of getting sick; it had started to rise at one point, but he had willed it back down. No way was he going to show his ass in front of these guys, especially that macho prick Rivero. He took a few casual steps backward and drifted away from the scene, toward the flickering lantern in the far corner of the hold.
He walked down a narrow passageway created by stacks of palletized cargo. Running his hand along the sides of the passageway, feeling his way, he felt the contours of small pillow-shaped bales behind heavy sheets of plastic. The dying glow of the lantern emerged from behind the pallets at the end of the passageway, casting a yellow glow over the cargo and the entrance to what appeared to be a steel vault.
Alvarez adjusted his eyes to the dim light. The cargo was clearly visible now as he got closer to the lantern. Behind the blue plastic sheets were small bundles, each wrapped in clear plastic over heavy, brown paper. Alvarez unsnapped a key ring hanging from his dungarees and opened his bosun’s knife. He made a small cut through the outer layer of plastic and inserted the long blade of the knife into one of the packages. He carefully withdrew the blade with a tiny pyramid of white, crystalline powder drifting over the sides. He stuck his tongue to the powder and spit, his stomach rebelling at the bitter taste.
“Well, kiss my ass,” he whispered to himself. Alvarez was no stranger to coke - he’d been a small-time dealer at one point in his juvenile career - but this stash was big-time, more kilos than he could count of the purest shit he’d ever tasted. One or two of these could set him up for life. It was like nothing he’d ever seen or imagined.
He turned his attention to the steel vault with renewed interest. The heavy door was standing ajar. He pulled it all the way open on smooth ball bearings, allowing the weak beam of the lantern to push back the darkness several feet into the vault. Beyond the penetration of the lantern, the vault was pitch-black. Removing the emergency lantern from its brackets on the bulkhead, he crept inside.
Alvarez could feel that the vault was huge. The fading light of the lantern could only penetrate a short distance, but his muffled footsteps echoing up to the steel ceiling and outward to the steel walls indicated that it was much bigger than it had appeared. It felt cool and humid inside, something like being in a cave, he imagined, although he’d never been in one. He turned his light toward the cartons stacked neatly in rows. Waxy cardboard boxes were stacked floor to ceiling and left to right as far as he could see. Marked only with a serial number, the cartons offered no clue as to their contents. He pulled one down from the top and guessed its weight at twenty-five or thirty pounds. Snapping open his bosun’s knife, he slit the strip of duct tape running down the center. Alvarez pulled the flaps up and stared in amazement at rows of green-and-black United States currency.
“Holy Mother of God,” he said in a whisper, his eyes transfixed by the number “100” flanking the round face of Benjamin Franklin, whose eyes twinkled out from behind an orange currency band. He hesitated for a moment, then reached for one of the bundles as though it was a mirage that would disappear if he tried to touch it. His fingers on the silken paper told him it was real. It even smelled real. Holding the small bundle in his sweating hand, he riffled the bills with his thumb. Ben Franklin’s eyes twinkled out from his oval portrait, smiling at him 100 times. The orange currency band said “$10,000.”
“Ten grand,” he breathed in a whisper. He looked around. As far as his light would travel, the cartons were stacked. Hundreds of them. His numb fingers stuffed the small bundle equal to a year’s pay inside his shirt. He stood up and walked deeper into the vault. He couldn’t see an end to it. There must be hundreds of millions of dollars here. How could he even count it? The boxes were going by faster now. He wondered if all the boxes contained $100 bills, and if they did, how to calculate twenty-five or thirty pounds of $10,000 packets. How many packets to a carton? How many hundreds of cartons? His brain grew numb, then giddy at the thought.
