“U.S. documented vessel, that’s good. Stamps are all up to date. From Boston, huh? What, you came through the canal?”
“Right, the Panama Canal. Last year.” Mr. Sumner was about the same overall size and height as Bullard, but with longer and much thicker brown hair. In his silly t-shirt and shorts, he was no match for the muscular homeland security honcho, who was beefed up even further by his black uniform and utility vest. Bullard was clearly the top dog today, no question. The boat owner virtually rolled over on his back, and figuratively offered his throat to the dominant alpha male by asking, “Can I
get you something to drink, or maybe a snack?”
“No thanks, Mr. Sumner. Say, do you two live aboard this boat?”
“Uh, yeah. Yes. Yes sir.”
“That’s nice, very nice. Free as birds, eh? Just go wherever the wind blows, is that right?”
“Sometimes…”
“But the wind’s not blowing towards San Francisco, is it Harvey? Must be tough to sail north, against the wind. Have you seen the five day forecast? A low’s moving in from the Northwest—it’s going to get nasty. I’m thinking it’d be a lot easier to sail south, or west. You know, with the wind.” Mr. Harvey Sumner was tongue-tied, off balance. I’ve got you, thought Bullard, enjoying the old cat and mouse game of interrogation, before going in for the kill.
“Uh, um, sometimes it can be. It depends.”
Bullard waited, looking at Sumner as if he could read his mind, and already knew that he was prevaricating. “So, where are you going in San Francisco, Mr. Sumner? Which marina?”
“Um, we usually don’t stay at marinas. Usually, we anchor out, to save money.”
“Is that so? So tell me, where are you going to anchor out, when you get to San Francisco? Maybe you can show me, on a chart? I’m sure you already have it marked, don’t you? And I’m sure you’ve already got the waypoints entered on your GPS, right? Waypoints, all the way up to San Francisco. Don’t you, Mr. Sumner?”
The man hesitated, uncertainty written all over his face. He looked down and to the left, unable to meet Bullard’s gaze. “I was g-going to put them in today, once we’re s-sailing north. The w-waypoints depend on the w-wind direction, and how we have to tack.”
Bullard leaned back and snickered, as if he’d just heard a mildly amusing joke. Once they started stuttering, it was close to the end. He’d been trained in facial cues and body language lie detection, and he could list a dozen subtle clues to determine when a subject was lying, but this man was an open book. “Nice try Harvey, nice try. Now, tell me something that’s not a ‘sea story.’ Tell me the truth. You’re not going to San Francisco. You’re heading west, aren’t you? West across the mighty Pacific. That’s why you have all those extra Jerry cans of fuel tied on deck, isn’t it? That’s why you have that self-steering vane on the back? For crossing oceans.”
Sumner’s face drained, his jaw hung slack.
“Look Harvey, personally, I don’t care. There’s no law against it, at least not yet, right? You’re still free to go wherever you want—I just don’t like being lied to. That’s all. So tell me the truth: you’re not going up to San Francisco, are you, Harvey?”
Mr. Sumner looked down at the varnished table, at his folded hands. Bullard knew that liars arranged their hands that way to keep them from visibly shaking. He could write a book on how liars behaved under interrogation stress. Harvey Sumner could provide an entire chapter.
“Harvey, I don’t want to be here, giving you a hard time. Actually, I admire you, I really do. Most men only dream about crossing oceans, and you’ve done it! I respect that, I honestly do! So please, just to satisfy my curiosity: where are you going? Tell me the truth, and we’ll all be on our way.”
Mr. Sumner’s jaw twitched. He glanced up, could not bear the pressure of Bob Bullard’s piercing ice-blue eyes, and looked down again. “Well…um…” He gave a low cough, clearing his throat, stalling. “Actually…um…P-Polynesia.” He spoke almost inaudibly, his voice cracking. “The Marquesas, and then the T-Tuamotus. Down that way.”
“Nice! The ultimate tropical cruise, that’s really terrific. But you know, I’ll bet there’s one big hassle. Those new currency export laws, they must really be a pain in the ass. I mean, only being able to take $10,000 New Dollars out of the country—that has to be a showstopper. Tell me, how do you manage it?”
“We—we’re thrifty. We m-make do. We get by.”
