Little Havana Exile

by Hale Chamberlain

  “Herrera must be scared shitless,” Frank said, and pointing at Teddy, “Who’d have thought a wimp like him would manage to escape a trap like that! And kill a number of the highest-ranking Cuban mobsters in the process. We should give this kid a medal, yeah.”

  Parker ignored him, and a group of policemen approached the van. Frank updated them on the situation and an ambulance was summoned.

  They all waited on the scene of the assault, still on high alert but relieved. Teddy made sure Cristina was alright. The old woman had seen worse. She was tough as iron, courtesy of a lifetime of dealing with Castro, Batista, the Cuban mob and God knows what else.

  Meanwhile, Frank was perusing the content of the envelope. If the details were indeed all in there, this would make for a rock solid case against the Padrino. Paco and the others had done a meticulous job.

  The files were a meticulous account of Joaquin Herrera’s legal and illegal activities, his real estate properties, both on US soil and overseas. The drug lord owned over two dozen apartments and houses – almost exclusively through the Corporation – including three waterfront villas in Miami-Dade County, as well as two-speed boats, one luxury yacht, numerous restaurants, beach resorts, and casinos. There was also a log of narcotic transactions, organized by drug type, amount, and location, along with a list of all the men who had been involved in each deal. The thoroughness of the records impressed Frank, a veteran agent, which was no small feat. The files went back over twenty years, even though it was imprecise in the early years of the organization.

  The most valuable information was unequivocally the punctilious mapping of the entire Corporation, from the Padrino down to the boat driver. There was also a list of all former employees – or rather mercenaries – that had been used to serve Herrera’s lofty ambitions.

  A full review of the folder would surely reveal further nuggets but Frank already knew that this would be enough to build an airtight case against the elusive drug lord and his Corporacion. Another team had been sent to Fisher Island as soon as the gunshots were reported by neighbors. Dead men had been found all over Herrera’s domain – a real slaughterhouse. The butchery alone was sufficient to warrant a nationwide, coordinated hunt for Joaquin Herrera

  What Frank was less sure of was whether they would be able to catch their man at all. Complete identification details had been sent to all airports of the country, and local police were on constant alert in the entire south-east of the country.

  Maritime borders were more porous. And there was little doubt in the DEA agents’ minds that Herrera would try to escape by sea. Once the man was on foreign soil, in a different national jurisdiction altogether, it would be a major hassle to obtain his extradition, especially from countries where officials were easily corrupted, like in Central America, let alone Cuba.

  Frank briefed Teddy on the state of affair. Medics had just arrived on the scene and were loading up Parker in the ambulance.

  “Take care, buddy,” Frank said. “We’ll catch that bastard, I promise you.” Agent Parker nodded, visibly depleted by the loss of blood oozing from his femoral artery. Teddy knew that the man had spent the past years trying to snatch the elusive mafia boss and take down the entire gang. And now that his agency had made a major breakthrough toward that goal, he had to step out of the picture with an unfortunate injury.

  “Tough luck mate, but count on us to finish the job,” Teddy muttered, his attempt at providing comfort hardly impressing anyone around him. Parker stared pensively at the young Englishman and remained silent. Teddy was notorious within DEA circles for his recklessness, but for an instant, Parker thought that it might just be what they needed to catch a ghost-like drug lord like Herrera.

  Frank walked up to the ambulance driver and said, “You drive carefully, my boy’s in terrible shape.”

  Teddy couldn’t help but chuckle at the emotional farewell. No wonder they never caught anyone. What a bunch of worked up squirrels!

  One of the medics slammed the door, and the ambulance drove away.

  Teddy placed his hands in his pockets and watched the truck turn on NW 12th Avenue. Then it would be a straight line to Cedars Medical Center, where Parker would receive further medical and surgical attention. Frank sighed, thinking out loud, “Alright, so where do we start now…”

  Teddy fumbled deeper in his pockets and pulled out Keith Price’s corporate card. He flashed a smile and asked, sparkles of hope shining in his eyeballs, “Frank, mate, do you have access to a phone?”

