Downward Dog in Miami

by Larry David Allman

  “I need my briefcase. We’ll be a while longer.”

  He flipped the key fob and the hatch back started to open. We met at the back of the car.

  “Our car is at MIA, at the Air Charter lot. Can you arrange to have it picked up?” I asked him.

  “Sure, no problem. Just give me the keys and the info… I have friends.” He smiled and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, the international language of money. He was fast, and I liked him, plus he seemed to practice a form of excellence at what he did. I liked that even more. I gave him the keys to the Panamera and asked, “What do you need for your friends to do this? We want it dropped off at the Biltmore. Leave it with valet under my name… How much?”

  “How about six bills for the guys, three each?” he said.

  Good thing I had just made a nice score. These Miami prices would kill a normal business.

  “Okay,” I said, reaching into my second briefcase and withdrawing a packet of ten thousand dollars. I peeled off six, then gave him the other five that we owed him for the night as a good-faith gesture. “Make this happen now.”

  “I’m your guy,” he said. In that moment, he really was.

  Even though I trusted him, I took both briefcases with me back to the meeting—there was still over a hundred thousand in cash in that second briefcase. As I walked away from Carlos, I heard him on his cell phone. “Hermano,” he greeted his friend.

  I entered the building, climbed the stairs, and walked back to Lauren’s office. When I opened the door and started to walk in, there was another man in the room, an older guy with gray hair, wearing an FBI jacket, with a Glock on his hip and a gold shield visible on his front belt. He was standing off to the side of the desk near Ross.

  “Derek, this is Mr. Jones,” Agent Ross greeted me. “He works with us on counter-terrorism cases.”

  “Hey,” I said, trying to be courteous.

  “I know who you are,” Mr. Jones said.

  I froze for a moment. Was that a good thing… or was I in trouble?

  * * *

  China Airlines flight 666 arrived exactly as scheduled at five forty-five at MIA. The Airbus 440 taxied to its assigned gate and began deplaning operations. People stood up, opened the luggage compartments, and got ready to enter America through its often crowded and burdensome immigration and customs facilities. All were ready… except for two.

  General Kangxi and his aide-de-camp, Colonel Shen, sitting in the first-class section of the aircraft in civilian clothing, were greeted by two of the air stewards, both young men: trim, fit, crew cuts, both from the home country.

  “You had a good flight, General?” one asked in Mandarin.

  “Yes, thank you, most pleasant. Are the arrangements in place?” he said.

  “Yes sir, please follow me,” the steward said, taking the general’s carry-on leather bag and heading toward the first-class exit door, which another steward was opening. Two other stewards came forward and stood in the aisle in a way that physically blocked the rest of the first-class passengers while the general and his aide were walked through the exit doors to the gangway. All four walked almost to the end of the gangway where it connected to the building.

  A side door opened simultaneously into the gangway. A Chinese-looking individual appeared through the door, wearing a reflective vest, protective helmet, work clothes, and boots. He held the door and gestured to the general to come that way. Both stewards handed the carry-ons to the general and his aide, then retreated swiftly back to the plane. When both were inside the plane, they closed the exit door. An announcement, in Mandarin and English, informed the passengers that it would be another five minutes before they could safely exit the plane.

  At the gangway door, the Chinese national led the general and his aide down the stairs, which led to the ground. At the bottom, a black Chevy Suburban moved from a concealed spot near the wall of the building, pulled up to the bottom of the stairs, and braked to a sharp stop. The driver jumped out and opened the back door on his side; the national opened the back door on the passenger side. The general, his aide, and the national got in and closed the doors, and the Suburban jolted forward to join other airport traffic. The ground crew, preparing the plane for turn-around and departure, appeared not to notice what had just happened.

