by J. L. Curtis
The next four hours passed in a blur as they brought him up to speed on what they were doing, including their having convinced the neighbors they were small time smugglers. They also told him about the smuggler’s track into Colombia that was totally and completely unguarded by both Colombia and Ecuador’s border patrols for fairly small bribes every month.
***
John was welcomed by the Ambassador at the weekly social and met a plethora of staff, got his badge, and was assigned a cubicle in the economic development section as befitted his cover. He spent the next three days in the secure spaces in the basement with the local CIA station chief, Ed Morgan, and the DEA section chief, Felipe Menendez, from Panama, who was currently overseeing operations in Panama, Guatemala, Ecuador, and Colombia. Charts, maps, overlays, pictures of players and others, including enforcers, hangers on, lawyers, and politicians thought to be on the payroll, along with questionable military, border police, and local gangs left his head spinning.
He and Menendez, were walking in the garden of the embassy when John finally asked, “What’s the story with you and Morgan? I thought we were supposed to stay away from them. And secondly, how the hell do you keep track of all this shit?”
Menendez shrugged. “I’m not here all the time, and I don’t have an asset in place in the embassy. I worked with Ed in a previous life, and he doesn’t mind helping me out. He was raised in the Andes, his dad was a missionary to a couple of different Indian tribes in Argentina and Chile. He speaks something like five languages fluently, and actually does productive things as the second assistant cultural attaché. You should see his office upstairs! Talk about an ‘I love me’ wall!”
Menendez laughed. “He fucked up down in Brazil and did too good a job in the Soviet section, chasing their money and their radical cells. I was down there working the counterfeiting side of the house, and we worked together on a few things. Now, five years later, here we are. Now that you’re here, your job as the country team lead is developing new leads, running shit to ground, and paying for information. There are some greedy bastards in the drug game, and regardless of how much they’re making, they want more. More money, more control, more women, more everything. Latin machismo writ large.”
John chuckled. “Oh great. And I’m still having trouble getting my breath. This nine thousand foot altitude is kicking my ass. So, my team is it in Ecuador, but we’re working in Colombia, is that right?”
Menendez laughed as he stubbed out a cigarette and sat on one of the benches, “I was raised in the Rockies, so I’m good with the altitude too, you’ll either adapt, or we’ll have to move you. Yes, your team is it, the team we had in southern Colombia got rolled up and PNG[1]’ed, so the concentration is Colombia and the cartels there. Now the machismo usually works to our advantage, but there are times it comes back and bites us in the butt when a mid-level player tries to flip us to a big player. Ambushes and counter-ambushes are the name of the game, even among the players. One thing I want you guys concentrating on is remote airfields.”
“Remote airfields?”
Menendez lit another cigarette, “Yeah. CIA’s got some overhead assets that come through time to time, taking pictures from altitude. The cartels hack out strips in the jungle at central points to their labs, then pay pilots to fly in and pick up drugs. That’s the latest thing and some of the airplanes are pretty damn big. Six, maybe seven tons of cocaine on one airplane, then seven hours to the U.S. beats the hell out of weeks or months of slow boats to fast boats, or slogging through three or four countries dodging patrols. They pay good. Ten to twenty-five thousand, depending on the size of the airplane.”
John whistled. “Damn. Per trip?”
“Yep. What we need is descriptions of the airplanes and tail numbers, or side numbers, or whatever the hell they call them.”
John shook his head. “You don’t want much, do ya?”
Menendez smiled. “Nah, just another day in the office. Not like you’ve got much else to do, right? And don’t try to steal too much money.”
He bristled at that. “I’m not here to steal, I don’t need the money. I’ll give you accurate accounting and SITREPS every month.”
“You do that, John, and you’ll be one of the few.”
On the Job Training
John spent two days going through intel feeds and bouncing ideas off Menendez before they finally came up with a workable plan. By using what Hector and the others had already established, they would become smugglers, supplying the cartel with things they were having problems getting.
