The Grace Bay Agreement

by D. Alan Johnson

  An eight foot block wall surrounded Jose’s back yard instead of the six foot wood fences of his neighbors. Looked like a fort instead of a yard, Pete thought. He noticed the iron spikes set in the mortar on top. No climbing that wall. We’ll have to bring bolt cutters to get in the iron gate.

  “Stop right here.” He opened the door and got out. No barking. Good. That means no guard dog. “Let’s go.” He slammed the back door and dialed Waldo.

  *****

  “Waldo, it’s only seven o’clock. Don’t you think we ought to wait ‘til after midnight?” Pete stared at the house as they drove by.

  “No, no, no. When he goes to bed, he’ll set the house alarm, lock the doors and sleep with his pistol. That’s what I do. Right now he’s puttering around the house. The neighbors are moving around, so our comings and goings won’t be noticed. He’s watching TV or cooking, and his weapons are in the bedroom. No, this is the best time to hit him given the limited knowledge we have.”

  Pete parked the car in the alley. Waldo pulled out a black glove and used his teeth to pull it onto his right hand.

  “Don’t you have any gloves?”

  “No, I don’t,” Pete said, feeling stupid.

  “Then don’t touch anything.”

  Waldo tried the gate. Unlocked. Pete and Waldo exchanged glances that contained surprise and a warning to each other. He lifted the latch, and they walked into the back yard. The sidewalk curved around the garage and led to a covered patio big enough for a nice party.

  Ranchero music pulsed through the walls, and when Pete caught a reflection in the picture window, he could see the glass vibrate with every beat. Waldo went to the French door and it swung open on oiled hinges. The lights were off, but they could see the furniture hulking in the TV room from the area light shining in the back yard.

  “I don’t like this,” he whispered. “Everything’s unlocked.” Pete put his pistol up so that it would clear the lamps and not knock anything over and make a noise.

  Spanish curses floated down the hall, and Waldo led the way toward the source. A long hallway ended in a pool of light. The Spanish phrases slipped into Pete’s consciousness. He translated them, whispering in Waldo’s ear.

  “After four years, they throw me out like garbage. Just because I get wounded. And that stupid whore. What did she do to get caught? Now the DEA is coming, and my boss has stopped answering my calls. But they won’t get me alive. I won’t go to prison. Jose Leal will not rot in jail!”

  Just then he passed in front of the bedroom door, and Pete saw Jose dressed as if for a dance, wearing a black Mexican suit and red tie, his right arm in a sling. The hale face that had floated up in so many of his nightmares was now sunken, concrete gray, and unshaven. Pete tried to rally his hatred, but the face spoke to him of pain, despair, and deep sadness. Jose looked up at the pair standing just outside his bedroom, and a death-like laughter gurgled out of his throat.

  “Ah, the perfect companions on this perfect night,” Jose said in English. He inched his good hand up over his head to show submission. Waldo walked across the huge bedroom and lowered the music to background level.

  “We’ve come to kill you,” Waldo said. “You killed Lillian and then murdered Pete’s family. You shot off my left hand. We intend to execute you and rid the world of your evil.”

  “Well you’ll just have to stand in line.” Jose stared at Waldo. “Who are you? I never knew you. You’re the one who shot me in the shoulder?”

  “Yes. It was night, but I still can’t believe I missed your lungs.”

  “A kill shot would have been so much better. The pain you are giving me is too much. The doctors in Mexico wanted to keep me in the hospital for months.” Jose Leal lowered his hand and reached out for a chair. “Please excuse me. I must sit or I’ll fall. The infection is getting worse.” When he sat, Pete saw the pain flash across Jose’s face, but the man kept silent. After a couple of deep breaths, he gathered his strength. Pete could smell the tequila.

  “They say you damaged lots of stuff, you know, when you shot my shoulder. Bone fragments, et cetera. You men will have to excuse me, but I’m expecting some important visitors. The DEA is coming here around four a.m. to arrest me. But I’ll fool them. I intend to kill myself first. That will end the pain, the embarrassment, the disgrace of being dumped by my boss.”

  “Who’s your boss?” Pete asked.