His calculations stopped when his foot came down on the spongy inner wrist of a forearm. The fingers of a huge hand curled around his ankle, locking it in a viselike grip, each finger a band of steel. Alvarez tried to scream, but his throat was paralyzed. He tried to pull away, but the more he struggled, the tighter the bands constricted. His bowels grew warm and turned to sludge. Pure adrenaline surged through his veins as he stomped crazily on the fleshy human trap with his free foot. The grip tightened. He kicked at the arm, then backward into the barrel chest with his heel, flailing wildly, nearly falling over. Regaining his balance, he stomped at the head, grinding his foot into the face. Feeling the grip loosen for an instant, he wrenched free and ran for the exit like Satan himself was behind him. He tripped over a carton and fell flat, his lantern skating across the steel deck of the vault like a frozen pond. Flickering from the blow, the lantern nearly went out, then recovered with a tiny beam. He pulled himself up and stumbled forward, toward the lantern lying face down on the deck. Scooping it up, he ran, following its beam wherever it would take him, as long as it was away from this place, out of this nightmare. The echo of his own footsteps reverberated behind him, gaining on him. He was sobbing now, pleading with the Holy Virgin, begging Her to save him, when he collided against the solid frame of a man.
“You have no business in here,” Sergeant Rivero said.
Alvarez stared up at him, open-mouthed, gasping for breath. “Somebody grabbed my ankle in there.”
“Where?”
“Over there . . . Over there in the corner.”
Sergeant Rivero pushed Alvarez aside and started into the vault, shining his flashlight down the narrow pathway between the stacked cartons. Doc Jones followed close behind, and Alvarez scampered to catch up.
The darting beam of light gave Alvarez a truer picture of the size of the vault. It appeared to be twenty-five or thirty feet square and perhaps twelve feet high. Stacked cardboard cartons left just enough room for narrow, mazelike passageways between them. In the far corner of the vault, a crumpled form was sprawled like a pile of dirty laundry. The beam of the flashlight bathed the figure in a pitiless, white light. Rivero stood, stoically staring at the still form, with Alvarez standing on tiptoes, trying to see over his shoulder.
“Is he dead?” Alvarez said.
Sergeant Rivero stood sideways in the passageway, allowing just enough room for Jones to squeeze by with his medic kit.
Jones took the L-shaped flashlight and knelt beside the body. The head was turned at an awkward angle from the trunk, the eyes staring dully through slits. He pressed his fingers against the bull neck and shook his head. He paused for a moment, then shined the light into the open mouth and stood up.
“What’s the matter with him, Doc?”
“Appears to be a broken neck.”
Alvarez looked down at the outstretched hand that had held him in a death grip just minutes before and shuddered. Suddenly fascinated from his vantage point of safety, he stared into the face of the corpse, a face that looked strangely familiar. Alvarez thought he looked like Sergeant Rivero; same high cheekbones, faintly reddish brown complexion, thin beard . . . clearly some kind of Indian-Spanish mix. Alvarez had heard Sergeant Rivero called a mestizo and he figured that this guy must be the same thing. But whatever he was, he was one big dude. It was hard to tell how big, looking at this crumpled pile of flesh, but he appeared to be at least six-five, maybe more, and built like a wrestler. Whoever or whatever had dispatched him, Luis Alvarez would want no part of.
<
br /> “Is he dead?” Alvarez asked again.
“Yeah,” Doc said. “But that ain’t the scary part.”
“You mean his tongue-”
“I mean this guy’s fresh. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Jorge Cordoba ran a hand through his hair and paced across Don Gallardo’s study, glancing at the door, waiting for the latch to turn. What would he say to Don Gallardo? What could he say? Ayala had already implicated him. It would only make things worse to deny it.
He looked at his watch. Thirty minutes had passed in the silence of the room since Don Gallardo had told him to wait. He shook his head and resumed pacing, trying to fight off the feeling of numbness. He would never have guessed in a thousand years that his godfather would be capable of murder. He’d heard talk of killings in the organization, of course, but to actually see one, and one done by Don Gallardo himself. . . . He could still see the look of terror on Rafael Ayala’s face just before the impact. He reached for a cigarette and noticed that his hand trembled.
He took a deep drag, told himself to relax and glanced around the Don’s study. It was a man’s room. Shafts of sunlight drifted in through the French windows behind the massive oak desk. Big-game trophies hung like monuments to death on one suede-covered wall. On the opposite side of the room, oak bookcases were lined with leather-bound classics that looked as if they’d never been opened. Beams of sunlight splashed through glass cases filled with dazzling displays of pre-Columbian gold artifacts. The gold pieces made Jorge’s stomach churn. The plan was in ruins, and so, he knew, was his appointment as chief of finance.