The two things identified up front were aviation gasoline, and precursor chemicals like acetone, caustic soda, and sulfuric acid. Fernando and Felix had found an F6000 stake bed Ford truck that was for sale and not in bad shape, so John pulled money from the operating account and gave it to them to buy it, and have it painted black.
Hector had managed to make contact with a low level supplier in the Medellin Cartel, and got a deal to deliver forty barrels of acetone to Santana, Colombia, five days from now. The supplier specified that the delivery must be made at midnight to Iglesia Cristo Rey, the church in town.
Pasquale and Fernando argued that they were going to be robbed rather than paid, when Hector finally said, “Enough! Since the truck is covered, we can put a couple of people in the back with guns.”
John said, “I can probably get something suppressed from Menendez, let me work on that tomorrow. The other thing would be a small car that could follow the truck—”
Felix laughed. “Well, we’ve got that Merc we stole…it would work.”
“You stole a Mercedes?”
He shrugged. “We were across the border, and it was just sitting there. Blacked-out windows, big diesel in it, and it was running.”
John glared at him. “Do I want to know the rest of it?”
“Bunch of enforcers, they were getting ready to go into a Catholic girls school. Pasquale took exception to that, and we kinda took…action to stop them.”
“Took action?”
Felix scuffed the floor with his shoe, “Um, yeah, action. We…stopped them, and they didn’t need the car anymore.”
He threw up his hands, “What the fuck else have you guys done?”
“Hey, we got the plates changed out, and it established our street cred here. It’s all good.”
“So that was justification?”
Hector said, “Enough for us. We don’t prey on children, unlike them. John, nobody knew who we were, and we ditched the other car in the river. We’ve heard it was a shootout between two sets of rival enforcers.”
Somewhat mollified, John got up, “Alright, but we’re supposed to be on the side of the law. I’ll check about some more weapons tomorrow.”
***
Ed Morgan, the CIA station chief, motioned John into his upstairs office. “John, what can I do for you?”
Shutting the door, John walked over to the desk and stood at parade rest. “Menendez was supposed to help me with some things, but he’s not here. Maybe we need to talk downstairs.” He looked at the wall behind Morgan and smiled remembering Menendez’ comment about the ‘I love me’ wall, seeing diplomas from Harvard, Oxford, and a number of autographed pictures.
“Okay, meet me down there in…fifteen.” John nodded and headed for the door. “John, if anybody asks, you were asking advice about dealing with the cattle people here, got it? And leave the door open.”
“Got it.”
Fifteen minutes later, the two of them were ensconced in the basement office. Morgan said, “He was on the first flight out this morning. Something going on north of Mexico City. Coffee?” Morgan turned and poured a cup from the carafe on his credenza and shoved it across the desk. “Sit…sit.”
John sat and sipped the coffee gratefully. “Thanks! I’m still trying to get my feet under me over here. I almost hate to ask, but what is y’all’s relationship?”
Morgan laughed. “We actually get along. We’re in the same business, differe
nt tasking, but the same job. Stop the Commies and the drugs, in that order, at least for us. Menendez is a little more out there, and his priority is drugs, twenty-four/seven. What do you need in the way of OTB stuff?”
“Not sure, since I don’t know what you have. I was a weapons sergeant in Special Forces before I got into this, so I can run pretty much anything.”
Morgan rubbed his hands in glee. “Really? Maybe you can help us out a little bit. Let’s finish our coffee and I’ll show you what’s in the vault.” They talked about the states for a few minutes, and Morgan said he was originally from Tulsa, Oklahoma, raised in South America, had gone to Harvard, been recruited out of there, and had been sent to Oxford on Uncle’s dime as a cover for two years in England, on loan to MI-5. Coffee finished, Morgan led John down to the dimly lit basement, and a bank vault like door set in the far wall. “This is where we keep our stash. Myself, the deputy, and the Ambassador are the only ones with the combo, just in case I’m not around.”