  * * *

  Enrique Fuentes was pleased to hear from his friend Carlos. They had both grown up in the Miami Gardens section of Miami, both as first-generation kids with parents from Puerto Rico, and had been friends for twelve years. Enrique was also a Lyft driver, but he had other entrepreneurial business activities, all legit, all moving him toward the American dream. If he earned enough money, he believed strongly that he could achieve real freedom.

  “Hermano, I have business tonight for you. I need you to pick up a car and drop it off, maybe an hour. Can you get someone to help you… like, right now?”

  “Sure. For you, muchacho, no problem. How much?”

  “Two hundred each.”

  “Make it three and it’s done.”

  “Okay, three each. Here’s the deal,” he said, and gave his present location and the details.

  * * *

  I sat down on the couch next to Lauren, placed my two briefcases right next to me, and looked at the strange man from the government who said he knew me. I was a little rattled. Plus, Mr. Jones gave off a vibe that he had been out in the field a bit. Lauren hooked her arm inside mine, not concerned with the image it gave these people from the government. As she did that, I noticed that it calmed me.

  Mr. Jones remained standing, like it was his meeting, like he was used to being in charge. I knew that would change in a few minutes.

  “Mr. Jones is going to share a few things with us,” Agent Ross said, looking at me and then at Lenny, then gestured with his hand for Jones to start.

  “SAC Ross informs me that you’ve all been sworn to silence on this. There will be some top-secret classified information, and—”

  Lenny cut him off. “Mr. Jones, we’re all good. We have a high level of trust in here—at least we did.”

  “I have to make sure of these security measures,” Jones said.

  “Okay, you’ve made sure. We have good information for you. Move on, please; we have things to do, too,” Lenny said, looking straight into Jones’ eyes.

  Jones seemed to be taken aback for a moment, then gathered himself and started. “Ever since you triggered a national security inquiry last week at the Stanford Lab, we’ve been tracking all persons involved in this matter. That would include you, Mr. Randall, as well as the domestic corporation Siroco International Investments Corporation and its two main principals, a Mr. Lavorosky and a Mr. Adams. We’ve not been able to penetrate their organization as much as we’d like, but we know that there are international criminal organizational components to it. We’ve received a tip from a confidential informant that a General Kangxi from China is a principal in this, and the Minister of the Interior of Ukraine is also somehow involved. There is chatter about drugs. And then we have the bust earlier today at the Siroco headquarters: fentanyl. And then ricin, so it’s DHS Cat 1. We need to apprehend Mr. Lavorosky, Mr. Adams, and anybody else who has aided and abetted this enterprise. The full force and power of the United States government is on this.” He paused, maybe to catch his breath, or maybe that was all they had—if so, our government was in trouble if that was the best they could do.

  “I hope there’s more,” I said.

  “I’m afraid not so much more,” Jones said.

  When you’re holding a straight flush in a poker game, you can be a little arrogant in terms of bluffing, betting, and strategy. And that was exactly what I felt like in that moment.

  “Damn good thing you’ve got us here, Howie,” Lenny said. He knew the straight-flush feeling.

  I stood up, reached into my briefcase, and removed my laptop. As it b
ooted up, I asked Mr. Jones to please have a seat. He looked toward Lauren on the couch and the space next to her. Something social must have clicked in—he walked to the back of the office, grabbed an extra client chair from against the wall, and carried it back to the area in front of the desk. He placed the chair next to Colonel Billings, sat in it, and looked around to us like he was eager to learn more.

  I started to present what we had learned over the past week.

  * * *

  Enrique Fuentes drove his Chevy Tahoe into the Prime Mortgage lot and directly to Carlos’ Highlander after Carlos flashed his lights. They were in cell phone communication. He parked next to Carlos and got out as Carlos did. From the passenger side, Noah Johnson exited. Carlos knew Noah, not from childhood but from their mutual Lyft activities. They each gave sports-bro hugs and shakes.

  “Here’s the keys. It’s a Panamera, at Air Charter at the airport. Go get it, and take it to the Biltmore, then give it to the valet, under the name of Mr. Randall,” Carlos instructed.

