He checked-in to the La Quinta, a motel near the border crossing and ate a pizza at Denny’s, a diner next door, where the food was mostly Mexican. Kennedy did not like Mexican food, at least the typical fare; it gave him a serious dose of turista. It was a mixture of things unfamiliar to him, such as tacos and tortillas, the soft sticky composition of which he could not clearly identify.
The drive down from Houston had been uneventful on a dreary flat road, it was nevertheless a good road and Kennedy enjoyed it, averaging around 70 mph in his comfortable rented car, an almost new rented Buick.
The only town of any interest was Corpus Christi, where he made a short detour stopping to eat. The rest of the road was an endless stream of MacDonalds and cheap diners, scattered between Holiday Inns and cut price stores.
He arrived in Brownsville in the late afternoon. The town was different, it was completely Mexicanised, many years before the population had been black, but they had moved on to the North and the jobs it had offered at that time.
An old man at Denny’s had recounted how in the early sixties it had been typical southern town, where the main activity was the military base and the frontier post with its police and customs services. Buses had then been segregated, with blacks in the back and whites in the front. Kennedy wondered to himself what they had done with the Mexicans.
Ortega had decided to accelerate Kennedy’s involvement in his plans by having him visit one of his organisations hotel investments in Mexico and had invited him to make the detour on his next trip to Cuba. Tampico was not really a very accessible place to visit from Europe. The obvious choice for Kennedy would have been to fly to Mexico City and then take an internal flight up to Tampico.
By carefully studying the map he saw there was an alternative and he had chosen to enter Mexico by road from the USA, for the sheer pleasure of the trip. With his Limerick travel agent and their map they worked out what appeared a good flight to the border via Houston.
Kennedy flew into Houston from London, where as scheduled he should have taken a connecting flight to Brownsville on the American side of the border, facing the town of Matamoros close to the Gulf of Mexico.
Kennedy had decided to discover for Mexico for himself ‘to be as knowledgeable as the other smart Alecs’ he figured. He had had more than enough of those stuck-up Dubliners such as Castlemain, not to speak of the big city boys from London and Paris who seemed to know everything and never ceased explaining things to him, as though he was naive or worse a country bumpkin, as he suspected they saw him. After all he reasoned it was he who had introduced Arrowsmith into the business and now he would do the same with Ortega without Castlemain ‘upsetting the apple tart’.
On arrival in Houston, after a long uncomfortable flight with a turbulent jet stream, he decided he had had enough of planes for one day. He cleared immigration and collected his bags, as he was obliged to do so on entering the USA, then taking the green lane at customs he headed for the exit, abandoning his connecting flight, going directly to the car rental desk where he hired a car. He had decided to visit Texas by driving down to Brownsville, where he was informed he could drop off the car at the local airport.
The airport at Brownsville was small compared to Huston, very small. After dropping off the car he took to a taxi into the city centre where he checked into a motel, La Quinta, a stones throw from the border.
As instructed, after his arrival in Brownsville, he was to call Ortega’s man, a certain Jose Aguirra, who would drive him down to Tampico. After his visit to Tampico, Kennedy planned to fly to Mexico City and on to Havana.
He checked in and once in his room dialled the Matamoros number of Aguirra, a woman answered and informed him that he would be picked up the following morning at his motel.
From the motel room he could see the frontier control point and an impressive high fence across a river or canal, on the other side was Mexico, effectively sealed from the USA to prevent ‘wetbacks’ from crossing illegally into the country.
It was about six when he set out to explore Brownsville. The shock was rude; it was unlike any American town he had ever visited. He knew the North quite well after his yearlong sojourn in Boston twenty years previously during his work experience with the law firm, but this place was unlike anything he had ever seen apart from Cuba, but it was not exactly like Cuba either, there was much too much movement.
Perhaps, he thought, Brownsville was like Mexico. There was traffic, the coming and going of Greyhound style buses, shops, neon lights and bars. Brownsville was not rich like the rest of the USA, but it was definitely not poor.
He wandered into the shops and supermarkets where the only language he heard spoken was Spanish and where the customers and salespeople alike looked Mexican, even the advertising on the packaging was in Spanish. He felt foreign.
He wandered down what appeared to be the main shopping street, past bus stops where crowds patiently waited, their arms loaded with plastic bags and large cardboard boxes, which according to the pictures on them, contained everything from hairdryers to microwave ovens.
The shops gave way to small restaurants and bars. A little thirsty he turned into a dimly light bar and ordered a coke, he drank it slowly whilst studying the surroundings. He tried to strike up a conversation with the barman but to no avail, his Dublin accent and the barman’s Mexican English were incompatible.