John nodded, So apparently Morgan is the real deal. Interesting how much he left out. I’m guessing Felipe didn’t tell him that he told me Morgan’s background. Now I’m wondering if he is also checking up on me and the money flowing through the DEA’s account down here, since they were doing that shit in ‘Nam. Fuck it, I don’t care. I’m playing it straight with everybody.
Morgan quickly spun the dial, then a second dial, and cranked the lock open. He reached in and flipped on the light, then scanned the floor and benches before entering. “Snake check. Sumbitches get in somehow, and I sure as hell don’t want to get bit. Rifles on the back wall, subguns on the left, pistols in the drawers on the right.”
John walked down the left wall, noting a number of AKs, an Uzi or two, and a couple of M-16s. On the back wall, he spotted a fat barreled carbine. He pulled it off the rack, opened the bolt and chuckled. Morgan asked curiously, “You know what that is?”
John snapped it to his shoulder, finding the crosshairs in the scope came readily to his eye. “Yep and surprised to see it here.” He checked the bore, ran the bolt and checked the trigger as he said, “De Lisle carbine. It’s a suppressed carbine firing forty-five ACP rounds. I saw a couple in ‘Nam that the SAS had and used. They didn’t make a lot of them, so I wonder how it ended up here.”
Morgan shrugged. “No idea. You want it, take it.” He moved a box off the table in the center of the room, laughed, then opened the box, pulling out a deck of cards. “You want to see some strange shit, you ever seen counterfeit playing cards?”
John laughed. “No, but it doesn’t surprise me.” He laid the De Lisle on the table in the center of the room, and moved further down the line, finding an old Winchester trench shotgun. He glanced at Morgan and laid it on the table, then moved to the pistols. Most of them were .45s, but he found an old High Standard HDM, also integrally suppressed. He opened more drawers, he finally found one with boxes of magazines, and took all of the .22 magazines, and a dozen .45 magazines.
Morgan said, “Menendez says you’ve got a FAST team down here…if you need more guns, take em.” He opened a drawer by the door, pulled out an old Navy seabag, and dropped it on the table.
John picked out a couple of the nicer Browning High Powers, two more .45s, one with a suppressor screwed on the barrel, went back and got an Uzi, and two AK-47s after he checked through all of the available stock. Searching through the drawers, he found magazines for everything and a drawer full of towels. Pulling one out, he wrapped the pistols in it, slid them into the bottom of the seabag, and carefully slid the carbines, AKs, and trench gun in on top of the towel.
Morgan said, “Fourth drawer over has ammo. Don’t have much in the way of shotgun rounds, though.” Morgan idly opened the deck of cards then said, “Huh, that’s odd. These are all jokers. With a weird design on them.”
John loaded up on 9mm, .45, and .22, and two boxes of brass cased double ought buck. “I can make do with this.” He took the playing card from Morgan and said, “You know, in ‘Nam, some organizations used these as ‘calling cards’. Left them on bodies of the VC.”
“Take some of them if you think you can use them.”
He threw a few packs in the seabag as Morgan pulled his .45 out of a shoulder holster, ejected the magazine, and worked the slide to clear the chamber. Handing the pistol to John, he asked, “What can you do to make this one shoot a little better?”
Quickly stripping the pistol, John shook his head, then went over to the pistols on the wall. He went through the .45s, tested all of them, then picked up one he’d already checked once. “Replace yours with this one. Yours is about shot out, and the trigger sucks. This one is at least solid, the barrel fits better, and has a much better trigger. If I were you, I’d bitch to your bosses about the shitty quality of your weapon and ask for a new one as a replacement, or just go out in town and buy one.”
Morgan cycled the slide, brought the pistol up, sighted on the corner of the room, and squeezed the trigger. He turned with a smile, “Oh yeah, that is much better! Thanks!”
Back upstairs, John went into the cubbyhole they had assigned him, and quickly put together a SITREP, including the planned delivery of the acetone in a couple of days, then hand carried it to the communications section. Once the embassy had closed, he and Morgan went back to the basement, and he retrieved the seabag, lugging it out to the car assigned to him and dumping it in the trunk, I’ll sneak out and sight them in this weekend, before I give them to the guys.