  “That’s it?” Enrique said.

  “Not quite. Here’s the cash,” he said handing over the six one-hundred-dollar bills, making it a point to count them slowly in front of Enrique and Noah for emphasis. “Should take you not more than an hour… That’s three hundred bucks each, a lot better than minimum wage.”

  “Consider it done. I’ll call when it’s finished.”

  “Thanks, Rick,” Carlos said as Enrique and Noah got in their Chevy Tahoe and drove out of the lot toward Miami International Airport. Carlos retreated to his Highlander, closed the door, and locked himself in.

  * * *

  I took a position in front of the desk at the center of the office. Holding my laptop like it was show-and-tell, I started to lay out the immensity of the criminal organization known as Siroco International Investments Corporation. I had all of our various video footage organized in such a way that I could do this as a PowerPoint presentation. I could call up the face of whoever I was highlighting. I had another file with various digital information, such as cell phone numbers, license plates, et cetera. I was ready. This was what I did. Derek Randall: cyber security consultant.

  “Siroco is the manifestation of an international criminal enterprise. Its objective is to create a powerful, international, vertically integrated criminal enterprise with the potential to hurt America in many ways. We think their main products, so to speak, are drugs, human trafficking, weapons, and money laundering. We know that this operation here in Miami was trying to take over at least four local enterprises to assist it in achieving its objectives. Those four enterprises were a security company, a trucking company, a container company, and a shipping company. They were in the process of creating a vehicle for the money laundering operation, which involved real estate developments. We know that there are Chinese and Eastern Europeans involved in the organization, and we know that the money laundering part of it has been outsourced to a professional money launderer. Just a question before I continue: was the confidential informant you mentioned earlier, Mr. Jones. Was that us… Agent Ross?”

  Ross nodded his head in confirmation. The government was so far behind on this case, it was pathetic. I continued.

  “The principals of Siroco are Lev Lavorosky,” I said, showing his photo on the laptop. “He’s the real mover in this, although his title is Vice President. The president is Richard Adams. He seems to be just a figurehead, a kind of acceptable public face.”

  Colonel Billings interrupted, “He’ll be arrested within the next thirty minutes. We’re tracking him on the Florida turnpike; his beacon is strong. We’re setting up near Palm Beach. We seem to have lost Lavorosky for the moment. I don’t know what happened there.”

  “Maybe we can help with that,” I said, not knowing how, but knowing that we had done a heck of a lot better than they had. “The international cast is quite interesting,” I continued. “There’s a Chinese general involved, General Kangxi, active Chinese military. I’m thinking he could be the link to the fentanyl; most of that stuff comes out of China.”

  Jones—I was certain that was not his real name—raised his hand like he was in class and I was the teacher. “We know about this general. He’s coming in tonight; we’ve got a team waiting at the airport. They’ll brace him as soon as he exits Immigration, then stay with him. We don’t have sufficient information and evidence at this point to make the arrest. He’ll get that we’re serious here.”

  “We understand that he has diplomatic status. Won’t that be a problem?” I asked.

  “We’ll deal with it,” Jones said. I doubted he’d even known about the diplomatic status.

  “Here’s the cast in the money laundering operation,” I said as I showed Lenny’s excellent work in Stuart. Photos of Santo Garcia and his four similarly dressed underlings, together with the cars parked in the driveway and their clearly displayed license plates. “We know that they put Siroco money in a bank in Cayman Island. They use this guy, Horatio Gonzalez, as their banker.”

  Ross and Colonel Billings were taking notes. Jones was experiencing the beginning of a deer-in-the-lights look on his face. Ross looked up, and said, “We’ll need these photos.”

  “No problem; we’re happy to help. I’ll shoot them to you when we’re done. There’s much more,” I said and paused. I looked at Lauren, who was watching me with a kind of admiration, and then at Lenny, my best friend and most dependable associate. I pushed on.

