The Last Witness boh-11

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Can you get to it?” Antonov interrupted.

  “I’m getting there, Nick,” Garcia shot back. “Sounds like you’re not having a good day.”

  Garcia had exchanged a glance with Santos, who smiled and nodded, appreciating that Garcia was sending Antonov the less than subtle message that he wasn’t easily pushed around.

  “Patience is a virtue,” Garcia went on, in a lighter tone. “You should write that down. I was just getting to ‘it’ here: Quote paid with the Senator’s personal funds, or in the case of ‘fact finding,’ funds provided by a third party otherwise consistent with applicable requirements governing such activities. Unquote. OneWorld would be that third party.”

  “And the purpose of this fact-finding trip was for what?”

  “The Cayman Islands have no casinos, as I’m sure you know, being in the business,” Santos said. “No gambling, outside the financial industry, that is. Ironic, no, what with all that investment money flowing through there? I envision building a Caymans’ version of GoldenEye. But bigger and of course with gaming.”

  “What is this GoldenEye?”

  “It’s in Jamaica, which has the closest casinos, a dozen of them. But Kingston’s a forty-five-minute flight.”

  “And GoldenEye is. .?”

  “The resort that used to be James Bond’s home. Or at least where Ian Fleming wrote double-oh-seven spy novels, including GoldenEye. Considering your boss’s background, I really thought you would have known all about that.” He paused, and when it was clear Antonov was not going to respond, he went on: “Okay, so the senator sent his two top advisers-or perhaps it was Palumbo who had the senator send him and Tony-to George Town to open a dialogue on gaming with His Excellency the governor. I understand a follow-up with the senator has been scheduled there.”

  Santos grunted as the slideshow continued.

  “And the other purpose, I suppose,” he said, “being to determine if Palumbo can maintain his tiny hard-on longer with one, two, or three partners. . ”

  “Or maybe one underage?” Antonov said.

  “Nick,” Santos then said evenly, “it’s not if she is or isn’t. It’s the appearance thereof.”

  Garcia chuckled.

  “What?” Antonov snapped.

  “Hell, even Palumbo said it this weekend,” Garcia explained. “He was feeling no-pain drunk at the time.”

  “And what did he say, Bobby?” Antonov pressed.

  “Navarra, on his pious high horse, was babbling on about all the good they do in Washington ‘for the people.’ Then Palumbo said, ‘But, you know, as an individual you can do millions of things right. Mess up once, that’s what you’re remembered for.’”

  “Fact is,” Santos said, “a married forty-year-old snorting a small mountain of coke off the ass of a seventeen-year-old Russian hooker ain’t exactly ‘messing up once.’”

  Garcia, shutting down the slideshow, added: “Particularly when he’s caught with different girls in different locations. . ”

  “Nick, I’m not sure what additional photographs you might be inferring,” Bobby Garcia said, unconvincingly. “I’m just saying that we don’t anticipate any problems with any development deals.”

  Antonov grunted. “Well, no problems is good to hear, Mike. But being a politician, Badde talks much more than he accomplishes. He is, to use that quaint American phrase, only a big fish in a small puddle.”

  Garcia and Santos exchanged grins, knowing it was not worth it for either of them to say, “Small pond.”

  “Unfortunately,” Antonov went on, “I had to send my man to take care of what he should have handled. There were obstacles, human ones, holding up the project. Badde proved either unwilling or unable to deal with it. Which suggested to Yuri that, to use another American phrase, Badde plays out of his league. And that is dangerous.”

  “Okay,” Santos said. “So we’ll keep an eye on that, on him.”

  “Speaking of a bigger fish in a bigger puddle,” Garcia said, seeing Santos smirk at that and shake his head, “when you report back to Yuri, tell him we need the senator to have a word with someone at DHS.”

  “U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services, Nick,” Santos put in helpfully, “is under the Department of Homeland Security. Pressure from the top down works best.”

