THE ALCATRAZ OPTION

by Jay Begler

  Two

  •

  The Illusory Perfect Girl

  The helicopter ferrying Morales from the airport to Chula’s ranch had descended to about ٣٠٠ feet, and flew over a small grass covered ridge. A majestic private residence stood imposingly at its far end. Even from a distance, Morales could tell that this was not a stereotypical ranch house. It reminded him of those French Relais that he sometimes saw when he flipped through his parents’ travel magazines. The last time he was at the ranch was five years earlier. At 11 he was more interested in riding horses than architecture, and took no real notice of the building. It was as if he was seeing it for the first time.

  Acting as a tour guide, the pilot said, “That’s it, the boss’s ranch house. See the smaller house at about three o’clock? That’s the VIP guest house. It has a great pool, a fully equipped gym and a clay tennis court, but you need to be a big shot or a good friend to use it. And back about 100 yards, that modest cottage over there, is Mr. Chula’s original house before business got good.”

  When they landed on a helipad some sixty yards from Chula’s hacienda, Don Chula came to greet Morales. Chula was about the same age as Morales’ father, but there the resemblance ended. Angel Morales, slight of build, balding, and always bespectacled, looked like what he was, a banker. Chula was broad shouldered, ruggedly handsome, with weather-beaten, tanned, skin. Just as El Chapo thought years before, the first thing that occurred to Morales was that he looked like the “Marlboro Man.” The advertising character, long dead, was resurrected a few years earlier, but now used to promote a highly popular men’s cologne. Once this happened, many who knew Chula commented about his resemblance to the uber-masculine Marlboro Man. Chula liked the association and ultimately adopted the moniker as his nickname.

  Like his advertising character counterpart, Chula had a certain aura about him, a larger-than-life appearance. He was a national hero, the poster boy for those who stood up to and fought tirelessly against the drug cartels. On a national television show, he once proclaimed that the “Drug cartels are the cancer of Mexico. Unless we eliminate them, Mexico will die of the disease.”

  He put up a four-million-peso reward for the capture of the current drug lord, known only as “El Fantasma,” and campaigned to have others contribute to the reward fund. The fund was at 25 million pesos, but the drug lord seemed to always evade capture. All of this, however, was a masterful charade. Chula was perpetuating an enormous fiction to cloak his identity. Only the core group of the Cartel knew of his true identity, and with the layers of security put in place by the Cartel’s sophisticated security group, headed up by a former high-ranking CIA operative, the discovery of his actual identity was highly unlikely. Chula was hiding in plain sight.

  As Morales walked from the helicopter towards him, Chula extended his hand and said, “Hector, it’s nice to see you. It’s been a while. I hate to say this because I’ll sound like an old man, but you’ve really grown.” He signaled to a servant to take in Morales’ luggage.

  “Thank you for having me, Mr. Chula.”

  “It is my pleasure. I think you’ll enjoy staying in our little home. I’m only sorry that my daughter, Isabella, isn’t here. She is in Courchevel at ski racing school, of all things. Apparently, they have snow at the very top all year long. But she will be here a few weeks before you leave and I’d like you two to get acquainted. I suppose you know that you were born on the same day, in the same hospital, almost at the same time.”

  “I do.” Morales thought it a bit odd that in the few visits he made to the hacienda he never met Isabella, nor saw any photographs of her.

  The hacienda could have been a luxury hotel. Tapestries and expensive artwork adorned the walls. While Morales had little interest in art, he thought he saw a mural by Diego Rivera, two paintings by Frida Kahlo and some impressionist art, but didn’t have a clue as to the identity of the artists. Morales’ father had told him that Chula’s Mexican Kobe beef had been enormously successful, and that Chula was not only extremely rich, but a major client of the bank’s wealth management department. Morales had no reason to probe.