  “The Cayman National Bank and Trust is one of the biggest washing machines, at least in the Caribbean. That most of the big accounts there are Fonseca trustee accounts, that tells you a lot. Gonzalez seems to be the guy at the bank for the money launderers, and definitely the Siroco money. Siroco has at least three accounts there, one tiny, one with sixty-seven million dollars, and a third one whose balance we do not know.”

  “And you went there today?” Ross asked.

  “Maybe,” I said. “You want to focus on us or Siroco?”

  “It goes to your credibility. We’re going to take serious government action on what you’re telling us. It has to be truthful and accurate.”

  “Look. You can use this information or not,” I shot back. “Okay, let’s be truthful. Does Lenore work for you?”

  “Sometimes,” Ross said.

  That was a problem. She knew the broad outlines of what we had done in Cayman. Of course, we had her on tape accepting a bribe… but still.

  “Let’s move on here, then we can sort it out… if that’s what you want. Incidentally, there’s usually a finder’s fee when the government recovers illegal money based on a citizen tip. We just gave you actionable information on sixty-seven million dollars acquired through illegal activities, sitting in an identifiable account. It’s ten percent, if I’m not mistaken. We want that reward. Understood?”

  “Sure, agreed… if we get it,” Ross said.

  Colonel Billings nodded, and Jones looked like he wanted to leave for dinner.

  “You guys should enjoy this one,” I said as I adjusted the laptop. “This is in the lobby of the building where Siroco has its offices. Look at these guys.”

  The video showed the Los Bandidos guys rolling three hand trucks loaded with suitcases through the lobby heading to the side of the elevators leading to Siroco. The elevator stopped at the Siroco offices at floor forty-four, then the men returned with the three boxes with the Chinese lettering on them, walked out to the street, and loaded up a van. The government officials seemed to be in awe of this kind of evidence.

  Then Ross’ phone chimed, as did Jones’ phone a few seconds after that. They both accepted and listened to whatever news was being conveyed, most likely the same fresh information.

  Ross spoke first. “The general never got off the plane. This is not possible. We confirmed that he was on it. We confirmed that in Beijing. Something is wrong here.”

  “So, you lost him
at the airport,” Lenny said.

  “That’s not possible,” Ross said, although that was exactly what appeared to have happened. This is our government protecting us?

  “Okay, so the general is loose, and Lavorosky is loose. Adams is soon to be captured. Is that about right?” I asked, looking at Ross, then Colonel Billings. No need to deal with Jones, as he seemed to be the weakest link in the room. Ross was ready to say something, probably another excuse, when Colonel Billings reached for his iPad, which I could hear vibrating. He checked it carefully.

  “Lavorosky’s beacon just lit up. He’s somewhere around Everglades City.”

  “You’re sure the beacon and Lavorosky are in the same place?” Lenny asked.

  “No doubt about it,” Colonel Billings responded.

  I knew there was only doubt about it.

  Colonel Billings punched his cell phone with force, and, when the call was answered, said, “Get a SWAT team on Beacon Two. Execute immediately. You copy that.”

  Colonel Billings and Jones stood up, packed up their stuff—although Jones had brought only himself to the meeting—and started to walk out.

  “We’ll let you know when these two individuals are taken into custody,” Billings said as he opened the door. Both exited the room, leaving us with Agent Ross. That Jones failed to close the door seemed only appropriate—another government agent sleepwalking through his job.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking,” Ross said, looking from Lenny to me and back. Smart move on his part.

  * * *

  Enrique Fuentes and Noah Johnson pulled into the Air Charter Services lot at Miami International Airport. Enrique slowed as they passed one lane of parked cars, turned, and started to survey the second lane. Noah saw the silver Panamera and pointed to it; Enrique stopped in front of it. Noah opened his door and got out, stretched, walked to the driver’s side of the Panamera, and pushed the key fob. It chimed gently, and the lights on the mirrors and inside came on. He reached for the door handle.