Wood's Wall

by Steven Becker

  Several minutes later he had reached cruising altitude and gotten acclimated to the plane. It was clear from the air that he’d made the right choice. He turned the plane 180 degrees, heading west, and could see the fire and emergency vehicles struggling to secure the site on the bridge. Traffic was backed up in both directions for miles. The plane was cruising parallel to US1 now, navigation made easy as he followed the overseas highway toward Key West. His problem now was where to land. Key West International, another small airport, did not have a controller at night, but ICE was located there and he wanted nothing to do with customs or immigration. If he approached the airport, he would be picked up on radar. A sea landing off Stock Island was his best option to go in undetected.

  He banked the plane toward the Gulf side and started his descent. Flying low to avoid other craft and radar, he could see the tops of each wave. Finger channels ran north and south, parallel in this area. He selected one and made a reconnaissance run, a quick low-altitude pass before landing, checking for obstructions in the water and small boats not visible from altitude. Then he turned and started his descent. He let his instincts take over, honed from the many times he’d done just this running drugs.

  He slowed the plane and started to descend. Several minutes later, the floats hit water, causing the plane to bounce on a wave before settling into the trough. He backed the engines, slowing the speed further. The plane put out a wake sending several birds from their roosts in the adjacent mangroves. Gradually it slowed and once at a stop, he breathed for the first time in minutes. Now for ground transportation. He took Mel’s phone from a pocket in his coveralls and turned it on. The blinking light on the maps app showed his position. A quick search of the cabin revealed an inflatable raft and two oars, common safety gear in this area. He popped the CO2 cartridge and tossed the inflatable into the dark water. Once the CO2 cartridges had emptied and the raft inflated, he pulled the raft toward him, placing it parallel with the pontoon. Hoping his boots would not puncture the material he grabbed hold of the raft and got in one careful foot at a time. He grabbed the oars and settled into a rhythm, thanking his gods the tide was in his favor.

  ***

  Garcia sat in the parking lot, watching his laptop screen. The FISA warrant allowed access to Mel and Mac’s phones in real time. How Davies had gotten them classified as potential terrorists was beyond him, but not his concern. Mac’s phone, displayed as a green icon, had been moving erratically around Marathon for the last hour. It was now over water, running under the Seven Mile Bridge, showing a speed of 30 knots. The screen lit up with a blue icon near Stock Island, indicating Mel’s phone. This was the first time he had seen her phone on. He zoomed in on the signal, trying to project its course.

  It looked like Travis was heading toward Key West, probably coming by boat, he thought. Must have been stopped by that bridge closure. The girl’s phone looked like it was in the water, moving slowly toward Stock Island.

  39

  Red, white, and blue lights erupted from the top of the police car as it slowed slightly and executed a tight U turn. Jeff’s adrenaline shot a notch higher as he slowed, pulling off the main road onto the gravel shoulder. The officer was out of his car and moving toward them when Jeff opened the door.

  “Freeze.” The officer drew his gun and set his feet in a shooter’s stance. “On the ground, now.”

  “I was only …”

  “I don’t care. On the ground. You two, out of the car, hands first. Lock them behind your head and get on your knees.” The cop leaned his head toward his lapel and spoke into the mike.

  Trufante and Pete complied, the gravel digging into their knees as they waited. Jeff was flat, spread eagle, on the ground. The officer approached and frisked him. Finding no weapons, he ratcheted the cuffs on Jeff’s wrists and applied pressure with his billy club. Jeff winced in pain as he was forced to his feet, his shoulders feeling like they were about to pop out of their socket.

  “Y’all been drinking?”

  “No sir, been wanting one for a while though,” Trufante said revealing his teeth with a wide grin.

  “Your head light is out and your muffler’s dragging. Y’all could start a fire like that.” He walked around the car, inspecting it as he went. “That looks like a burn mark on the passenger side where the tail pipe was dragging. Where’re y’all coming from?”