  As they entered a 5,000-bottle wine cellar, en route to a large exercise room and indoor Olympic sized pool, Chula said, “We are having a recital and dinner party this evening. Antonio Rodriguez, the first violinist with the Mexican Philharmonic, will play, and then a surprise performance.” He smiled at his last remark as if something amused him.

  “I know him. He’s amazing.”

  “I’d also like to introduce you to your lab-mate Rebecca Shapiro, an American. Her father is a very important scientist who advises us on various projects.”

  Morales was baffled. “Lab-mate? But I thought I’d be herding cattle.”

  “You’ll do that and more. But lab-work in the morning. You’ll like her. She’s a very nice girl, and an exceptional pianist.”

  The rehearsal room which Morales entered later that evening resembled one of the significant concert salons in the Palacio de Bellas Artes. It was larger than the recital hall in which Morales and his mother had performed. As he was looking for Rodriguez, Morales heard a bright, “Hi” from behind. When he turned, he saw a beautiful young woman, almost his height, with blond hair, a perfectly round face and deep, penetrating, violet eyes. He didn’t know why, but her eyes triggered a memory of seeing a revival of the 1950s movie Giant with Elizabeth Taylor, and his father saying with astonishment as they exited the theatre: “Her eyes, her beautiful violet eyes.”

  Her looks drew him in. She had a certain allure about her, a magnetism that took hold of him immediately. He fixated on her eyes. She noticed, laughed and, fluttering her eyes exaggeratedly, said sarcastically, “I have that effect on men.”

  He wished he could conjure up a witty reply, but nothing was forthcoming and Morales had to settle for, “Well, nice to meet you, Rebecca. I’m Hector Morales.”

  “Mr. Chula got tied up and told me to look for you to say hello. I understand that we will be working together on the ranch in the lab. So, where’s your violin?”

  He didn’t know why she asked the question. “Home. Why?

  “For our duet.”

  Alarmed, he asked, “What are you talking about?”

  She laughed. “Oh dear. No one told you. We’re supposed to do a piano and violin duet.”

  She took hold of his hand and led him to the piano in front of the room. Several violins rested on a bench near the piano. He picked one up tested it. Sheet music was already on her piano and his lectern. Morales saw that the piece was Dvorak - Sonatina Op. 100, 1st movement. He was familiar with the piece, but never played it. Morales knew he could not back out of the impromptu recital, and focused on the music until he heard Chula announce, “And now our young musical prodigies, Rebecca and Hector.”

  They stood before an audience of about fifty people. She took his hand, squeezed, and both bowed slightly. What he expected might be a minor disaster, an embarrassment, was the reverse. In the words of the Maestro, they were magnificent. As they held hands and bowed to loud applause, she squeezed his hand and said, “Nice job Hector.” She paused. laughed, and said, “I think we’re going to make beautiful music together.”

  He didn’t know what to say. He was in such a state of euphoria and relief and so absorbed by Rebecca, he blurted out an awkward, “You’re wonderful.” He later wondered about the remark. No one had this effect on him, but she had a grip on him he couldn’t readily define.

  “So true.” She replied and squeezed his hand again. He blushed. They took coffee on a beautiful patio behind the hacienda. Large lanterns provided the lighting as several waiters passed by with cakes and coffee. Nearby, three musicians played soft guitar music as they both talked about themselves. Despite their different backgrounds, Morales found that they shared similar tastes in music, movies, and books. Each felt the other was exotic and different from their peers.

  Rebecca explained that her father, a noted scientist, as well as a Rabbi at the
ir Temple in Brooklyn, visited the Chula ranch several times a year to assist on veterinary research, though the truth, unknown to Rebecca, was that he consulted on developing new forms of illegal drugs.

  “He’s an Orthodox Jew and has very high moral standards. Not a day goes by where he, or my mother doesn’t utter some ‘don’t” rules; don’t hold hands, don’t be friends with gentiles, don’t go to foreign films.” She stopped, laughed, and said: “He equates all foreign films with smut, though he hasn’t seen a foreign film in his life. Well, you get the picture.”