A girl walked in from the street, she took a stool at the corner of the bar and ordered a drink, and then looking around she fixed her eyes on Kennedy, inquisitively for a moment, and then smiled at him. He smiled back, which she appeared to take as an invitation, taking her drink in her hand she moved to the bar stool next to him.
“My name in Rosario,” she held out her hand smiling. She had large white teeth and was quite pretty if that was the word, though a little too much makeup. Her wavy black hair was held together at the back of her neck by a large pink plastic clip in the form of a butterfly. She wore a black skirt and tee shirt.
“Hello, I’m Pat.”
“Pat! You’re from here?”
“No, I’m from Dublin.”
She frowned, and then laughed. “In Texas?”
“No Ireland.”
“You wanna buy me a drink?” she said, forgetting the question, which seemed too complicated for the Gringo.
“Yesh,”
She nodded to the barman who put a Corona on the bar.
“What are you drinking?”
“Coke.”
“Oh! Where are you staying Pat?”
He took out his hotel registration card and unsure of the pronunciation showed it to her.
“La Quinta, the motel!” she laughed placing her hand on his thigh.
“Yesh.” He looked down her low cut tee shirt as she leaned forward.
“How long are you staying Pat?”
“Just tonight, tomorrow I’m going to Tampico, driving!”
“Tampico! I’m from Tampico! You take me with you Pat?” she said playfully.
“You live here in Brownsville,” said Kennedy looking at her and thinking that she resembled Lena a little. She had that kind of skin and hair.
“Yes, I work in a real estate agency here,” she shrugged, “it’s a fairly good job, not that well paid, but I have a resident’s green card.”
They talked and Rosario worked on Kennedy, warming him up. She was serious about going to Tampico. She explained she had a week’s holiday and wanted to be back with her family for Easter, it would save her the fare and in return, if he wanted, she would be happy to show him around Tampico.
“I’m serious Pat, what about taking me? I’ll be no problem, you have a car?”
“Well not exactly, I have a friend who is picking me up.”
“An American?”
“Mexican.”
Rosario explained that she could work things out with a Mexican, who would understand her better than a Gringo. Kennedy nodded in agreement.
“So let’s go!” she said getting up.
> The barman gave Kennedy the tab and he pulled out his dollars and pealed off twenty dollars placing them on the bar.
“Keep the change!” said Rosario to the barman with a wink, grabbing Kennedy by the arm and heading towards the door before he had time to react.
She walked with Kennedy to La Quinta, leaving him at the door, saying that she had to collect her bag and would return in an hour.
Rosario was as good as her word and knocked on his room door exactly one hour later. He had waited for her a little anxiously, unsure of himself, wondering whether it was a good idea or not, but when he heard the knock on his door he felt a slight movement in his crotch at the pleasurable thought of her in his bed.
Kennedy’s confidence was growing; he had the feeling of being a man in control of his destiny, jetting around the world, meeting people, women, making important decisions. His efforts were starting to pay-off, his business with Arrowsmith, the shares he had bought in Swap had made him a wealthy man, both real and on paper, and his relations with Ortega confirmed his flair for international business.
Yes, Kennedy knew where he was going; at least he thought he did. The small town accountant was making it in the world, amongst the rich and powerful.
He opened the door and Rosario entered with a smile, and then kissed him gently on the lips.
“Did you miss me Gringo!” she whispered in Spanish.
The next morning Jose Aguirra arrived at the hotel and was not particularly surprised to find his client Kennedy with a girl. Ortega had told him to look after Kennedy, he was important, but he had also told him that Kennedy was different to the American Gringos.
Rosario quickly explained in English, for the benefit of Kennedy, that she was Pat’s good friend. Aguirra shrugged his shoulders indifferently, if Kennedy had taken a shine to her that was his affair. He was the boss’s friend.
They got the bags into the big Ford Cruiser and set off to the border, where they joined the queue of vehicles at the U.S. control points, crossing the border some minutes later, without the least problem. On the Mexican side, Kennedy was given a visa by what appeared to be a military man, it was quick and efficient, he was the only one to need a visa. Then a customs officer asked them if they were carrying guns, Aguirra replied no. They then headed in the direction of the road to Tampico through the centre of Matamoros.
The scene that met his eyes driving through the centre of Matamoros excited Kennedy. It was really different, bustling, and colourful, not like those lifeless American cities. There were pavements and crowds on the pavements, street sellers, and disorderly traffic.
Everything he saw on the road as they drove south was of interest to him, it was a pity that Jose drove so fast, he would make up for that, he had a few days ahead of him to discover the mysteries of Mexico. He had never visited the country, his only knowledge of it came from the Westerns he had seen in the Limerick cinema on Saturday afternoons when he had been a kid.
