Operation Due Diligence

by Owen Parr

“Gee, thank you, I enjoyed it. They were all very nice people,” she replied.

  “You know, the media was here. Do you know what that means?” He said, enjoying Jackie’s bathing outfit that consisted of a string bikini bottom only worn for decoration only.

  Smiling, she replied, “No, what?”

  “Well, you are now my official squeeze according to the social press,” he said.

  “I enjoy being your official squeeze,” she said, sitting up on her lounge chair and looking at him.

  He took a slow sip of his Coke and looked at her beautiful enhanced breasts. “That has some responsibilities, though. Are you ready for that?” He asked.

  “I think so. I really appreciate the trust you have placed upon me, and I am not going to let you down,” she replied, as she applied suntan lotion on her chest and breasts in a slow and rhythmic fashion to tantalize him.

  “You are one of a handful of people that know most of everything about my two lives, and that makes you very special,” he said, watching her applying the lotion.

  “Does that make you feel uncomfortable?” She asked, drying her hands on a towel.

  “No, I can take care of the people whom I entrust with my life,” he said. “I do my homework on all of them.”

  “Uh-oh, should I ask what you found out?” She said, as she sipped on a mojito and lit a cigarette.

  “Well, I know you are a widow,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

  Jackie sat up in her chair and took a deep drag on her cigarette.

  Rick continued, “You and your husband were both contract pilots for a Mexican cartel boss. In 1995, you and your husband crashed your plane in the jungle on the way to Laredo from ciudad Mier. The crash remains a mystery, and the content of the cargo—cocaine —supposedly all burned in the crash. How am I doing so far?” He asked as he lit a Cohiba with a powerful torch lighter.

  “You, in fact, have done homework,” she said misty-eyed. “We took off from a field in Mier, headed to Nuevo Laredo, as you said. Within minutes, the engine began sputtering. We were a bit low still, right above the tree line, so Bob, my husband, attempted to gain altitude in order to find a place to land. That’s when we went into a stall. Between the two of us, we had probably practiced power-on and power-off stalls hundreds times, but we were just too low. We crashed into some tall trees, and Bob absorbed the biggest hit on his side of the plane.”

  “Besides the cocaine, you were transporting three million dollars in uncut diamonds for delivery to the cartel bosses in Laredo. The diamonds were never found,” he said. “Fill me in, are you a very rich widow?” he asked, opening his eyes wide.

  “Wow! That was a very tragic episode in my life. I had no time to do anything other than to pull Bob out as the plane became engulfed in flames. Within minutes fully armed Mexicans, who were not friendly or hospitable, surrounded us,” she said, skirting a direct answer about the diamonds.

  “So what happened?” He asked, pulling off his sunglasses.

  “I told them in Spanish that we were working for the Jimenez Cartel. They seemed to know that somehow. Frankly, I thought they were going to finish Bob off, then rape and kill me afterward. Further, I told them there was a shipment of cocaine on board that I was flying to Laredo. If they could help me and Bob get out of the jungle—Bob was unable to walk, so I was going to have to carry him—they could take whatever cocaine they could salvage for themselves. They said no. They would salvage as much as they could but would not keep it. They seemed horrified at the thought of taking cocaine from Jimenez. So,” she said, stopping to take another sip of her mojito and a drag of her cigarette, “some went to salvage whatever cocaine was left, and others made a stretcher for Bob who was now unconscious. The plane exploded as they were performing their salvage work. Some got really hurt. Their boss told a few of the men to take us to a camp they had a few miles from the crash site. The others remained behind to tend to their wounded and the cocaine. Their boss told me they would save whatever cocaine was recovered, if any, and would make sure Jimenez’s men would get it. I just wanted out of there. I was worried Bob was not going to make it.”

  “Were you hurt?” He asked, paying full attention to her story.