  Morales told her about his life in Mexico, at least his public persona side, his reasons for choosing Luis’ former high school in favor of a private school, and his severe arguments with his parents, particularly his father, about his choice. He told her about his adventures at the high school with his friend Luis, including, to impress her, the story about Esmeralda, which prompted, “You’re quite the lover boy, Hector.” They spoke openly about themselves for close to two hours. Near the end of the evening, Morales felt that he really knew Rebecca, at least knew her essence. As infatuation was overcoming him, he thought “She’s perfect.”

  His view of Rebecca might have been entirely different if, using the same mystical crystal ball his parents might have used, he gained a true insight into the amalgam of all those things that defined Rebecca as a person. Not that she had a dark side like Morales. She was kind, empathetic and honest most of the time, but also fiercely independent and in her own way quite selfish. In all things she would put herself first. Unlike Morales, she had a moral compass, but hers was complicated. Rebecca broke no laws, but she broke rules, namely the moral strictures imposed by her Orthodox upbringing and enforced by her parents.

  As she passed her fourteenth birthday, she realized that the most important driving force in her life was and would always be satisfying her libido. Sex seemed to be more important than anything else. By accident, she stumbled onto an internet porn site. Her parents, never imagining that parental controls were necessary for their pious daughter, didn’t imposed them. She became so absorbed in pornography that she watched porn virtually every day, masturbating while she did so. Despite her strict upbringing, Rebecca had no sense of guilt about her proclivity for porn or pleasuring herself. The only thing that prevented her from seeking and finding someone to make love to was the fear of getting caught. She needed to find someone safe; someone that would never divulge that she made love to him.

  What permitted Rebecca to avoid feelings of guilt were the coupling of two traits she carried with her into adulthood: a substantial ability to rationalize and the ability to compartmentalize and completely suppress her feelings. If she felt guilty about something and it bothered her, she would place her guilt in a mental compartment of sorts and seal it so tight that her guilty feelings would never seep out. These qualities enabled her to push aside all of those acts that violated the strictures of her moralistic household, from eating unkosher food, to an occasional joint, and later to an occasional infidelity after she was married, but only when she was out of town. She sometimes joked with her surreptitious lovers, “I never cheat on my husband when we are in the same town.” The quip was not her own but one Rebecca took away from the revival of a movie called A Touch of Class which, ironically, she saw with her husband and laughed about the line with him as they walked hand in hand out of the theatre.

  As waiters cleared the tables, Morales said, “I think I better turn in. It’s been a long day. I’ll walk you to your room if you like.”

  “Oh, I’m not staying in the hacienda. I’m at the guest house about ١٠٠ yards from here. It’s much more private, and it has a great swimming pool which I have all to myself. You should come over and visit sometime.” She smiled in an odd and provocative way. Morales didn’t know what to make of it or her, except that he couldn’t wait to see her again. She rose, squeezed his shoulder lightly and walked to her father. Morales watched until she was out of sight.

  Rebecca’s father said to her as they walked to the guest house, “He seems like a nice young man.” She nodded, and thought that Morales might be the safe person for her sexual adventure.

  Three

  •

  The Most Successful

  Criminal in History

  In a Pulitzer Prize-winning book written years after Chula’s death, A History of Modern Crime, the author dubbed him “The most successful criminal in history.” That assessment was true, though some would argue that the title belonged to his successor, Morales.

  Several weeks after he reluctantly accepted Guzman’s “invitation” to become part of the Sinaloa Cartel, five men and one woman, identifying themselves as the “conversion team,” met with Chula to begin the process of establishing his ranch as the primary center of operations for the Cartel. Each member of the team had a specific skill set which he or she would use in the conversion process. Two of the men, an architect, and an engineer, held detailed images of the ranch from Google Maps and enhanced images taken by several of the Cartel’s drones. They set off by themselves in a jeep to inspect the property.

