by J E Higgins
What she was sure of was that pursuing the issue would only cause unneeded dissension in the team when they had to remain focused. If the British military was moving against the cartel, she was sure it was without US knowledge. If that was the case, it was a game much bigger than her and her team, and it was important they didn’t become embroiled in it. For now, she was going to let Ashler play his game. She would just have to figure on crossing some difficult waters from here on out.
Chapter 22
Devon Crane sat appreciating the view of the brilliant Chilean coast and the vast glistening waters of the Pacific Ocean as he enjoyed the Meduro Toro cigar clamped between his teeth. He was not normally a fan of the Gurka brand, but he found the current sample delightful. It was probably the long stretch of roughing it in the jungle that made him not so discriminating. Long periods of roughing it in the wilderness could make a person appreciate even the simplest pleasures of civilization.
Taking a long pull from his cigar, Crane blew a thick bluish grey cloud of smoke into the atmosphere. The breeze coming in from the ocean quickly carried it away. He watched as it evaporated into nothingness less than an arm’s length away. The hardwood bench he was sitting on was mildly uncomfortable, and it was impossible to relax against the upright wooden back.
His period of tranquility was interrupted by Kusaki Ito. The Japanese man stared down at his comrade, whose eyes were shut.
“I guess you didn’t come to enjoy the view,” Crane quipped jokingly as he felt Kusaki’s shadow looming over him blocking the sun’s warmth.
“We finally got something,” Kusaki said in his sharp, all business tone.
Crane’s eyes widened at the news and for the first time since the conversation began, he looked directly at the Japanese man who was standing over him with his domineering presence and stern, expressionless gaze. “Something finally came up?” Crane asked in some astonishment as he leaped to his feet and adjusted his jacket.
“Our boy got a call from Mexico a couple of hours ago,” Kusaki continued as he and Crane began walking.
“Good. It seems like our recent activities have finally garnered some attention,” Crane said.
After the attack on the processing lab and the assassination of Guzman and his top captains, Crane had taken Kusaki and the two Spaniards to the northern Chilean city of Arica. Arica sat on the border with Peru and was one of the biggest seaports in the region. Following a smuggling route that led through the rugged Andean Mountains that dominated the western side of the country, they managed to slip secretly across the border. They raided Guzman’s hacienda soon after his assassination and were able to find information on the whereabouts of some of his other labs as well as the shipping routes into Chile.
They left McNaulty in charge of the others. Their mission was to continue their attacks in the hopes that they would attract attention from Mexico. They figured their initial attack would raise a stir. However, they weren’t sure if it was enough to warrant a visit from the cartel’s leadership. To maintain the momentum and keep things on edge, McNaulty and the rest of the mercenaries would continue their campaign against the Guzman operation. In the meantime, Crane and the others made their way to Arica to find the Black Crow’s logistics man and use him as a means to gather intelligence on the cartel’s plans.
“The conversation was about business and discussing shipment delays,” Kusaki continued. “Whoever was on the other end was deeply concerned about their suppliers in Peru. He was obviously so angry and frustrated that he was barely staying functional. It was pretty easy to figure out they were discussing Guzman and the problems they were having.”
“It looks like our efforts are finally paying off,” Crane said with some satisfaction. He hadn’t appreciated the last two weeks of hanging around town trying to gather intelligence with no viable results while the rest of his men were sweating it out in the Amazon. He was a field guy who strongly adhered to the leadership concepts of the Foreign Legion, a leader leads from the front and endures with his men.
Half an hour later they were on the wharf headed toward a ship called the Wild Chase. It was an old cargo ship that had certainly seen better days but was still quite seaworthy. More importantly, it melted into the surroundings perfectly and didn’t draw attention. It had belonged to an old sea captain who had died and left it to a son who was a prominent lawyer in Santiago and had no interest in keeping it. The son was so desperate to off-load the cumbersome inheritance that he gladly accepted the first offer made to him which was from a shady foreigner with no credentials but offering to pay with a bag full of US dollars.
The foreigner even arranged to have the sale done through a local merchant hard up for cash who happily put his name on the deed as the new owner for forty-thousand dollars and completed the necessary paperwork to make everything legal and above suspicion. Crane figured the son was even happier that he was being paid in US currency which moved better in South America than pesos. And, with cash, he didn’t have to report the sale to the tax authorities.
The local merchant was even better. He signed his name to all the necessary documents and got the ship registered with the port authority under a dummy shell company. He then gleefully took his forty-thousand and went back to his actual business.
Climbing the rusted metal ladder well, the two mercenaries reached the bow and were met instantly by Ramon Espinoza who emerged from the hatchway wearing green military trousers and a black tank top. He looked like he was adjusting to the life of a merchant sailor quite nicely. To avoid someone sneaking aboard and getting the drop on them, one of the men was always posted on deck playing the role of a hapless ship worker who could easily dispatch some curious onlooker with just a few words and some soft encouragement. A long, white cigarette dangled from his mouth and fluttered as he began to speak.
“Have you heard? We finally have something to show for all of our time spent on this rust bucket.”
“That’s what I’ve been told,” Crane answered as he approached. “Must be something juicy if it’s got everyone excited.”