  “I was, but I could walk, and I had nothing broken. I felt dizzy, probably from a mild concussion. Anyway, we made it to the camp,” she said, putting her head down. “I did not realize it, but Bob passed away on the way there. He had lost a lot of blood and was in shock. They gave me a jeep, and I drove with Bob’s body to the Laredo border. I had a pouch strapped around my shoulders with our passports, so I had identification for both of us. I told the U.S. Border Patrol that our plane had crashed and some locals had assisted us and had given us the jeep,” she said, as she covered herself with a large towel.

  “That was quite an ordeal. The fact you are here and the cartel cleared you when we inquired about you tells me they believed your story,” he said.

  “Believe my story?” She said, somewhat peeved “The Jimenez Cartel knows those men that helped us. They know what happened. I am sure they told them.”

  “Those men were executed by Jimenez,” he said.

  “Why?” She asked, in surprise.

  “No cocaine was found, and, more importantly, no diamonds were found in the wreckage of the plane,” he replied. “How big was your pouch where you had your passports?” He asked, as he opened another can of Coke.

  She looked up at him. “Rick, you have to believe me. I did not recover the diamonds. I was trying to save Bob’s life and mine, for that matter. The last thing I was worried about was the diamonds. You think Jimenez would let me walk if he thought I had the diamonds? Really?”

  “No, I suppose you are right. I have no reason to doubt you. Somehow, I was hoping the pouch was big enough so that the end of the tragic episode, as you said, was not a total loss,” he said, warmly, grabbing both her hands with his.

  She cracked a miniscule smile. “Some are,” she said. “Now, I have a few questions for you.”

  “I have to be careful. Anything I say can and will be used against me,” he said.

  He got up, walked towards her and slowly pulled at her towel covering her bountiful breasts. “Let’s jump in the pool. The sun is hot.” He grabbed her waist and gently pushed her into the pool jumping in after her. As they both emerged from the water, he toyed with her a bit while pulling her towards him.

  “I have questions,” she said.

  “What are they?” He replied.

  “How did you get your information on me?” She asked.

  “The DI, Dirección General de Inteligencia, Cuba’s famous intelligence service. They provided a file as thick as a book on you and your late husband before I hired you.”

  “Ugh,” she snorted, as she pushed water over her face with her hands.

  “What else do you want to know?” He was guilt-ridden for insisting that she her retell the story of her husband’s demise and her horrific experience that day. A story he knew with full details.

  “Big one. You came over as a youngster, grew up in the states, went to school here, yet you end up associating yourself and partnering with the Cuban government. What’s that about?” she asked.

  “I may have to marry you,” he said.

  “That’s an interesting thought. Why?” she said.

  “So you can’t testify against me. Is that your plan, young lady?” He asked, laughing.

  “Which plan? The one I testify against you, or the one where you have to marry me to prevent me from testifying?” she said, laughing.

  “Very funny. Look, if anyone is proof that the capitalistic system that we have in the U.S. works, I am the poster boy for it,” he said. “The thing is, my dad was in Fidel’s inner circle at the start of the revolution. He believed in the mission. When I visited with him in Cuba prior to his death, he spoke about his allegiance to Fidel and always told me I had to be part of the future of Cuba within Fidel’s world. He died protecting Fidel, fighting off an attempt in
the seventies to kill Fidel while he was scuba diving south of Havana. From that point forward, Fidel has been my benefactor. Everything I have, including my college education, is a result of his doing. He has looked after me as a son. So, you see, I am part of his world, and my allegiance to him is an extension of my father’s allegiance to him.”

  “Just how did you get started in business?” She asked.

  He got out of the pool and grabbed a towel for her, wrapping it around her shoulders as she walked out of the pool herself.

  “Lunch is served. Let’s talk over here,” he said, pointing to a poolside table with an umbrella overlooking the bay.

  He was having second thoughts about being so candid with her. He smiled, knowing that she could not be wired. ‘No, not wearing this outfit,’ he thought to himself. His ace in the hole, he knew, was a call to the Jimenez Cartel about her and the diamonds. They would eliminate any concerns he might have about her, if need be.

  He sat under the umbrella and proceeded, “Under the directions of General Garces, third in command, I opened MonteCarlo Industries as a holding company for the merger and acquisition of businesses we were interested in. The first acquisition we made was a small chain of Cuban restaurants, which we later expanded into quite a few restaurants with different names.”