The road from Matamorros to Tampico was poor, with endless road works for widening the narrow, flat, road, but in spite of that they managed to average a good speed.
Jose had turned on the car radio, as all Mexicans he liked the permanent sound of music, as loud as possible. Kennedy enjoyed the music especially the Mariachis that completed the romantic image.
It was evening by the time they arrived in Tampico, the road had been long and they had stopped several times for lunch and refreshments. Rosario had slept for most of the time, but when awake she took care of Kennedy, caressing his neck and hair to remind him of her presence.
He had had a good night with Rosario and felt relaxed; he would enjoy himself over the next days. There were no important business meetings; he was as he said to himself on a tour of inspection at Ortega’s invitation. Rosario was different she was classier than Lina in Cuba, she was, how could he say it….more understanding, softer. Perhaps it was because she was not a communist. He felt relaxed and pleased with life.
He checked into the Hotel Ingalterra, which stood on the city’s main square, facing the cathedral and the administrative palacio. It was like all Central American towns. Rosario left after telling him she was going to make a quick visit to her parents. She returned to the hotel an hour later, where she joined him for dinner with low lights and soft music in a nearby restaurant.
Over dinner she listened to him attentively as he described his business achievements. He proudly explained that he knew important people in Tampico, who owned the Miramar Club Hotel, then how they would invest in his projects in the Caribbean; she listened with interest gently encouraging him.
“You see Rosario, they would like to invest in my project, I’m playing hard to get, I’ll take their money though!” he winked knowingly to her.
“You are a good businessman Pat, why don’t we drink to your success.”
For once he accepted and ordered a bottle of sweet Champagne. He enjoyed it; it was not so different from Coca-Cola he thought.
He talked and talked and was pleased it seemed like Rosario was impressed. He did not remember too much after returning to the hotel and was awoken the next morning by Rosario, when American breakfast was delivered on a trolley to his room; he simply drank the coffee eager to get out and explore Tampico. He wanted to try one of the typical local cafes, which he had spotted nearby the hotel. The menu contained set breakfasts printed in Spanish and English. He noted quickly that there was not a single tourist or foreigner visible, not even in the hotel.
Ortega had made Kennedy’s reservation at the Inglaterra for his first night in Tampico. He wanted Kennedy to arrive rested and fresh for the big tour the next day. He knew that first impressions were important and did not want him to arrive directly at the Club tired in the evening after the long car drive. It would have been simpler if Kennedy had taken a flight from Matamoros to Tampico, but since he had wanted to see the country Ortega had not discouraged him, even though he knew that the coast road was flat and uninteresting with not much to see.
Aguirra had informed him that Kennedy was with a girl called Rosario, which seemed to please Ortega who had simply replied with a remark on the quality of Mexican hospitality.
Rosario now had Pat in the palm of her hand and joined him for the visit to the Club Hotel, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Jose picked them both up at ten; they were expected at the hotel half an hour later. According to Rosario just six or seven kilometres from Tampico.
Kennedy was surprised to see that Tampico was remarkable like a Cuban town. The roads were filled with older model American cars that glided past more or less noisily in the streets of the city centre, which he noted was divided in cuadras like Havana.
Ortega’s hotel complex had been built one of the finest beaches on the northern coast of the Gulf of Mexico, not far from Tampico. The climate was a typically sub-tropical, hot and humid, with an average year round temperature of 24°C. Tampico was almost five hundred kilometres south from the Texas border. It was possible to fly directly from the USA to the Tampico International Airport and there were also daily local flights from Monterey, Mexico City and other towns.
The Miramar Club had been developed as an all inclusive sun and sand tourist resort, mainly for North American holidaymakers during the winter season. Mexico, as part of NAFTA, the North American economic association together with Canada and the USA, offered a relatively inexpensive, uncomplicated winter holiday to the middle classes with golf, tennis, sailing and other sports.
Cuba was out of bounds for the average American and the other Caribbean islands were considered by many as either too expensive, too dangerous or too foreign, the later being the case for the French West Indies.
Playa Miramar had fine white sand washed by the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico and was surrounded by woods, that fortunately hid the Petrobas oil refinery and the poor suburbs of Tampico from the tourists eye.
Tampico was a typical Mexican town, built on the north bank of the Panuco River. It offered sho
pping and night life for those who wished to venture out of the club as well as the historical centre of the city with its cathedral and public buildings, which had been built over a period of four hundred, commencing with the early Spanish colonial period in the 16th century.
Nevertheless Tampico was not a traditional tourist magnet. Ortega had invested there because of its proximity to the USA, its beach and climate. It was a discrete, conveniently away from the mainstream of mass tourism, where not too many questions were asked by a city that needed to attract tourism.