  “Normally, I would never say. But since he has deserted me, left me with no assets, no means of escape, I think I might tell you. But I must ask for a favor first.”

  “You have no room to negotiate,” Waldo said. But Pete could see the softness on Waldo’s face.

  “I will die tonight. I prefer it to be by my own hand, and thus with some dignity. If you shoot me now, I’ll escape my pain and prison, but you will not have the name. If you allow me to go with honor, I’ll give you what you want.”

  Waldo looked at Pete. Pete wanted to feel the hate inside, let the rage push him to fire ten bullets into Jose’s body, but the pitiful creature in front of them gave him nothing to burn against.

  “We need the name,” Waldo said aside to Pete. He nodded.

  “Reasonable men,” Jose said. “This is how we’ll work. I’ll tell you the name. You both will leave. I’ll shoot myself before you get off of my property. You will hear the shot. You can come back in and check, of course.”

  “OK, deal. What’s the name?” Waldo asked.

  “I need you to help me over to my desk. I have my .45 in the drawer.” Waldo put his own pistol on the floor, about twenty feet from Jose.

  “Cover me. If he moves, even flinches, shoot him.”

  “Got it.” Pete lifted his pistol in a two-handed grip and aimed for Jose’s head.

  Waldo moved to Jose’s good side and helped him stand. They eased past the bed, through an arch into an attached office. Pete followed six feet behind. After Jose was seated at his desk, he placed his good hand on top.

  “Do you want something to write with?”

  “No, we’ll remember it,” Waldo said.

  “My boss lives in Santa Marta. His name is Ramon Alvarez Menchaca Ledesma. He is also known as ‘Humo’. Smoke.” Jose looked down at his desk then back up at Pete. “I think our business is done here.”

  Pete and Waldo backed out. Waldo retrieved his pistol, and as soon as they turned the corner, they ran down the hall. Just in case Jose started shooting. Now when several walls stood between Jose and Waldo, he stopped running.

  “Do you think he’ll really shoot himself?” Pete asked.

  “No doubt. He’s in bad shape.”

  As Pete opened the back gate leading to their car parked in the alley, the shot pierced the quiet.

  “Let’s get out of here before the cops show up.”

  *****

  Tuffy Dupree looked over the agents lined up in front of him. All had on the required black jackets with “DEA” on the back. Two minutes until 0400. The four agents ahead of him were to bust down the front door and rush Jose Leal, capturing him alive, hopefully still asleep in his bed.

  Already planning Jose Leal’s interrogation, Tuffy’s heart raced. This op could redeem all his losses on the Turks and Caicos fiasco. He would find out the names and locations of the new cartel chiefs. Then he’d lead the teams in Colombia and Mexico, personally handcuffing each big boss.

  Coming back to reality, he almost broke out laughing at his own fantasy. Other men fantasize about women and sexual conquests, and here I’m dreaming of handcuffing criminals. What is wrong with me?

  Double checking the placement of his men, he clutched the warrant in his left hand, his pistol in his right. Hope pounded higher with each heartbeat, pushing out his fear. He hadn’t been on a door busting crew since 1988 when he’d been shot in the leg by a coke dealer in Miami. But this one was too big to miss out on.

  “One, this is Four,” his too-loud earpiece tickled his ear. Team Four was in the back to catch anyone flying out the patio door.
r />   “Four, this is One. Go.”

  “Stand down. Stand down. We can see subject through a window. He’s dead.”

  “Say again,” Tuffy said, not wanting to believe.

  “Stand down. Stand down. Subject is dead in his office. I’m looking at him through the window.”

  “Go! Go! Go!” Tuffy screamed. This can’t be right, he thought. No telling who else might be in there. We’ve got to go in and check.

  Using the battering ram, the huge guy up front splintered the front door, breaking the wooden door jamb. The team rattled forward in a line, looking like a black caterpillar. They turned left and ran down the hall toward the light. Tuffy followed them into the bedroom. Two agents behind him turned right to clear the rest of the house. In less than thirty seconds multiple “All clear” calls sounded in their headsets.