  “I am well aware,” Antonov said, not pleasantly, “having suffered my own time dealing with them.” He paused, then added, “Perez told me that Palumbo and Navarra enjoyed themselves this weekend.”

  “Clearly,” Garcia said, “and I reminded them this weekend to talk to their boss about CIS greasing the skids on getting our visas approved. Maybe suggest that CIS not sweat every detail on certain applications. Palumbo said it already had been done, that he’d personally set up the call with him and the DHS undersecretary who handles CIS. But we’re just not seeing anything change.”

  “The delay at CIS is our biggest bottleneck, Nick,” Santos added. “My investors are sitting on a lot of cash that must move. They are anxious. But without their first investment in the EB-5 visa being approved-they want those green cards for their families-they will not dump another dime in.”

  Antonov grunted. “Perhaps there would be more response if certain photographs found their way to Mrs. Palumbo. . ”

  “Now, that’s just damn devious, Nick,” Garcia said with a chuckle. “As we say here in Texas, ‘Cold as an ex-wife’s heart.’”

  [FOUR]

  Liberties Bar

  502 N. Second Street, Philadelphia

  Monday, November 17, 4:45 P.M.

  A grim-faced Jason Washington crossed the room to where Matt Payne, Jim Byrth, and Mickey O’Hara were at the bar.

  “Gentlemen,” he said evenly, his deep tone sounding flat and tired.

  Washington patted O’Hara on the back.

  “I trust you’re doing well, Michael?”

  O’Hara nodded. “Well enough, considering. Thanks. And thank you for having Matt fill me in on the other case workers. I updated the story with their names.”

  Washington’s eyes went to Payne, then Byrth, then back to O’Hara.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. O’Hara,” Washington said.

  “Of course not, Lieutenant,” O’Hara said, nodding.

  “But you’re welcome,” Washington added. He then said, “Hope I didn’t keep you waiting. I had to get a ride from Highway Patrol. The Crown Vic I was given to drive while they repaired the one they gave me last week has also died. I suggested that they start using bigger Band-Aids.”

  “I don’t even have a car,” Payne said.

  “Unlike my unfortunate circumstance, Matthew, that is not because the city has slashed our budgets.”

  “It’s because,” O’Hara put in, raising his drink toward him, “you keep totaling them, Marshal Earp.”

  The bartender, a great big guy, came up and slid a cocktail napkin onto the bar before Washington.

  “What can I get you, Jason?”

  Washington looked at the others’ drinks, then announced, “I need something strong, Craig. How about a Jameson twelve-year-old martini, please.”

  “You got it,” the bartender said, then reached down, produced a battered stainless steel shaker, and walked down the bar.

  Washington turned to the others and said, “Well, the good news is you won’t have to worry about Carlucci looking over your shoulder. He and Denny are busy dealing with Commissioner Gallagher. The bad news is the same as the good news.”

  In the background came the sound of ice cubes rattling as the bartender vigorously worked the cocktail shaker.

  “What happened with the interview?” Payne said.

  “It was not good, Matthew.”

  The bartender returned and placed a martini glass on the napkin, then with a grand flourish poured the golden Irish whisky.

  “Thank you,” Washington said to him, then picked up the glass and held it up as he intoned, “Fiat justitia ruat caelum.”

 
As Payne raised his glass, he thought, “Let justice be done though the heavens fall”?

  What triggered that?

  They all touched glasses.

  Payne, after taking a sip of his single malt, said, “I assume that is in reference to Garvey?”

  “At the moment especially him,” Washington said. He then looked at O’Hara and added, “Off the record for now, Mickey?”

  “Of course,” O’Hara said. “Who is Garvey?”

  Washington glanced around the immediate area. No other customer was in earshot. Craig the bartender had gone down to the opposite end of the bar and, using a white dish towel, was pulling glasses from the washer, methodically polishing them, then putting them on the bar shelves behind him.

  “Garvey is married to Commissioner Gallagher’s granddaugher,” Washington said.