  CHAPTER 20

  Sometime around noon that day, a 125-feet long state-of-the-art yacht was sailing two hundred miles south of Miami’s coast. It was on track to reach Santiago de Cuba a few hours later, via the southernmost tip of the Cuban island. The vessel was built for long-range cruising and featured the most high-end gadgets available on the market – fiberglass hull, electric lighting, GPS, radar, echo-sounding and even autopilot.

  The manufacturer had designed the four-deck cruise-racer to the specific needs of the buyer – a combination of stealth and speed – with the boat able to reach upward of twenty knots in extremely favorable conditions, and an inboard diesel engine of seventy-five kilowatts. The piece of craft had cost the rich yachtsman far more than any of its on-land properties, which were already amongst the more opulent ones in the region. Even though the vessel’s flag state was registered in the Marshall Islands, it had never anchored there.

  The lower deck of the vessel sported an outdoor swimming platform at the stern and five en-suite cabins. The crew quarters were presently empty as the owner had given notice to its ten dedicated full-time employees, boarding instead only close associates. The owner’s suite and study, as well as his bodyguard’s stateroom, were located on the main deck.

  Five men dressed in chinos and short-sleeve shirts were comfortably installed in the sky lounge of the upper deck. They appeared to be in the middle of a heated argument. One of the men was motioning vigorously in front of the face of another one, holding a smoking cigar in his free hand. There were no women on-board, nor were there any cocaine, heroin or other illegal substances. Only bottles of the finest rum and some vintage red wines stored in the bar.

  Although he wasn’t all that far from it, Joaquin Herrera was blissfully oblivious to the agitation taking place a deck beneath him. In truth, he had already drawn a line under his time in Miami. He prided himself on being adaptable to challenging circumstances, and that was exactly what this was. A game-changing event had forced him to flee, but he had prepared himself and his organization for that possibility. An organization which network was truly global with operations sprawling across four continents. For him, it was just a matter of pulling the strings from a new base.

  He felt that he deserved a couple of days of genuine relaxation after the testing past twenty-four hours. He was more than glad to delegate everything to his most trusted – surviving – executives, all reliable men that he had known for decades, all valiant Cuban soldiers that had been by his side as the Corporacion went from a fledgling enterprise to the drug empire that it was today.

  …

  Maritime laws were notoriously vague when it came to applicable regulations in high seas. And the Conquistador – Herrera’s superyacht given name – was now sailing too far off the US coast to be under any real threat from Miami’s coastal police.

  As a matter of fact, most of a nation’s laws applied in territorial waters stretching up to twelve miles from its coastline. A ship departing from the port of Miami could not engage in illegal or unregulated activities, such as gambling, until it was twelve miles out. Then there was the contiguous zone — the area ranging from twelve to twenty-four miles off the coast – where a country had certain rights, such as patrolling its borders. Within that perimeter, the US coast guards were allowed to board any ship suspected of narcotics smuggling, regardless of which flag it flew under.

  Once that twenty-four-mile limit was crossed, the vessel was in international waters, and the prevaili
ng law was that of the country whose flag it was flying. In the case of the Conquistador, it fell under the Marshall Islands’ law.

  It was thus with a relaxed spirit that Joaquin Herrera breathed a sigh of relief, extending his arms backward on the round edges of his Jacuzzi, at the top of the boat – on the sun deck. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, relishing the tickling ocean breeze on his face. Then, he placed a folded wet towel on the upper part of his face. The pressure from the moist cloth on his eyes eased the pounding migraine that irrupted in his ruminating mind a few hours earlier. It had been a long day, and he permitted himself to fall asleep under the dazzling sun.

  He dozed in and out of sleep several times before a raging vortex of air twirling over him pulled out of his snooze abruptly. The sunlight was still too intense and he hid his eyes with his arm. The wind was blowing hard and the boat was heaving.