  Trufante started to answer, but caught a sharp look from the officer. Jeff stared him down, wishing him silent.

  The cop shook his head and approached Jeff. “Well? I’ll need to see some ID — license, registration, insurance.”

  Jeff held up his cuffed hands with a shrug. “License is in my back pocket. Registration and insurance are in the glove box. We were coming down from Big Pine. Looking for a little party action.”

  The officer pulled Jeff’s wallet from his pocket and extracted the license. He went to the glove compartment and started sorting through the stack of paper. Registration and insurance in hand, he told the men to wait where they were and went back to his car.

  Their knees were numb from kneeling when he came back.

  “Seems like I need to take you in. I’m thinking you started that fire on Bahia Honda. That got a ring of truth to it?” “It was an accident,” Pete said. “We weren’t even sure it was us until we saw the tail pipe just now. Felt like something hit the car.”

  “Whatever. In the car — backseat, all three of you. I have orders to take you in.”

  “We didn’t do anything,” Jeff said.

  “You ‘bout blew that bridge off its pilings. Accident or not, we’ll figure that out at the station. There’s all kinds of Feds waiting to talk to someone. Might as well be you.”

  He shined his flashlight in the back windows after the men were locked in the back of his car. The backpack with the lead ball was sitting on the seat. He reached in and grabbed it.

  ***

  The station was bustling with activity when the officer escorted the three men through the door and started the booking process. Garcia lounged by the coffee machine, soaking it all in. He’d heard about the explosion in Bahia Honda when he landed and, not believing in coincidences, had driven directly to the police station to check it out. There were agents in every corner, talking to their bosses on cell phones. The media were massing at the entrance, testing their theories on each other, hoping theirs would be the one that would stick. Two hours after the explosion it was the lead story on every cable channel. He sat back, just watching the incompetent wheels of government bureaucracy spin. The phone vibrated in his pocket. The agent that picked him up had followed through and sent him the pictures he’d asked for. He scanned through them, committing to memory any identifying marks. He laughed out loud when he saw Trufante’s picture. The smile left his face when he looked up and saw the same man being escorted in.

  He approached the booking desk, eavesdropping on the conversation as he got closer. Before the officer could lead them to be fingerprinted, he presented his ID to the officer.

  “Mind if I have a word with this one?” He pointed to Trufante. “Homeland has him red flagged.”

  “No problem. I can set you up in a room over here.” He led the party down the hall, opened the door, and let Garcia and Trufante in. “I’ll be back for him. Let me process these two and I’ll come back. Just don’t leave him alone until I return.”

  Garcia signaled Trufante to the far chair and pulled out his own chair, across the table from him.

  “You want to tell me what’s going on here?” he asked. This was his usual opening line when he didn’t know anything. Let them spill whatever they would. Quiet was often the best interrogation tool. He’d put the pieces together as it went.

  “Crap, man, I could use a beer and a pain pill. Goddamn finger’s throbbing like a gut hooked fish.”

  “Sorry, bud, can’t help you there. Why don’t you help me out? Tell me your story and I’ll get you a Coke or something.”

  “I got a story’ll get me a s
hot of rum in that Coke.”

  Trufante held the stump up for Dougherty to examine. “This son of a bitch chopped off the tip of my finger in a bait grinder.”

  “You’re a big help. What about the explosion at Bahia Honda?” Garcia looked down at the printout in front of him. “This is a pretty thick file for someones who’s never been in real trouble. Seems you just wind up in the wrong place at the wrong time.” He thumbed through the printouts.

  “Amen, brother. Yeah, about the blowup - we were just passing through …”

  Garcia cut him off, “Maybe you give me something to work with, I’ll get you a doctor. I’m sure he’ll give you something for that.”

  “Hell, yeah. Deal man.”

  Garcia starred at the stump as Trufante was finishing his story. “So, that’s it? You guys found a bunch of coke and instead of turning it in, or just leaving it floating out there, you had to go try and get rich off it?”