Bullard grinned again. “Oh, come on now Mr. Sumner—I wasn’t born yesterday. It takes a lot of dough to run a boat like this.” Bullard had a hunch, and he was winging it. “I’ve never met a sailor yet that didn’t have a little something hidden away, you know what I’m saying? I mean, New Dollars aren’t exactly the flavor of the month overseas anymore, are they? What’s a hamburger cost in Tahiti, two hundred blue bucks? Now I’m thinking, an intelligent man like you Harvey, he’d have a few coins set aside for a rainy day, don’t you think? You know the kind I mean. Maybe a Maple Leaf or two? Maybe an Eagle or a Krugerrand? Gold coins, Mr. Sumner. I’m sure an intelligent man like you must have seen the wisdom of putting aside some gold.”
Sumner looked to be on the verge of tears, the facial tic was really firing now, as he continued to look straight down at his hands to avoid eye contact.
“Mr. Sumner, I’m going to be straight with you. I could have my men take this boat back into port under suspicion of unlawful export. We could handcuff you and your pretty wife Roxanne, and take the Mystic Lady right back to the Customs dock. Then we’d tear this boat apart, down to the last screw. We’d cut open every mattress and cushion; we’d pull up every floorboard and rip out every ceiling panel. We’d take it down to the bare hull, if that’s what it took, and then we’d rip the hull apart.
“And we’d find something, I guaran-damn-tee it. We always do. If you have one penny over $10,000 New Dollars on board, we’d get you for felony currency export, and that’s five years federal time right there. Federal time Harvey—that means you do every single day—there’s no early release. Plus, we’d do an asset forfeiture on your boat, so when you and Roxanne got out, you’d be homeless. And if we found more than five gold Krugerrands or Maple Leafs or Liberty Eagles, well, that’s ten more years right there. You know, gold hoarding is economic sabotage, and taking it out of the country, well, tack on some more unlawful export charges. You could be looking at ten to twenty, easy.
“And Mr. Sumner, we haven’t even gotten around to the firearms yet. Now, I know that if I was sailing around the world, well I damn sure wouldn’t go without at least a couple of guns! No freakin’ way! Now, you’re an intelligent man, I’m sure you agree with me. No way would I go out there unarmed, what with all the pirates and cutthroats lurking around every third world hellhole, making eyes at Roxanne! So I’m right there with you on the guns. But unfortunately, you have to know, if we did take the Mystic Lady back to the Customs dock, we’d find every last bullet. There’s no way on earth you could hide a gun on this boat so that we wouldn’t find it, not even a .22 derringer. I don’t care if you buried it in the keel or hid it up the mast, we’d find it.
“So what do you say, Mr. Sumner? Should we turn this boat around, and have my men take it back to the Customs dock? Take a minute to decide, get a glass of water if you want. But let me know if you want the Mystic Lady to be heading out across the Pacific today, or back to the Customs dock. It’s your decision.”
Sumner’s eyes were welling, he was on the verge of tears, and he swallowed several times before softly answering. “No…I don’t w-want to g-go back.”
“That’s good. I don’t want to either, because once we turn around, everything gets real official. Everything is recorded, inventoried. Paperwork out the old wazoo. Right now, we’re still just two men having a friendly, unofficial conversation. So help me out Harvey, give me a reason to get off your boat. Give me a reason to send you on your way across the Pacific, with Uncle Sam’s blessing.”
“W-what…d
o you w-want from us?”
“Just the truth, Harvey. No more bullshit. Show me the gold, and show me the cash. No—forget about the cash, you can keep it. Just show me the gold.”
Sumner breathed deeply, and stood up from the dinette. He knelt down and pulled up a heavy teak floor panel in the center of the main saloon passageway, and set it aside. Then he reached far down into the bilge, his arm fully extended, and after a few moments of tugging, he pulled out a short section of galvanized steel pipe, dripping with oily seawater. The sailor had struggled to lift it up one-handed; it was obviously extremely heavy for its size.
Bullard felt a momentary chill when he saw the foot-long pipe, with an end-cap on each side. It looked like almost every pipe bomb he’d ever seen—and he’d seen a lot. Sumner wiped it dry with paper towels from the galley, and then unscrewed one steel end-cap and placed it on the dinette table. He tipped the open pipe at an angle, and four white plastic tubes slid out onto the table. Inside of each translucent cylinder was a short stack of what appeared to be one-ounce gold coins.