  “Let me guess, restaurants are a cash business and ideal money laundering opportunities,” she added.

  “Quite correct,” he said. “From there, we acquired a construction company during the real estate boom, and we built a considerable number of units, both condos and homes in the Miami-Dade and Broward county areas. We did a bunch of condo conversions when it was profitable to do so.”

  As he opened his fourth Coke of the day to accompany his club sandwich and chips, he continued, “At that point we went national with the acquisition of a company called Allumiglass. This company, that we still own, does the aluminum and glass facades for high-rise buildings, both residential and commercial all over the U.S. Our biggest projects have been in New York City. Carga Latina, your old employer before you became my new ‘squeeze,’ was a natural for us. It provides the freedom to move cargo, any cargo, around the world and for us to move Cuban intelligence operatives at a moment’s notice.”

  “How do you select the companies? Is Fidel involved?” She inquired.

  “It’s my call. I did go to Harvard, after all,” he said, laughing. He got a kick at seeing her almost choke on her club sandwich, when he said that. “Drink your mojito, or I may have to perform the Heimlich maneuver.”

  “We can do that later,” she said, taking a sip of her mojito and winking. “Go on.”

  “I don’t have time to go over them all, but one acquisition I enjoy having is Five Star Cruises. I think it is one of the most exclusive cruise lines around the world catering to high rollers and players of all types. We own a private island in the Caribbean and bring in young ladies and boys from Cuba to host our passengers during their stay on the island. It is one of our most coveted destinations, if you know what I mean,” he said.

  “A cruise for perverts. Of course, it would be a favorite destination,” she said, laughing.

  “We just provide the opportunities for those so inclined. Gambling, drinking, drugs, and sex, a perfect way to relax and enjoy your time away from the daily grind.”

  “Sounds like the perfect marketing jingle. Have you been on these cruises?”

  “I pride myself on quality control, my dear. So, of course, I have. We can go on one after the IPO.”

  “I may want to go by myself. I wouldn’t want to be inhibited by you being there.”

  “Quite the contrary, I would enjoy seeing you and me mixing it up with the young girls and boys in our presidential suite. Wouldn’t you?”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  MIAMI, FLORIDA

  Alex was back in Miami. He owned a condo on Brickell Avenue, a few blocks from downtown. He had bought this condominium years ago as an investment property at a time in Miami’s real estate market when the developer was giving away a car, a Volkswagen Beetle, with the purchase of a unit. Miami, just like many other major cities, had its good and bad days in real estate development, and each city had its own reasons for a decline. Here, it had been the outflow of Latin American money that had devastated the market. Venezuelans and others began divesting themselves of property and other investments, seemingly all at the same time. It created havoc with the developers who had overbuilt and were undercapitalized. Alex had intended to rent out his unit, but his many trips found him coming to Miami more often than not. So, he kept it empty and used it when he was in town.

  His wife had passed away four years earlier from a coronary infarction. It was about the time she had found out about his affair with Julia. Although these were not directly linked, he always had doubts. From that point forward, Alicia had grown weaker and weaker until the day she had passed away in her sleep next to him. Waking up next to her had devastated him. He wept openly, knowing that his love for her had been very real. Like a movie in slow motion, all the memories they had shared from high school on came back to him, reminding him of his deep feelings for her.

  Alicia’s death had been the catalyst for the breakup with Julia. It was a mutual understanding. There had been no words. He loved Julia with all his heart. She had refused to break up his marriage, and it was something he always appreciated about her. Their six years together had cemented a relationship he had never enjoyed with his wife. He knew on that day he had lost both of them.

  The phone rang in his condo.

  “Mr. Cardenas, there is a Mr. Gonzalo Fonseca to see you, sir,” said the attendant at the front desk.

  “Let him come up,” he said.

  Gonzalo ‘Gordo’ Fonseca was a CIA operative with whom he had been on numerous covert operations around the world throughout the years. Gordo was like a brother. He had confided every detail of his otherwise private life to him.