  Tuffy saw Jose dressed in his fancy Western style suit. He sat slumped in his leather chair, one side of the desk sprayed with brains and blood. The recoil and perhaps a death spasm had thrown the .45 against the other wall.

  Bile jumped up into Tuffy’s throat, not from the gore, but from frustration. His hope plummeted into the dark hole of disappointment. Then rage hammered him. He raised his pistol and slammed it to the floor.

  “I guess the neighbors never heard the shot over their TV’s. Apparently he was sitting crooked when he pulled the trigger,” the lead agent said. “The blood spray is dry. Must have happened several hours ago.” He reached for a manila envelope with “To Captain Tuffy Dupree” hand-lettered on the front.

  “Don’t touch that!” Tuffy yelled. “Everyone out of here. Don’t touch anything. I want forensics in here now. Don’t touch a thing.” Maybe I can still salvage something out of his computer or the file cabinet, he thought. But probably not. Jose was a pro. How did he know we were coming? I must have another leak in my office besides Mary Warner.

  Chapter Six

  Thursday

  9 December, 1999

  0745

  International Terminal

  Houston Intercontinental Airport

  Joan Merkam stood on her tiptoes while Pete kissed her goodbye. His hands ran down the curves of her hips under the white silk dress. She squeezed him tighter.

  “Will I see you again?” Joan blinked back her tears.

  “Sweetheart, don’t make me lie to you. I don’t know. What I do know is I owe you my life.”

  “Nonsense. We’re rid of David, or Jose, or whatever his real name was.” She glared into his eyes. “You email me that you’re still alive. Even when you shack up with one of those Colombian girls.” She gave him a weak smile. “You let me know you’re alive. And there’ll always be a place for you here.”

  She put her face into the hollow of his shoulder and sobbed. Waldo squeezed her shoulder and guided her away from Pete. He took her hand and shook it.

  “Thanks for everything. We’ve just got a minute to catch this flight. We’ll be in touch.” He grabbed Pete, and pulled him toward the gates.

  “Continental Flight 907 to Panama City now boarding all rows.”

  “Come on, Pete. I swear you attract women like garbage attracts flies.” They handed their boarding passes to the gate person and were the last on the plane. Pete heard the door close behind him.

  “You aren’t jealous, are you?” They took their seats across the aisle from each other, and Pete felt the jet push back from the gate.

  “Hell no, I’m not jealous.”

  “Well I don’t see you with no women.” Waldo sat back in his seat and strange look took over his face. He stared straight ahead.

  After several seconds, Pete said, “Hey, man. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you.” The old Waldo came back to his face and he smiled.

  “No, you didn’t insult me. I was just remembering the only love of my life. It is a pleasant memory, and I enjoy replaying it.” He shivered and said, “Wow. That was a long time ago. And now, she’s happily married and the mother of three teenagers.”

  “You keep up with her?”

  “Not that she knows about. But I do keep an eye on her through some professional acquaintances. I’d be there if she ever needed anything.” Waldo looked outside, away from Pete. After takeoff, Waldo pushed in his earplugs, leaned back his seat and pretended to sleep. There were a thousand things Pete wanted to ask him, but this was not the time.

  While the flight to Santa Marta cost more going through Panama, Waldo had explained that this flight would leave eight hours earlier than taking the cheaper flight to Bogota. If the authorities were after them, those hours might make the difference. And if they were looking for Pete and Waldo, they would look for them to get on the direct flight in Bogota.

  After a two hour wait in a stuffy international lounge and a two hour flight in an ancient prop plane, they landed in Santa Marta.

  “I’ve got a couch at my place if you want,” Pete said as they walked out of the terminal and into the afternoon sun.

  “Thanks, but I think I’ll stay at the Crown Plaza.”

  “What? You got money to burn?” Waldo just smiled and waved at a taxi. They got in and Waldo scooted across the back seat and looked out the left side window.

  “I guess I owe you an answer since we’re partners.” He still hesitated. He nodded as if he’d made a decision and turned back to Pete.

  “My grandfather, my mother’s father, raised me. I was estranged from my parents. Grandpa didn’t like them either. They were neck deep in the anti-war movement in the ‘60’s. Became professors at Stanford.