“According to Pedro, we do.” The Spaniard chuckled as he lowered a green Bergan to the floor. It landed with a slight metallic clank. Inside the Bergan was an M-4 Armalite carbine with the rear stock fully collapsed. It was fitted with a sound suppressor and was ready to be deployed. If intruders came aboard with hostile intentions, they were prepared.
“Well then, let’s not wait,” Crane said as he and Kusaki brushed past Espinoza and made their way below. The hold resembled a tomb. Any sunlight was instantly cut off. They could only see by means of a row of small dirty lights that lined the left bulkhead of the narrow gangway. The cramped space and smell of mold reminded Crane of the coal mines back in Wales where he had grown up. He didn’t like the feelings or the memories they brought back at all. In a way, the experience of those blackened hell holes left more of a mark on him than all the horrific battlefields or combat he had seen as a soldier.
Reaching the end of the hall, they entered a room filled with electronic equipment. In the center of the room, Pedro Sandoval was sitting at a small desk. He was leaning back in a worn office chair as he listened to a series of noises coming over the intercoms lining the desk. The noises vacillated randomly between high pitched screams and fuzzy white noise that were occasionally interrupted by voices of men having discussions over telephones. The equipment was not operating all at once. They were all connected to different listening outlets that had been wired a few weeks earlier.
As two former members of the Spanish Grupo de Operaciones Especiales or the 19 Special Operations Group, Ramon Espinoza and Pedro Sandoval had received extensive training in intelligence operations from the Centro Nacional de Inteligencia, or the National Intelligence Centre, Spain’s chief intelligence agency for both foreign and domestic intelligence gathering. They had a working knowledge of how to conduct electronic surveillance including the installment of listening devices and intercepting communication.
&n
bsp; After reaching Arica and setting up their base of operations on the ship, the next order of business had been locating Raphael Baez, the Black Crow’s operative in Chile and his front company Valisar Shipping. They had spent a few days casing the operation and Baez himself. They broke into his office and his home installing listening devices on the phone in his office and near his computer. Now they were tapped into his phones and had spent the last few weeks listening to his conversations.
Baez had proven to be a heavy drinker who frequented numerous bars throughout town on a regular basis. The mercenaries had been able to catch him drinking heavily one night and were able to pick up the three different cell phones he kept on his person and fitted them with listening devices.
“I have to commend you,” Crane said as he entered the room and took a seat next to Sandoval. “When it comes to espionage, you boys definitely know your business.”
Sandoval shrugged. “Compared to the Basques this has been relatively easy. This asshole hasn’t been concerned someone could be listening to him. He tends to be rather free with his tongue even when sober.”
Crane smiled, “So, what have you got for me?”
For the first time since Crane and Kusaki entered the room, Sandoval turned his head to look at them. A smirk was spread across his face. “Our friend has just gotten word about Guzman’s death and the problems going on in the jungle.”
While bugging his phones, they had also tapped the man for intelligence. Pretending to be just fellow drinkers they had struck up something of an informal interrogation where he proved to be rather loose-lipped while heavily intoxicated. They were shocked to learn how concerned Baez was about a Peruvian client of his who he hadn’t been able to contact for several weeks. He was worried because he was expecting a fairly large shipment from over the border that he needed to send to Mexico. It was an easy guess who and what the man was talking about. Strangely, Baez knew nothing about any attacks in the Peruvian jungle either.
Apparently, what the mercenaries had not realized, was Guzman’s organization was so compartmentalized that with him and his immediate circle gone no one else had full knowledge of his operation. It had been something of a miscalculation that someone would have at least notified the Black Crow of the recent developments. However, there didn’t seem to be anyone in the Guzman hierarchy to take charge or, for that matter, anyone who even knew who they sold their product to.
“No shit!” Crane could hardly contain himself at hearing the news. “It’s about fucking time! I’ll bet that’s been sending major shock waves.”
“Oh, it has,” Sandoval quipped. “He’s been on the phone all day making international calls to Mexico…guess where?”
“Veracruz,” Crane replied with a strong hint of triumphant delight.
“You got it,” Sandoval confirmed.
“What have you got back so far?” The Welshman leaned in running his teeth over his lower lip in anticipation.
“Well, this morning has been spent with him making a call to Veracruz. He tried using coded terminology to say that the fruit supplier he was using in Peru had sustained recent difficulties, and it would cause some serious delays to the expected shipment.”
“Not very cloak and dagger,” Crane uttered. “Well, at least we know that our actions there had the needed impact. It’s also good to know that their message coding is so thinly veiled.”
Sandoval raised his finger and began shaking it. “You know, I’m surprised. I expected that such business would have been discussed in Ichiqua, an Indian language that cartels like to use to conduct business.”
Crane shook his head. “Not really, this is an important point of transportation for their cocaine. Part of protecting it is not taking precautions that would only serve as a red flag in the long run. Whoever Baez is contacting, it’s probably a large shipping company with numerous legitimate holdings and dealings, making it easy to hide the few illegal ones such as this. If they’re worried that someone like the Americans are doing a random sweep, a shipping company discussing shipment delays is far more easily overlooked than suddenly hearing a known cartel language being spoken, especially if it’s by someone way down in Chile. Sometimes the best cover is the simplest.”