“I thought so,” said Bullard, grinning, a friendly uncle once again. “How many are in there?”
“Eighty.”
“What kind?”
“American Eagles,” the despondent sailor admitted.
“Call me patriotic, but that’s my favorite brand!” exclaimed Bullard. “Now, I’m going to tell you how we can resolve your problem. How we can avoid going back to the Customs dock, and tearing your boat to pieces. I’m a reasonable man, Harvey, very reasonable. And I really do admire you, that’s the truth. I’m not the kind of man who would leave you broke, right at the start of your voyage across the Pacific. Tell you what. Let’s go fifty-fifty, half-and-half. Forty for you, and forty for Uncle Sam—and then you’ll be on your way in five minutes. Or, we can go back to the Customs dock, and you’ll spend ten years in prison, minimum. You and Roxanne both. We find any illegal guns or ammunition, and that’s another ten. You’ll be old by the time you get out Harvey, and you can’t get those years back, trust me on that. So, do we have a deal?”
Harvey Sumner finally found the nerve to stare straight back at Bob Bullard. “I don’t have any ch-choice. Take them.” He reluctantly pushed two of the plastic tubes across the table.
Bullard unzipped a horizontal compartment on the bottom of his black vest, dropped the two rolls of gold coins inside, and zipped it shut again. Then he stood up from the dinette table. “You made a wise decision, Harvey, you’ll never be sorry. I hope you have good luck on your voyage, I really do. Fair winds, and all that. Now stay down below for five minutes, and then go give Roxanne a big hug. Tell her how you kept both of you out of prison, and saved your boat. She’ll understand— there was nothing else you could do.”
He knew that he could have taken the entire stash of eighty gold coins, but half was safer. He wanted Harvey Sumner to keep sailing west today, far away, out of range. If he took all of his gold and left the man dead broke, Sumner might decide to cancel the voyage, and turn around. Then, bitter and out for revenge, he might find the ear of some rabblerousing reporter, who might raise a stink. No, half was better. Half meant that Sumner was not coming back.
Besides, the sailor probably had another pipe with another load of gold coins hidden somewhere else on the boat. He would do all right.
Bullard ascended the ladder and stood in the cockpit, blinking in the bright sunlight while slipping his shades back on. The high cliffs of Point Loma were receding astern, as the two boats had continued heading offshore while he was down below. Roxanne Sumner was still standing behind the wheel, staring straight ahead, looking right through him. The two Customs agents who had boarded with Bullard were standing near the stern, holding onto the twin backstay wires. Their faces were unreadable beneath their DHS ball caps, and behind their reflective sunglasses.
The Fountain was keeping pace with the Mystic Lady a dozen yards off the sailboat’s port side, and Bullard waved it over. When it was pressed alongside the sailboat’s hull, he lightly hopped down and across, followed by the other two Customs agents. The leader of the Customs detail slid across to the center bolster, giving him the controls again. Bullard said, “He was clean as a whistle. Fine man, a real gentleman. Everything was in order, we had a nice conversation.” He winked over at Wendy, and she smiled back.
Then he turned the wheel to the left and shoved the throttles ahead. The Fountain’s four black Mercury engines screamed and the boat shot up onto a plane, leaving the sailboat far behind them as swiftly as if it was at anchor.
Bullard did the rough math in his head. Forty ounces of gold, at roughly $7,000 an ounce, was what? $280,000 New Dollars? Not that he would ever change the gold for paper blue bucks—God forbid! These forty ounces would go aboard the El Dorado to join the rest of his gold stash. And sure, they represented a good day’s work. They felt solid and heavy on the left side of his utility vest. But really, the forty ounces were just a drop in the bucket compared to what he already had, or even to what he collected as part of his other routine operations. The Indian casinos alone paid 25 ounces a week for protection. Only keeping the Border Patrol away from carefully selected portions of the Mexican border paid more than that.