  One man, a lawyer, had Chula sign over the ranch and the cattle to a shell company owned by the Cartel. Once Chula executed the transfer papers, the lawyer handed him several documents, which reflected that he now had a brokerage account at Merrill Lynch, Mexico, S.A. de C.V., and Casa de Bolsa, and that his cash position was two-million dollars. Handing Chula a business card, the lawyer said, “This is our stock broker. Don’t use anyone else.”

  The other two team members, veterinarians, spent the day with Chula inspecting his cattle. Near the end of their tour, the woman said, “We’d like to operate on one of your steers.” She pointed to one steer and asked, “Would you say that one is about an average size?” Chula nodded. “Good. Can you get one of your men to bring him into the building you showed us earlier, the one where you take care of veterinary procedures?”

  “Sure,” Chula replied, and instructed one of the hands to move the steer into the building. The woman put on a pair of rubber gloves and, using a large scalpel taken from her oversized purse, cut open the underside of the anesthetized steer. The man with her placed glassine envelopes containing a powder into the opening of the steer, after which she stitched the opening closed. She looked at the man and said: “Twenty kilos, just as Shorty said.” They waited an hour for the steer to regain consciousness and observed it for another four hours.

  “No ill effects, excellent,” said the woman. She took a photo of the steer on her smartphone, walked off, and made a phone call. She returned and said, “They want to know how much time we have before your next cattle drive to the states.”

  Chula replied, “Two months.”

  The woman said, “Good. We’ll operate on about ١٠٠ of your steers to see how that works out. We’ll be in touch.” Then, as an afterthought, she said, “We want you to segregate about ١٠٠ steers and to start giving them growth hormones. Our lab, Aster SA, will send the hormones to you along with instructions on how to administer them.”

  Chula’s shock registered on his face. He had dealings with Aster while at Monsanto. It was a highly regarded veterinary drug company in Lucerne, Switzerland. The woman continued without regard to his expression. “Aster makes both human and animal growth hormones. It’s one of many laboratories we control throughout the world. Our goal is to increase the size of your steers by about twenty percent. If we can up the kilos, we put into the steers by even two kilos per steer, our profits will increase significantly.”

  The woman walked away, but then stopped, opened up her purse, and handed Chula a revolver. “A present from Shorty,” she said. The weapon had a short-handwritten note on it. “Welcome Aboard. Don’t leave home without it.” At that moment Chula thought, surprised once again, “He has a sense of humor?”

  Over the next six months, the ranch had many visitors from the Cartel. When it appeared to all who reported back to the Directors of Sinaloa that Chula was highly capable of overs
eeing the conversion of the ranch, the Directors gained greater confidence in him, and the visits became infrequent. The first cattle drive was a great success. The second, with 500 steers, each loaded with over twenty kilos of heroin, went smoothly. Once this happened, Chula negotiated the purchase of the slaughterhouse and meat processing plant where he shipped his cattle. Within weeks, the plant’s existing employees were all fired and replaced by new employees tied to the Cartel, each holding a forged permanent resident card.

  Working closely with several engineers, Chula reconfigured and modernized the plant. Within two months, he had found a bright young man who would function as the plant’s COO, and who would report directly to him. Within six months, the plant was operating profitably and functioning as the key depot in the United States for the Cartel’s illegal drugs. Daily, large trucks loaded with meat and kilos of illicit drugs would depart from the plant for various drop off places throughout the country, with the meat going to legitimate wholesalers and the drugs going to the Cartel’s distributors. Within a year, the logistical challenges posed by this arrangement became so formidable that the plant had a ten-man shipping department.

  Transporting drugs inside of animals was not new. It was common for cartels to use humans, dogs, and other animals as “mules.” Once, a DEA agent sought to check the steers crossing the border. The odds, however, were against him because of the large number of steers transported every day. Daunted by the impossible task of finding any steers carrying drugs, and put-off by the foul odor of the steers, the DEA agent ultimately gave up and never returned. The DEA appointed no other agent to take his place.