  “Something like that, but I didn’t find it or decide to keep it. I just helped those dudes broker it. You know, trying to help them out. There’s something else you ought to know about.” He relayed the story of the box.

  Garcia starred at him.

  “What about the doc?”

  “I’ll see what I can do about that.”

  As Garcia was leaving Trufante called out, “They brought a backpack in with us. We’re going to need that.”

  ***

  Cesar walked the last half mile from the harbor to his house as dawn was breaking. He stripped off the jumpsuit, wet with sweat. The temperature was a balmy 80, humidity in the 90’s. He reached in his pocket for the house key. Realizing it had been left on the plane, he jimmied the back door with the screwdriver in his pocket. Once inside he headed upstairs for a quick shower.

  Turned all the way to cold, which was actually tepid in the subtropical environment, water washed the grime off but did nothing for the fatigue. The last few days had left a trail of dead bodies and lost opportunity. He dismissed these, though, and focused on the gold pieces he’d taken from the gringo’s safe. He looked at the pattern intricately tattooed on his arms. The symbol came up at least a dozen times, a sea serpent snaking through the elaborate patterns. The tattoos were a deliberate pattern, not unlike the simpler gang ink, but more complex. The members of his cartel could all trace their lineages directly from Chontal Mayan ancestors. This was the first requirement of the cartel — a blood line unblemished by the Spaniards. This earned the first in a series of tattoos. The rest had to be earned as he’d climbed from poverty to the top tier. It was said that the patterns held secrets that would be revealed to the wearer in time, but he had yet to be enlightened.

  He finished in the shower, dried off, and dressed. In the kitchen he opened a Coke and picked up his phone. Diego answered on the first ring, eager for an update. Once Cesar assured him the call was being made from a burner phone, the details of the last few days were revealed.

  “So, you are waiting to make the exchange?”

  “Si, jefe. Should be any time now. I have a concern, though, about where the sand heads are going to set the bomb off. Even if they took it to Miami, that would be bad for business.”

  “Listen to me, Cesar. Those guys couldn’t light a cigarette with a blow torch. The chances of them doing any kind of damage are minimal. Key West is pretty much played out as an import point. Let them blow that piece of coral to their heaven. I am thinking of Louisiana. We find someone that knows that bayou country, no one will catch us. That is our concern. Let the US government put all their assets around the Keys. We’ll be long gone.”

  “Brilliant, as usual. I knew you had thought this through. It happens I have just the man to show us the ropes in Louisiana.”

  “Excellent, Cesar. Finish this transaction.”

  40

  Heather came out of the cabin, shaking her hair, and rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

  “How long have I been out?”

  “Couple of hours. I cut the speed down to fifteen knots to save fuel. Running any faster, we would have run out.”

  “You want me to take the wheel for a while so you can get some rest? You look like you need it.”

  “No, I’m good. We’re almost there anyway.” He looked down at the chart plotter, which showed their position as they moved through the channels leading to Key West. He rubbed his neck muscles. “Why don’t you get that computer of yours set up and see where my phone is.”

  She went below and emerged a few minutes later. “I can’t get a signal on it. We need to get closer.”

  “Fifteen, twenty minutes we’ll be in the harbor. I’m sure we can hijack a Wi-Fi signal from one of the resorts there.”

  They sat back in silence, watching the mangroves lining the channels slide by. Soon the tops of sailboat masts were visible. It took another five minutes running at idle in the protected harbor before Heather yelled up that she had a signal.

  She brought the laptop to the console to show him. “It’s here on the island. Give me a minute and I’ll transpose the coordinates onto a map.” He watched from the corner of his eye as she manipulated screens. “You’re not going to believe this. It’s at the police station.”

  “Led by the King of the Idiots, how else was this going to go?”

  “It’s not all bad. They call me down there from time to time. I can walk in there and probably get it back for you.”

  “Thanks, but that doesn’t help. We need them to take it to the exchange so we can follow.”