  Alex got up to open the door before Gordo had even reached it. Going to the kitchen, he fetched two cold Stella beers from the refrigerator.

  “Alex, okay to come in?” Gordo called from the open door.

  “Mi casa es tu casa. I’ve got two cold ones here, my man,” he said, as he walked out of the kitchen. “Gordo, you’ve gained more weight since I last saw you, brother.” Alex embraced him as he said this, and they kissed each other on the cheek.

  “The hell with you, man. You saw me just two weeks ago in Venezuela,” said Gordo.

  “And you’ve gained weight since then. How much do you weigh?” He asked, smiling and showing Gordo to the couch.

  “I don’t know, about two-seventy-five, I guess,” said Gordo. “A sedentary life behind a desk will do it every time.”

  “Yeah, and black beans and rice will do it, also, you know,” Alex responded.

  “I can’t eat all that green stuff you eat, man. Maybe I should, but I would have to add salt to it,” said Gordo.

  “That kind of defeats the purpose.”

  Alex walked over to him with his beer in one hand. An old picture of them together wearing fatigue pants, boots, and no tops with only a towel wrapped around their necks sat on a small table beside Gordo.

  “Man, I remember that day. We had finished some brutal exercises, and you were just back from a mission in Cuba. What year was that, 1974?” Gordo asked.

  “No, 1975,” he said.

  “Are you sure?” Gordo asked.

  “It was the same year that a Senate Committee headed by Senator Frank Church issued a report about the CIA’s alleged assassination plots against foreign leaders. How can I forget?” He replied.

  “Shit, you are right. There you were. Fresh from an attempt on Fidel’s life a few weeks earlier,” Gordo said.

  “The somewhat known ‘Conch Shell Operation’ was concocted by the CIA’s Technical Service Division, informally known as the ‘workshop.’ Wish you had been there on that one, buddy. We came very close didn’t we?” He said.

  �
�I never got all the details. Someone did die as a result, no?” Gordo asked.

  “It’s such a small world. General Jaime Ramirez did. Ramirez was the father of Rick Ramirez of MonteCarlo Industries,” he said.

  “Get out of here. Are you fucking kidding me?” Gordo said.

  “The CIA had circulated the rumors that an old Spanish ship, dating back to the early nineteen hundreds during the Spanish-American War had sunk just off Cayo Piedra, south of Havana,” he said.

  “I know, Fidel’s luxurious hideaway,” Gordo said.

  “Well, Fidel loves to scuba dive, and we knew if we could pique his curiosity enough that he would go on a search. We put out enough information in the right circles, including map coordinates, so he could easily find the location we wanted him to go to,” Alex said, as he got up to fetch two more cold ones.

  “Let me pee while you get the beers. Can I smoke in here?” Gordo asked.

  “No, maricón, you know better than that,” he said.

  “You are such an old lady. Go on with the story,” Gordo said.

  They sat back down, each with a new cold Stella.

  “Our sources told us that Fidel was planning a scuba trip to locate the old Spanish ship on a Wednesday. Anyway, on Tuesday we boarded a small cargo ship with a bunch of bicycles and furniture, as if headed to Haiti. Jesus Lionel and Oscar Menendez, both CIA ops, and SEAL Team Four,” he said.

  “Jesus and Oscar were there? I didn’t know that,” Gordo said.

  “Can I finish the effen story? The SEAL team was there to help us. They didn’t want them too close to Cayo Piedra. Jesus, Oscar, and myself were to plant the underwater explosives. If caught or killed, the news report would be ‘Three Cubans failed in an attempt to assassinate Fidel Castro.’

  “We offloaded the cargo ship about three miles offshore at night. The SEALs took us in inflatable Zodiacs to about a mile from the location for the explosives. The three of us swam underwater the rest of the way. We planted three underwater explosives, dug them in and placed three beautiful hand-painted green and blue conch shells over the triggers. The conch shells were sure to attract the attention of Fidel’s scuba party—enough so that they would surely pick one up and boom. Goodbye Fidel,” he said, raising his beer bottle as if to cheer.