  He finally understood what was going on when three black ropes dropped from the sky, shortly followed by abseiling men in commando gear. Two special force agents rapidly took position on both sides of his jacuzzi, while a larger team moved to the salon in the lower deck with blistering execution speed.

  Herrera’s eyes were slowly re-adapting to the ambient light and he could now make out the letters D-E-A on the helicopter hovering above him.

  He squinted and recognized an MH-60 Seahawk aircraft. A modified version of the one used by the US Navy, but he knew the warfare chopper was sporting the most advanced sensor and avionic technology. He wondered if they had used those tools to find him.

  Herrera had tried to acquire such an aircraft a few years back – at $32 million dollars a piece on the black market – but he eventually settled for a Bell 206BIII Jet Ranger that had remained largely unutilized. At the end of the day, he was most comfortable on water. There was something calming and reassuring about the loneliness of the ocean.

  It took the DEA agents only forty-five seconds to secure the ship and handcuff its occupants.

  Teddy was looking down at the unfolding scene from the edge of the helicopter. Joaquin Herrera stared upward at him impassively as he was being ushered out of the jacuzzi. Teddy felt like jumping on board the yacht and choke him, but he was confident that the man would get what he deserved and be held responsible for his actions before the law.

  It was decided that the Corporacion associates on the vessel would be brought back onto US soil by sea on the Conquistador, and Teddy insisted that he made the trip on the watercraft as well. Given the crucial role the young Englishman had played in the capture of the drug lord, Frank was delighted to grant him that wish.

  CHAPTER 21

  The MH-60 Seahawk broke away from the ship, and everyone on board the yacht glared at the chopper vanish into the horizon. Joaquin Herrera was still in his swim shorts when two of the DEA men moved him to the semi-circular couch on the upper deck of the watercraft. He remained silent and motionless as Teddy, Frank and another DEA agent sat next to him

  At an average speed of ten knots, sailing back to the port of Miami would take approximately five hours. Plenty of time to squeeze some truths out of this dirty dog, Teddy thought.

  He snapped his fingers in front of the man’s face, and said in a measured but steadfast voice, “Why did you have Paco murdered, you worthless coward? You couldn’t even do it yourself, could you?”

  Frank was already regretting his decision to let Teddy stick around. Five hours of this wasn’t going to lead them anywhere. All DEA officers had been trained in the art of interrogation. There was a specific protocol to follow and questioning was supposed to be conducted in a set order. Confronting the suspect head on certainly wasn’t the first step.

  Joaquin Herrera refused to acknowledge Teddy’s question and turned his head to the left to gaze at the twinkling ocean.

  “I get it, you remain silent if you want, you frightened little turd. He can wait for his attorney, is that right Franky?”

  Frank nodded. He reckoned that Herrera had probably never been addressed in such a demeaning manner, at least since he had asserted himself as the most ruthless dealer of the south-east of the US. The bastard must be fuming inside, he thought.

  “You’ve been breaking countless maritime laws by snatching us down here,” Joaquin Herrera said. “In high seas, the Marshall Islands’ laws apply on this boat.”

  “That’s actually inaccurate,” Frank said. “The US can assert jurisdiction in international waters in certain situations. The US code allows us to exercise special maritime jurisdiction with respect to an offense committed by or against a national of the United States.”

  Herrera feigned an emotionless reaction, his gaze set on the horizon.

  “I’m telling you, Herrera, you’re fucked,” Teddy said.

  Frank added, “Look, don’t you think it’s time to make amends? There’s no escaping it, the next few hours are your last moments out in the open. We’ve got a rock-solid case against–”

  “You’ve got nothing on me!” Joaquin shouted, his face still surprisingly impassive. Then he added in a whisper, “Don’t celebrate too quickly. I’ll be free of charge before you’re able to kiss your wife goodnight.”

  Frank was about to take it personally, but Teddy interrupted, “You aren’t as sharp as you think, old man. What about the bloodshed that happened last night in your villa on Fisher Island?”

  “I wasn’t on the premises during the events, Teddy, my associates will tell you that.”