“Either way,” Sandoval began, “it seems we’re finally getting somewhere.”
“What’s been the response from Veracruz?” Crane inquired.
The Spaniard shrugged. “So far nothing much. Whoever Baez is reporting to doesn’t seem to have the clout to give direction. The contact at Veracruz has been asking more questions than anything else. It’s doubtful it’s someone with authority. The contact is probably just a go-between to the real boss.”
“So, we’re waiting until senior Baez gets his call back with instructions.” Crane slumped in his chair feeling slightly de-energized. They had a break, yet still had little to go on.
It was late afternoon when the listening equipment began to come alive with the sounds of men talking. Sandoval perked up and sat forward in his chair as he set the equipment to record. Expecting to hear more beneficial conversation all the mercenaries remained aboard the ship waiting for this moment. Espinoza rubbed his hands gleefully as he hunched down to rest his elbows on his thighs. Kusaki had taken the watch and was above on deck pretending to go about duties.
Crane was laid out on a cot set up in the corner of the room. He removed the magazine he had draped over his face as he listened to a deep baritone speak gruffly to Baez. The voice was different than the one they had heard Baez speaking to earlier and the call came to one of his cell phones, not to the office phone he used before. From the way he spoke the baritone came across as a street guy, using a lot of slang indigenous to Mexico that even the two Spaniards had trouble understanding.
The conversation lasted for less than twenty minutes and was a one-sided discussion with the baritone doing most of the talking. He was issuing instructions and explaining exactly what was to be done about their situation with the Peruvian supplier. Crane tried to keep up with the discussion but did not have headphones to make the conversation clearer. He was stuck at a distance trying to hear the conversation through the fuzzy white noise. He saw Sandoval taking copious notes and was thankful he would be able to read them later.
The conversation ended when the baritone abruptly hung up. Sandoval continued writing for several seconds. Then he leaned back in his chair as he extended his arm high into the air waving a sheet of paper. “We got something,” he said as he massaged his neck with his free hand.
Crane leaped from his cot and snatched the paper from the Spaniard’s hand. He began to read. Impatient, Sandoval started to explain its contents out loud. “Apparently, businessmen in Veracruz depending on the shipment are unhappy with the Peruvian supplier’s complications. If the fruit company is in such turmoil, they’re looking to obtain ownership of it.”
“And they’re top executives including the CEO are intending to visit soon to review the operation.” Crane interrupted as he read over the notes. “Baez has been instructed to quietly arrange their arrival into Peru.”
“Hot damn!” Espinoza cried out triumphantly. “We’ve got’m. We got those mother fuckers! So, now what do we do? Wait until this Baez makes the arrangements and then take him out?”
Crane shook his head. “No, we don’t touch them.”
The Spaniards simultaneously looked at the Welshman with confusion. Crane continued. “As long as the violence is contained to the jungles, they’ll likely see all this as a problem befalling Guzman not them. We’ll want them to think that. It will make them complacent and easier to hit. Hitting Baez will only alert them to both the extent of our knowledge and the extent of our reach beyond the remote jungles. Let’s let them continue to think this problem is not about them or a threat to them. Hopefully, they’ll lower their guard and will be easier to hit when the time comes.” His words made sense as Sandoval and Espinoza nodded in agreement.
Crane started out of the room. “I’m going to g
o catch Kusaki up to speed. Keep tabs on Baez. The second he starts giving details we need to know, we will begin planning. If all of this is expected to happen next week, we have little time to prepare as it is.”
Chapter 23
Trent Wurry had a good idea why he had been summoned so abruptly to an emergency meeting at the home of James Dasher. Earlier that day he had some drinks and lunch with Arthur Hechman, who alerted him of the meeting with a sense of urgency. It was over glasses of Aberlour single malt scotch that the Deputy Attorney General explained the latest news from South America.
Wurry listened, a finger pressed firmly to his lips, as Hechman described the devastating attack on the Veracruz harbor, specifically the Santiago Shipping Company. After a brief explanation about how the company was involved with the Black Crow cartel and how the joint-operations team was only days away from raiding it, Hechman quickly went on to recount the sudden wave of attacks in southern Peru resulting in the assassination of Santos Guzman, the Black Crow’s chief cocaine producer.
The conversation, which had really been more of a briefing than a dialogue, ended with Hechman asking only one question: “I assume all is well?” His question was vague, but the meaning was all too clear. “Was this our people?” Wurry offered an equally vague answer to the question. “Why of course.” His answer, for the moment, seemed to satisfy his dining comrade. Still, the intent of the discussion had been made clear. Hechman was concerned about the other members of the little group and how they were perceiving these actions.
Rainn Darson and her team had come close a couple of times to finding evidence that would lead to Gutiérrez’ extradition. The sudden wave of attacks against Black Crow starting with the Santiago Shipping Company, the recent assassination of Santos Guzman who was the chief supplier of the cartel’s cocaine, and the obliteration of several of Guzman’s processing labs was more than confusing, it was hard to understand.