  “I went to live with Grandpa when I was about seven. Grandpa had been career Army. World War I and II. He couldn’t stand their anti-Americanism.” Waldo stopped and looked out the window, studying the buildings. Pete could see that the story cost him.

  “Grandpa wanted me to get some experience before I went to college, so I joined the Army. I was supposed to get out after three years, but I liked it.” Joy flowed back to Waldo’s face. “Got into Special Forces. When my grandfather died I was in Africa. He left me a room full of money.” Waldo looked outside again.

  “My parents are anti-capitalism, but they still wanted the inheritance from Grandpa’s ink factory. Nasty lawsuit followed when they found out they’d been cut off. But I won. The will was ironclad.”

  “So why are you in this business?”

  “After I inherited the money, I got out of the Army. Made another couple of roomfuls of money in the stock market. But I got bored. A buddy called me for a snatch job, and I found myself right back with the same folks.”

  “What’s a snatch job?” Pete asked.

  “You know, rich New York girl marries super rich Saudi prince. They have a kid, get divorced, and the woman gets custody. The prince decides to go back to Saudi and kidnaps his son. The wife’s rich family hires some guys go to Saudi and snatch the kid and bring him home to mommy. Easy money.” Waldo held up his rubber hand. “Didn’t know this business would cost me this much, though.”

  *****

  Friday

  10 December, 1999

  0910

  DEA Intelligence Office

  Alliance Airport

  Ft. Worth, Texas

  Tuffy Dupree spat out a curse, and picked up his desk phone. How could Pete Dolan’s fingerprints be on the door jamb of Jose Leal’s house? Jose’s prints are all over, as expected. But when the forensics team found a set of prints that didn’t match, they sent them to the FBI shop in DC. Perfect match to Peter Dolan. Is Joiner holding out on me?

  “9742,” Steve Joiner said, answering his cell phone.

  “This is Dupree. Get to a secure phone and call me. We’ve got a problem.”

  “It’ll take me a few minutes.” Tuffy hung up, and his fury melted away. He laughed. An untrained civilian, without any of my resources, gets to Jose Leal before I do. I can’t be angry. It’s just too funny. My biggest thorn’s been yanked out by this guy. Now, how did he do it, and where’s he going next?

  He picked u
p the envelope left by Jose Leal. How did he know I was coming? Tuffy asked himself for the twentieth time. The letter, in beautiful cursive, welcomed Tuffy to his house and begged for leniency for Mary Warner. He must have had some genuine feelings for the old girl.

  But Mary Warner’s in jail now. She’s cooperating but doesn’t really know anything. Everything she’s given us is a dead end. Poor woman. She’ll spend some time in prison, and then as an ex-con won’t be able to get any job except serving food in a high school cafeteria.

  Leal penetrated us like we were a sewing club. All this counter intelligence crap, and none of it worked. We only found her when she started screwing up by being too nosy. The secure phone on his desk rang. It was Joiner.

  “Steve, I just got a report back from forensics. Pete Dolan’s fingerprints were on the door frame in Leal’s bedroom.” Silence. “Steve, are you there?”

  “I sort of suspected this might happen. I heard he was in town.”

  “And you didn’t tell me?”

  “Now, calm down. I got a call from my guy that he’d seen Pete in Houston.”

  “How did he find Leal?” Tuffy’s exasperation leaked out into his voice.

  “Haven’t a clue. Does it matter? He’s dead now.”

  “Hell yes, it matters. This guy might have more info we need. Remember, I’m in the intel business. He could’ve found out something on Turks and Caicos. He could have taken something from Leal’s house. I need to see him face to face. Can you find him?”

  “Yeah, I think so. I’ve got a couple of investigators I can put on this.”

  “Oh no. This is too big. This is just you and me, buddy. I’m not gonna have somebody leak this, and then we find Pete Dolan’s body in the harbor. No, not a word to anybody about what we’re up to.”

  “OK, then. Just you and me.”

  “I’m getting on my plane in ten minutes. I’ll be in Conroe in two hours.”

  “No, don’t land on the north side of Houston. Land at Sugarland. We’ve got a lady we need to see down there.”