After leaving the city centre the main road in the direction of the Miramar Beach gave way to a network of very poorly maintained local roads. The Ford bumped slowly over the water filled potholes through a series of extremely poor outlying villages with unmade side roads lined with ramshackle dwellings, where children played in the streets amongst barking dogs and chickens that scratched the dirt.
There was an air of ruin and decay about the shanties built in cinder blocks and where the occasional flash of scarlet Bougainvillaea seemed to mock the misery. In front of one of the homes was a small pig tethered by a piece of string to a rusty pole.
The smell of the nearby oil refinery hung heavily in the air, between the trees could be seen the crackers and flames from the excess gases that curled up against the clear blue sky. Kennedy was a little disappointed, it did not seem to him like a tropical paradise.
The road terminated abruptly at a roundabout in front of the beach where a few old cars were parked, a couple of taxis and a bus waited. On the beach stood a lone and insalubrious snack bar surrounded by an accumulation of garbage, wrappings and plastic bags on the sand.
The driver turned to the right taking what seemed to be a private road through the wooded surroundings, then following a high wall and arrived at the club five minutes later.
The wall was interrupted by two huge carved Aztec pillars supporting a heavy double gate, it was the entrance to the club and a giant bronze plaque welcomed guests with Bienvenida a Club Miramar cast in highly polished letters.
The Ford was checked-in at the gatehouse where the security guard telephoned to the reception to announce their arrival. Once past the main gate they were in another world of waterfalls, palm trees and giant cactus. Here and there were uniformed gardeners tending to the finely cut lawns and tropical plants. A few moments later they pulled up before the potted palms and flowering shrubs that adorned the steps leading to the reception area, which was designed in the form of a Maya temple, where a radiant Ortega was waiting to welcome them with the resident Mariachi band playing ‘South of the Border’.
A smiling girl offered them tropical drinks adorned by orchids on a silver tray. Boys ran around the car to take the bags. Kennedy was overwhelmed by the sudden change and the sumptuous reception offered to him, as though he was a visiting Hollywood Star.
Ortega held out both arms and to Kennedy’s embraced him, bussing him on both cheeks, then together they followed the hotel manager and assistant manager who guided the cortege to the presidential suite.
He was given the royal treatment and any negative impression was quickly fading as Ortega’s well-oiled and oft used machine was set in motion, a process that had been repeated on countless occasions for visiting to politicians, lobbyists, bankers and gangsters overwhelmed him.
The club was a model that Ortega adroitly used to demonstrate the experience of his organisation, it was also the vehicle he would use infiltrate the Ciscap project via Kennedy, who was feted during his three days in Tampico like he was never to be again to be feted. Ortega was pleased with Rosario, who had accomplished her role perfectly, having skilfully seduced Kennedy uncovering all of his plans and intentions regarding Ciscap, exactly as Ortega had planned.
About an hour before dinner Ortega joined Kennedy in his suite; it was the moment for a friendly tête-à-tête to discuss their business matters.
“So Pat, how do you find my hotel? Impressive, no?”
“Very impressive Señor Ortega.”
“As you see we have the know-how and the experience.”
“Yesh, it’s a first class operation.”
“Good Pat, my friend, let’s get down to some serious business. Have you considered my proposals, have you talked with your partners?”
“I have Señor Ortega.”
“…and?” said Ortega a little impatiently.
“I have looked into things very carefully and we can accept a new financial shareholder, with my firm representing your interests.”
“Excellent Pat!” he stood up and grasped Pat by the hand shaking it and embracing him at the same time.” Kennedy was getting used to it now, though he still thought it a little strange for grown men to go around hugging each other.
“We are partners then!”
“Yesh.”
“So how do we proceed?”
“Its easy Señor Ortega, you deposit ten million pounds at the Irish Farmers Bank in Dublin.”
“The Irish Farmers?”
“Yesh, its best if the money comes through them, it would look a bit funny coming through you directly.”
“I see.”
Ten million was a mere trifle to Ortega; he could put in two, three, ten times that sum. The principle was to get his foot in the door.
“I will instruct my bank to transfer the monies and will have the papers drawn-up, giving you the power of attorney to act on my behalf. As I explained before I want to keep a low profile. One other point, the concession and know-how agreement?”
“That’s OK too. You will get the concession as the Hotel Club operator in that part of the Ciscap development.”
“Wonderful news Pat, wonderful news.”
It was another front in his vast system for the laundering of illegal funds and the legalisation of his crooked business interests through a respectable Irish bank and development company.”
Chapter 75
A South Sea Bubble
Offshore Islands Page 74