  “Okay. And?” O’Hara said, as Washington took another sip of martini.

  “And,” Payne put in, “he just got busted this afternoon smuggling two keys of coke at PHL.”

  O’Hara’s bushy red eyebrows went up.

  Washington, nodding, picked it back up. “They were doing a routine sweep of bags coming off the plane from Saint Thomas, where Garvey had been on business.” He glanced at Byrth and added, “Because the Texas Rangers are doing such an effective job at our border with Mexico, there is a surge of drugs coming up via the Caribbean.”

  “Newsflash,” O’Hara said. “There’s a history of that with Phillyricans.”

  Byrth looked at him. “Is that like a Texican?”

  “Yeah, Philadelphia has a Hispanic population of about a quarter-million,” O’Hara explained, “seventy percent of which are Puerto Rican-Phillyricans. It’s second only to New York City’s number of Nuyoricans. That generates a lot of traffic between here and San Juan.”

  Byrth, nodding, said, “And trafficking.”

  “And,” Payne put in, “now apparently it’s the same with the USVI.”

  “So that’s what happened with this Garvey?” O’Hara said.

  Washington went on: “As the bags were put one by one from the cart onto the conveyor belt, a chocolate Lab alerted on his suitcase. One of our blue shirts stopped him as he started to leave the building with it. Garvey’s wife-Commissioner Gallagher’s daughter’s daughter-had gone to surprise him by picking him up. She witnessed him being escorted to a secure area near baggage claim.”

  “Guess who surprised whom,” O’Hara said, shook his head, then added, “Another family ruined by being greedy. That’s a lot of money.”

  “And that’s the problem,” Washington said. “It wasn’t about Garvey’s greed or needing money. That’s what came out in the interview. He admitted to the coke being in the bag. He said that he was transporting the drugs under duress.”

  “‘So said the kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar,’” Payne said.

  “In most any other case I would agree with you, Matthew.”

  “But?”

  “Garvey said he was told that if he refused, the cartel would kill his family,” Washington said. “Now, it is possible that he was made to think the cartel is involved. The resulting fear would be the same. He is, after all, Commissioner Gallagher’s granddaughter’s husband, and not cut from the same cloth. And if one is naive-such as someone like Garvey, who does not have a record, not so much as a speeding ticket-one can be made to believe something they otherwise would not.” He paused to let that sink in, then added: “Particularly when one is shown photographs of the wife and young son-and, to make the point, the photograph of a boy’s body floating in a river.”

  “Jesus!” Payne blurted, and suddenly thought of Amanda and her being with child. “Talk about a motivator.”

  “How did he say they got to him?” Byrth said.

  “A guy who became friendly with him at a local tavern,” Washington said. “Garvey said the guy claims to be an itinerant charter sailboat captain, and befriended him not long after he started going there six months ago. Looking back, Garvey now can see how he was duped, the guy seemingly making small talk over weeks while slowly mining him for information. It would appear that that information was sent to a connection here, who then shadowed the family and photographed them.”

  “When did he get the threat about his family?” Payne said.

  “Saturday. He was winding up work, ready to come home. The guy ‘happened’ to run into him and insisted on buying him a going-away beer. Then he handed him an envelope with recent photographs of the wife and son at home, at school, even at church. The guy made it clear that the cartel would kill the family if Garvey did not do as told. He claimed that he also was forced under the cartel’s control, but that might well be a ruse to make the cartel angle sound credible.”

  Washington took a large sip of his Irish whisky martini, then added, “Everything in his statement is of course being investigated. But I have interviewed my share of professional liars, the extraordinary con artists, and Garvey is not one. He was telling the truth. It was quite difficult to watch, and then he completely broke down.”

  Everyone was quiet for a long moment.

  The Texas Ranger broke the silence.

  “The poor bastard is fucked,” Byrth said matter-of-factly.

  “That would seem to be today’s vast understatement,” Payne said.