  “Let me go in and see what’s going on, anyway. It wouldn’t hurt to have some more information.”

  “As long as you keep this between us. All I want is to get the girls back.”

  “Yeah, me too. I’m with you.”

  “There’s a dock over there. Bound to be a bicycle that’s unlocked. Can you find the station from there?”

  “Like a rooster can find a hen house. Probably take me an hour to get there, see what’s going on and get back here.”

  “Take the number off this burner phone. Call me when you’re ten minutes out and I’ll come get you.”

  ***

  Patel stood on the balcony of Ibrahim’s house, his clothes clinging to his body as he dialed the phone. He would have preferred the AC of the room, but was always cautious about bugs and chose the humidity instead. Davies was not picking up, though and he was getting impatient. Ibrahim was waiting downstairs.

  He put the phone in his pocket and went back inside, wondering where Davies was. He needed confirmation the President would be here. Ibrahim was in the kitchen when he entered, “Have you heard from the drug dealer?”

  “Not yet.” Ibrahim sat at the table staring at the cell phone, willing it to ring.

  “Go there. I don’t trust him.”

  Ibrahim got up slowly, clearly in pain. He turned away from Patel, reached in his pocket for the bottle and took three pills. Before he left, he stopped at a desk and unclipped a gun from a hidden holster. “I’ll keep you updated.”

  The phone rang as Ibrahim was on his way out the door and Patel looked down at the screen for the caller ID. But the burner phone was an old-style flip phone. He picked it up and flipped it open. “Yes?”

  “Garcia called. Seems Travis is missing, maybe dead. He’s at the Key West police station. He told me there is a BOLO out for him.” He paused, “There’s something else going on, though. It seems that a cohort of his has his cell phone. He’s being held at the police station in Key West.” Davies said.

  “That is all you have?”

  “What else do you want from me? I set up the meeting. I had my man track Travis.” Davies said.

  “I want you to call your man and find out what he knows about this man they have in custody. He could have something important.” Patel didn’t like all the moving parts going on here.

  “What is this about? So I took some diamonds from a friend of yours as a payment for a very discreet favor, years ago. That doesn’t mean I do everything you say. There
’s something wrong here, and I intend to find out what it is.”

  “I would recommend you think carefully about how you proceed. It may have been a long time ago, but I don’t think your associates will be as forgiving as you think.”

  Several seconds of silence followed. “All right. I’ll find out what you want. Then we’re done.”

  “As long as the president shows up for his speech, I will release you.”

  ***

  Davies hung up and took a deep breath. The doctors had told him to avoid stress, alcohol, and everything else life had to offer. Well, he had the stress, screw it, throw in some alcohol too. He went to the decanter and poured an inch into the tumbler. He paused and added another.

  Then he dialed again. “Can you go someplace we can talk?”

  “Go ahead.” Garcia answered a minute later.

  Davies paused, trying to figure out what Patel’s angle in this was. “Is there one that could be the leader?”

  “There’s this Cajun guy, named Alan Trufante. He’s in an interview room now.”

  “Can you get him released and keep an eye on him? I’ve got it on good authority that there’s something bigger than the coke deal going on here.”

  “I’m not sure I can do that. I don’t have jurisdiction here.” He thought for a minute. “There is a way that might work. I can name him as a confidential informant who will only talk to me. I can probably just walk him out of here. There’s so much confusion about the explosion that they won’t really check. The thing is, I can’t let him just go loose. If you want to find out what’s going on I can put a wire on him. Let him go do whatever deal he has planned.”

  “That’ll work.” Davies drank half the tumbler. He sat back down and pulled a legal pad from his drawer. It took a while, but he laid out the entire history of what had happened since he had met Patel. He listed all the favors he’d been asked to do over the years, and placed them in a timeline. He went to his computer and pulled up a chronological sequence of terrorist activity since 1992, when he’d taken the diamonds. He was angered, but not surprised to see the connection.