But loss of a title was the least of his problems, after what he’d just seen. Loss of this shipment would place the entire organization at risk. If he was linked to that disaster, and he had been, he knew his status as Don Gallardo’s godson wouldn’t save him.
Jorge lit a cigarette and drew the smoke deep into his lungs, trying to calm the churning in his stomach. He exhaled a thin stream of smoke and resumed pacing. The only thing that could save him now would be for him to recover the ship, but to take an active role in that would take him further into a side of the organization he’d been able to avoid until now.
He thought about his parents, and how they’d fought to keep him out of it. Before the rift, Don Gallardo and Jorge’s father had been family friends and business associates, senior vice presidents in one of Colombia’s largest banking houses, until the Don had seen the potential in another line of business. But the real falling-out came when he saw Jorge’s talent as a young bond trader and offered him a wonderful opportunity within the new organization. Until their deaths eight years ago, his parents had strenuously objected to his involvement. Jorge was only twenty years old at that time and had been devastated by the tragic accident, but it had ended the debate.
He knew it was an unsavory business, but he needed a home, and Don Gallardo had convinced him he would be protected from the dark side of the business; he only wanted his financial expertise, he said, his genius for making strategic investments that would take the organization where it needed to go. He rubbed his eyes, cursing himself for being such a fool. He had no choice now but to take the next step. He had to convince the Don to put him in charge of the task force to recover the ship.
His pacing was interrupted by a commotion outside the window. Steel gates were clanging, men were shouting, the big cats were snarling and fighting. He walked over to the French windows behind the desk and looked down. The compound had been situated so that Don Gallardo could swivel his chair around and watch his prized African lions feed on their daily diet of horse meat. He knew that Don Gallardo occasionally sent live horses in for the cats -broodmares from his stable of purebred Paso Finos that were too old to breed, or foals that had been born with genetic defects. It satisfied their natural instincts to kill, he said. He enjoyed putting on these shows for the board members after their monthly meetings. Jorge had never forgotten the first one, and the only one, he had ever seen. The pathetic old mare, nostrils flaring, eyes bulging in terror, prancing back and forth, neighing pitifully while the cats lay quietly, grooming themselves, seemingly oblivious to the mare, taking their time. Then slowly, the females sauntering into formation, two on each side of the mare, edging her into a corner, the lightning spring, the claw marks raking her sides, the numbing bite on the back of the neck that brought her down, the throat being torn out while she bleated like a lamb being slaughtered. Then the male sauntering over after the kill, going for the soft underbelly and the choice parts of the rump, his muzzle red with blood. Jorge had been repulsed by it, but he’d noticed the expression on Rafael Ayala’s face. He had looked orgasmic. After that experience, Jorge had always made it a point to have some prearranged business to attend to after board meetings.
From above, the big-cat compound looked like a small island, landscaped with boulders and tropical plants, surrounded by a concrete moat. The African lions, one large male and four females, were the crown jewels in Don Gallardo’s collection. The big cats were fighting over bloody chunks of meat. Odd, he thought. He knew they were fed once a day, in the evening. Looking closer, he saw the big male licking at a long, slender piece of meat - white meat - while two females were shredding what appeared to be the remains of a dark suit. He heard the door click behind him and swiveled around.
“Magnificent, aren’t they?” Don Gallardo said.
Jorge felt his stomach turn. The musky feline smell of the lion compound coming in through the open window suddenly seemed repulsive. He stared at Don Gallardo as though seeing him for the first time.
“What’s going on down there?”
“Did you know that on the African plain it is the lioness that makes the kill?” Don Gallardo removed his coat and hung it up. “The lions are like males everywhere. They eat, sleep, and fuck.”
Jorge stared down on the compound. “Madre de Dios.” The words escaped from his mouth in a dry whisper. “What have you done?”