  “There is as we speak,” Washington said, “an involved discussion with the District Attorney’s Office.”

  “I’d suggest that the DA is the least of this Garvey’s worries with a cartel involved,” Byrth said. “I’d take my chances on jail. Because, unless one of those miracles from the ceiling of that cathedral occurs, the cartel is going to make good on whacking him. They do not like losing product.”

  “He does fear the worst now,” Washington said. “Commissioner Gallagher just moved his grandddaughter and great-grandson to his home, where there now is a squad car detailed round the clock.”

  “It is absolutely repulsive how little they value human life,” O’Hara said. “It’s incomprehensible. To kill them over a lousy two keys? Compared to all the tons they move?”

  “You would think so, Mickey,” Byrth said. “As I told Matt and Jason, snagging two keys is a slow day on the border. It’s usually one helluva lot larger. The record is six thousand kilos. One day, one bust. Wholesale, that’s three hundred grand.”

  “I can only imagine their reaction to losing that much,” O’Hara said.

  “That’s when they really start cutting off heads and stacking the bodies like cordwood,” Byrth said. “It’s not lost on those running the drugs. They are coached to do anything-and will do absolutely anything-necessary not to lose a load.” He grunted, then said, “Splash.”

  “Splash?” Payne said.

  “Yeah. We’re constantly surveilling the Rio Grande, hunting the mules before they cross. It’s not a helluva lot different than hunting deer-you know their patterns and there’s so damn many of them-except the cartel bastards shoot back. Since we know where they’re liable to cross, or we get a tip from an informant, we generally can find them in the staging process. Sometimes the tip is disinformation to draw us to a certain crossing point, then they make a big deal about loading the boats, and at the last minute act spooked and turn around. It’s all a diversion. The big run is taking place up- or downstream. During one this summer, I was up in our helo with a Bushmaster, flying as the shooter-”

  “Our Aviation Unit shooters like to say High Altitude Sniper Intervention,” Payne said.

  “Same thing,” Byrth said, nodding, “but we also wind up doing a lot of treetop flying. Anyway, we had Rangers in the brush of the riverbank watching the bad guys on the Mexico side-maybe a hundred yards away-loading bundles of keys aboard a couple of twelve-foot inflatables with outboards. We cannot do anything until they’re on our side, so we let them transfer the bundles to the waiting pickup or van, then either bust the load just down the road or follow it to the delivery. This time we were told to take them sooner rather than later.�
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  He took a sip of his bourbon, then went on: “Once the pickup was loaded, it took the dirt road to the highway. We were up in the bird and caught up to the pickup just as an unmarked DPS unit moved into place ahead of the truck and a marked DPS Tahoe pulled in behind and lit him up. The minute the pickup driver saw the lights, he pulled a hard left, cutting across the grass median, then started hauling ass back in the other direction.

  “We were pacing him with the helo. I was in the open door with my Bushmaster and could see his every move. He knew he was close to getting caught-he frantically kept glancing up at us and in his mirrors-while yelling into his two-way radio and cutting in and out of traffic. He caused two wrecks before making it back to the dirt road leading to the river. Now that he was away from the populated areas, I got the go-ahead to take out his tires. The Bushmaster’s chambered in that heavy 6.8mm SPC. I popped the left tires with a couple three-round bursts, but he just kept running. Ahead we could see the river and the two inflatables waiting just their side of the middle.”

  “They were going to come back and unload the truck?” Payne said.

  Byrth shook his head. “They wouldn’t need to. The pickup raced to a part of the riverbank that was five feet above the water-and sped up, launching into the air.”

  “Splash,” O’Hara said, shaking his head.

  “Splash,” Byrth confirmed.

  “And then it sank?” Payne said.

  “After a few minutes. Meantime the inflatables moved in, the mule climbed out of the truck window, bloodied but okay, and they loaded him aboard. Then, as the pickup sank, the bundles started floating, and they grabbed them and motored back to grand ol’ Meh-hee-ko.”