***
Three nights later, Fernando drove the truck with the acetone up to the church at midnight, and Hector followed a block behind in the Mercedes with John riding in the back seat, the darkened windows and a watch cap pulled down over his blond hair hiding his paleness. The De Lisle carbine was on the seat beside him. John suddenly said, “Stop here Hector. Matter of fact, turn into that side street, kill the lights and circle back to the corner.”
Fernando suddenly came over the earpiece. “Locking the mic button down now. I see a truck and a car coming down the street. Pasquale and I are getting out. Felix will stay in the driver’s seat.” They heard the doors open and close, and Fernando quietly talking to Felix, as Hector turned around and eased to a stop at the intersection a block away. There were no doors or windows on either side of the street, so John got out and stood by the driver’s door as they watched the car and truck stop next to their truck. A fat man got out of the back of the car, waddled over to Fernando, and asked if they had the cargo, as four more men got out of the car and truck.
Fernando said they did and asked where the money was. A coarse laugh, came through the headset, and John’s hair started standing up. He whispered, “Hector, hand me the carbine, please.” Hector pulled it out of the back floorboard, passing it out the window to John, as the fat man snapped his fingers and told one of his men to check the cargo. John leaned across the hood and stabilized the carbine, scoping the scene. He saw two of the men with what looked like AKs, and said softly, “Shit. Hector this…may go bad.”
The one sent to check the cargo hopped back down from the truck bed and nodded to the fat man, who snapped his fingers again. One of the guards opened the trunk of the sedan and brought a briefcase to the fat man, then stepped to the side, putting himself 90 degrees to Fernando. Fernando opened the case, quickly rifled through the money inside, and said, “Señor, this is not the agreed on amount.”
The coarse chuckle sounded again, and the fat man said, “Puto, this is all I pay.”
Fernando replied, “Señor, we contracted with the cartel for—”
The fat man smiled, and John centered the crosshairs over his nose. “Take it up with your contact. This is my territory, I make the decisions about what I pay. Not Medellin!”
“But, Señor, this does not even cover our costs,” Fernando protested.
The fat man pulled a pistol out of his pocket, pointed it at Fernando and asked, “Puto, it’s what’s in the case, or this,” as he waved the pistol. “Your choice puto, u
nless you think you can strike me down, before I shoot you.”
John whispered, “Oh fuck this.” He took a breath, let half of it out, and slowly took up the slack on the trigger. As the fat man’s smile grew wider, he started pointing the pistol at Fernando again. John pressed the trigger, the De Lisle’s trigger broke softly, and the .45 round gave the fat man a third eye in his forehead. Pasquale butt stroked the stunned guard standing beside him, then leveled his AK at the other guards, as Fernando said, “Oh, you got struck down. I guess that answers the question of who is in charge.” Fernando strolled over to the sedan and asked politely, “Señor, where is the rest of the money?”
The driver stuttered out that it was in the other briefcase in the trunk, and Fernando walked to the back of the car and pulled the second briefcase out. He opened it on the trunk, rifled through the cash, then moved it to the first briefcase still in his hand. Closing the briefcase, he strolled back to the truck then turned. “The cargo is now paid for. Bring your truck over and back it up to ours. Then you will transfer the cargo and be on your way. Is that understood?”
A chorus of, “Si, Señor”, came through the headset, and they quickly moved the truck and backed it up to the bed of the F6000.
Once the cargo was moved, Fernando said, “Vámonos, muchachos!” The truck and sedan left, leaving the fat man’s body lying on the steps of the church. Fernando and Pasquale jumped into the cab, and John heard him say, “Get us the hell out of here!” The radio suddenly went silent, as Felix started the truck and rumbled down the street out of town.
John jumped back in the Mercedes and said, “Let’s go, Hector.”
Hector looked around at John, “That was cold, John. Real cold. But it defused the situation.”
He shrugged. “That’s the bottom line. Wake me up in two hours, and I’ll drive the rest of the way back.” Minutes later, John was sound asleep in the back seat.