  “You delusional twat! I’ll testify against you, and a dozen other members of the Corporacion will do the same.”

  “That is…” Joaquin said gently, his icy green eyes plunged into Teddy’s tired hazel marbles. “…if you’re in one piece when the hearings come.”

  The overt threat threw Teddy off. The Padrino had extensive connections with Cubans and other mobsters all over the country and abroad, and it wasn’t a stretch to think that he could send execution orders even within the tight boundaries of a prison cell.

  Teddy suddenly had the fearsome certainty that speedboats full of Cubans armed to the teeth would take over the ship and butcher him and all the DEA agents on board.

  No one spoke for a while, and Teddy began to doubt that the case against his former boss was genuinely bulletproof. Frank went into routine questioning, and Herrera was only selectively cooperating.

  Teddy eventually got up and walked up to the railing of the deck. He peered straight at the horizon line. There was no land in sight. No, it’s a fucking concrete case! Paco knew what he was doing.

  He spent another hour at that very spot, pondering what would become of him after the life-altering events of the night. His adopted family had been torn to piece by the man sitting just ten yards behind him. If anything, Herrera faithful followers would go after him and render living in the Miami-Dade County impossible.

  During their last phone conversation, Adam Wilkinson and Rob Harper did mention to Teddy that he should stay put in America until a decade had passed and the statute of limitations for most offenses kicked in. This surely didn’t apply to cold-blooded murder, but Teddy felt that remaining in Miami under those circumstances was even riskier. Besides, the two old Englishmen were warming up to the idea of having him back home.

  By the time he got back to his seat, Teddy was determined to return to Birmingham expeditiously.

  He looked at Frank, slump into the sofa, and felt that the DEA agent was frustrated beyond measure. The man had failed to extract any workable information as Herrera remained quiet as the grave.

  “How are we doing here ladies?” Teddy asked, and then, speaking an inch away from Frank’s ear but loud enough for Herrera to hear it, “Should we just be done with it and put a bullet the weasel’s head? We can throw the gun in the ocean. Nobody will ever find it. We can even claim self-defense if we have to.”

  Joaquin Herrera glanced at him immediately, but if the man was frightened, his face didn’t betray any emotion.

  “Kidding, Padrino! I want to see y
ou rot in prison. And even more importantly, I want you to see everything you’ve built crumble before your eyes and be taken over by your enemies.” The two men were staring at each other in an intense but silent face-off, none of them willing to let go first.

  Herrera said, at last, “I swear to God, I will wipe out that smile off your traitor’s face.”

  “Keep the threats coming, you aging cunt. Franky, please add this to the list of offenses we’ll prosecute him for. I’ll seek reparations for the psychological trauma thar last line will cause me in future years.”

  Frank smiled. Herrera was showing no sign of losing his composure.

  “So be it,” he said with the utmost indifference. “Now, I’m curious, why don’t you tell me how you found that yacht?”

  “How we located you? That was a piece of cake,” Teddy said sardonically. “How dumb is it for a Cuban to go back to Cuba. I really thought there was more to you Joaquin.”

  Herrera was speechless. Finding them surely hadn’t been an easy feat, the DEA had limited resources, and their boats only never wandered past the twenty-four miles line off the coast.

  In truth, they had been incredibly lucky to catch him in international waters. In the vastness of the ocean and with the hundreds of kilometers of coastline that the Cuban island boasts, the Conquistador could have been anywhere in a forty thousand miles square perimeter. In other words, it really would have been like looking for a needle in a haystack.

  Teddy refused to give it out to him, but their salvation had come from Keith Price, the CEO of the company that had built the very yacht they were all sitting on. It had been as long a shot as it got, but Teddy remembered enough of Herrera’s vessel – a real villa on a hull – to give it a try. The card he found in his pocket provided the missing piece. The phone number on it wasn’t working any longer – it had been over ten years since he received the card from the hand of Keith Price – but after a rapid phonebook search, they had managed to get the man himself on the line.