Don Gallardo raised his eyebrows. “What have I done to deserve such disrespect from my godson? Come and sit down, Jorge. We have a problem.”
“How could you put him in there like a piece of meat? I didn’t like him, but he was a human being.”
“Who?”
“Rafael Ayala.”
Don Gallardo’s face grew dark, a hint of the raging mask Jorge had seen before in the executive committee meeting. “I only hope my cats don’t get sick from eating his filthy flesh.”
Jorge stared down at the compound. He felt the blood drain from his face. “Was he . . . Was he dead?”
“What difference does it make? He is now. Sit down.”
Jorge walked around to the front of Don Gallardo’s desk and sat down, grateful to ease the quaking in his legs. He gripped the arms of the chair and gazed at his godfather, trying to reconcile the man seated before him with the man he’d seen standing behind Rafael Ayala.
Augusto Gallardo cut the tip off a Cuban cigar as big as a sausage and lit it, watching Jorge out of the corner of his eye. He exhaled a stream of blue smoke and pitched a gold Dunhill lighter on his desk. “I can see that you have no taste for the realities of business.” He leaned back in his chair. “I’ve recommended you to the confederation for the position of chief of finance. Perhaps I’ve made a mistake.”
“This business isn’t what I bargained for when you hired me away from the bank. You assured me I would never be involved in anything like this stuff. Perhaps my parents were right.”
Don Gallardo’s eyes flashed. “Yes, let’s talk about your parents. Who took you in when they died? I did. And this way is how you repay me.” He paused and leaned back in his chair. His tone softened. “You disappoint me, Jorge. We’ve struggled for the past eight years to build an organization, to wrest control away from the Ramirez butchers-”
“The Ramirez butchers!”
“. . . to develop a plan that will ensure our long-term survival. Now that we’re ready to make the first move, you allow this
blunder to happen.”
“I don’t see how I can be blamed for this-”
“You alone in the organization knew what it meant if we lost this shipment. Yet you stood idly by while Ayala made a decision that placed not only the confederation but the entire organization at risk.”
“But you know that fool. He’s always shooting his mouth off about some scheme or another. No one thought he’d actually-”
“Knew him, Jorge. Past tense. He is no longer with us. And he will have company very soon if that shipment is not recovered. Do you understand?”
Jorge’s mouth suddenly felt dry. The icy look in Don Gallardo’s eyes sent a chill through Jorge that seemed to still his blood. It was time to replace righteous indignation and denial with self-preservation. “Yes, Godfather.”
Don Gallardo snorted with disgust, tapping his cigar. “Godfather. Yes, I’m your godfather. And have I not been your godfather in every sense of the word? Have I not met my obligation to your parents since their tragic deaths? Have I not provided you with a place in the organization? Have I not provided you with the finest education, even at the cost of a $5-million endowment just to get you into that arrogant school in North America?”
“You’ve been more than generous. I’m grateful for all you’ve done-”
Don Gallardo held up his hand. “It’s not about money. It goes way beyond that. I’ve tried to teach you things, Jorge, important things about the history of our country, about the higher purpose of our organization and about the dangers we face from outside. But you still don’t understand.” He leaned forward and steepled his fingers under his nose, staring intently at Jorge. “When I was a boy, my father took me to the world-famous National Gold Museum, to see the remains of Colombia’s once-fabulous treasure. It was housed in the basement of the Banca de la República, in downtown Bogotá. I was struck by its simple beauty: ear and nose ornaments of the Sinu people, decorative pins from the Calima tribe, necklaces and breastplates made by the Chibcha Indians from as early as CE 300. The pieces were exquisite, but I was saddened at the pathetic remnants. Look around you, Jorge.” Don Gallardo waved his hand at the glass cases around the room. “What you see here is the largest collection of pre-Columbian gold outside the Museo del Oro. These few trinkets are the pitiful remains of the incredible wealth our country once had before it was looted by the Spaniards. And when the country was stripped of its gold, it went into a decline that lasted for centuries, while Spain dominated much of the world. I keep them here in my study as a daily reminder of the power of gold.”
Point of Honor Page 7