26
Ranya spent an hour studying the life of Brian Garabanda, as seen through the digital camera lens of Alexandro Garabanda. There was Brian taking his first steps, Brian coming down a sliding board, Brian riding a Big Wheel, Brian blowing out four candles—and almost always grinning at the camera. Brad would have been rightfully proud of how adorable his son was. Brian had his father’s blue eyes, and unruly light brown hair. His dimples and the little freckles on his nose were Brian’s alone.
After looking at hundreds of pictures, Ranya found that she could not hate the man tied to the chair, the man who made her son’s face shine with happiness in photograph after photograph.
Garabanda certainly didn’t look like an evil man, slumped back and snoring softly in his old easy chair. He had wavy brown hair, which needed to be combed. He had a Hispanic surname, but he didn’t look Mexican. His ancestors could have been from any number of European nations. Asleep and with his face in repose, she guessed by the tiny lines around the corners of his eyes and the creases of his mouth that he was in his mid-forties or maybe a bit older. His eyes were now closed, but she remembered from their previous stare-downs that they were cinnamon brown, and that they had fire in them when he had shown a spark of anger.
The laptop computer had no electrical cord or AC adapter, and after several warnings, it shut itself off due to a low battery. In the kitchen, she found part of a loaf of wheat bread and half-filled jars of peanut butter and jelly. She made sandwiches and washed them down with tap water, while flipping through Alexandro Garabanda’s stack of mail, which consisted mostly of bills and junk mail advertisements. Once she finished her lunch, she took a kitchen chair into the living room, and turned the television back on. After spending five years in detention, Ranya watched even the commercials with interest. They were in both English and Spanish, depending on the station, and whether they were national or local in origin.
The new cars seemed very small, and touted their high gas mileage above all other factors. The local ads were tilted toward security-related businesses: locks, alarms, burglar bars, guard dogs and chain link fences. Then a new commercial came on, with a picturesque seacoast in the background. A kindly looking man stood in front, his hands in the pockets of his sky-blue windbreaker. She guessed he was selling insurance or a medical plan. He was wearing a blue cap with DHS written across the front.
The friendly pitchman said, “Hi, I’m Bob Bullard, your regional director for the Department of Homeland Security.” The name jolted her, but it took a few seconds for her to place it. “As we all know, this has been a year of difficult problems and unique challenges. But with challenges, also come opportunities. Once again, the Southwest Region has led the nation in security awareness and preparedness. We should all be proud
of that record, but we can always do better. I don’t need to remind you that improving homeland security means improving the economy, and increasing everyone’s prosperity and well-being.”
A man and a woman on bicycles pedaled by, just behind him. There was an ocean pier visible in the background as he continued with his earnest and folksy message. “So let’s all pitch in, and help your Department of Homeland Security to help you! Let’s do everything we can to win the war on terror and economic sabotage. Report suspicious behavior, and please give your full cooperation to law enforcement at safety checkpoints. And don’t forget—you can earn cash rewards for reporting illegal firearms, or illegal stockpiles of hoarded gold. Call 855GUN-STOP, or 855-USA-GOLD, and you can help to support your family, while you help to defend your homeland.”
The camera focused on Bullard’s smiling face, with the two phone numbers superimposed on the screen across his chest.
***
Alex Garabanda was handcuffed to a bicycle, pushing it along while trailed by a screaming mob. If he could just spread his hands far enough apart, he might be able to grasp the handlebars and ride away from them to safety. The handcuffs were passed under the bike’s frame, and he could not get a grip on both handlebars at the same time no matter how he tried. It occurred to him that this was a puzzle, and if he could figure out the solution, he might free his arms and escape.
Then someone hoisted a white bucket above him and without warning he was drenched in a foul liquid, the stink of gasoline pungent in his nose. While he watched, a beautiful woman wearing a brown beret was trying to strike match after match, but the flames kept flaring, sputtering and going out. In desperation, he tried to balance on the saddle with both hands together clasping the front fork, but the bicycle fell over on its side while the crowd around him jeered. From the ground, he looked up at the blue sky and saw Fidel Castro, wearing a green utility uniform and cap, lighting a long cigar with a silver Zippo. Then the old Cuban dictator snapped his lighter shut, and casually offered it to the woman wearing the beret. She smiled warmly at Fidel, and promptly dropped her useless book of paper matches to accept his gift.
Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista Page 45