Operation Due Diligence

by Owen Parr

  “Ramirez bought it? Where was Fidel?” Gordo asked.

  “Yeah, the next morning, as Fidel and his party went out, we had it from a good inside source that everything went according to plan. Thirty minutes into the dive, they found the immediate location, and boom, an explosion goes off. Ramirez Sr. had found one of the conch shells, picked it up, and set off the explosive. All Fidel got was a mild concussion. He was not near Ramirez when the explosive went off,” he said.

  “Coño, brother, that guy is indestructible,” Gordo said.

  “I know. I know,” he said. “So, other than free beers, what brings you here?”

  “We are going back to Venezuela,” he said.

  “When?” He asked.

  “We’ve got to finish what we started before the elections in July,” Gordo said.

  “There’s no stopping Chavez after he changed the constitution and kicked everybody he didn’t want out of the government,” Alex said.

  “We have a job to do. I am headed back tomorrow. When can I expect you?” Gordo asked.

  “I can be there in a week. I have to finish with the Cuban Council here first,” he said.

  “Tell me something. How did Julia Muller win that election for President of the Cuban Council?” Gordo asked.

  “By winning the votes of the executive committee. Why?” He replied, a little perturbed.

  “Are we back with Julia?” Gordo asked.

  “That ended four years ago,” he said, seriously.

  “Brother, it’s me. Okay? So, it ended four years ago. Are we back on?” Gordo asked again.

  “I don’t know. My heart has never wavered. But, I respect her wishes and her decision, albeit foolish, to stay married to that asshole,” he replied in a soft voice. “Man, the six years we had were incredible. It was like we were one person. Such an easy relationship. How can fate be so screwed up? Why couldn’t we have met at another time?”

  “Well, I’m not qualified to answer those deep questions—way above my pay grade,” Gordo said.

  “I didn’t think you would be. They are mostly rhetorical,” he said, as his eyes moistened with tears of regret. “I’ve always wondered if Alicia’s final heart attack was a result of the stress I created with the affair with Julia. Waking up next to Alicia the morning she passed devastated me,” he said weeping openly. “It was like a movie in slow motion, Gordo. All the memories from high school came back to me.

  “You can’t keep doing this to yourself,” Gordo said. “You need to move on with your life. We are not going to be in the CIA forever. You need to find a companion and settle down. Move to the Keys. Become a resident of the Conch Republic. Maybe, write a book.”

  “To the Keys? Maybe, we can be a Conch couple, you bitch,” he said, between tears and weak laughter. “Now, get the hell out of here. I’ll see you in Venezuela in a week. Start those disruptions before the elections on schedule. Okay?”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  MIAMI, FLORIDA

  Julia arrived in Miami a little after nine in the morning on American Airlines Flight 415 that originated from Chicago’s O’Hare Airport. She located her limo driver, retrieved her luggage, and instructed the driver to take her directly to MonteCarlo’s corporate office in downtown Miami to meet with Ramirez.

  The driver was told to drop her off at Ramirez’s office and then continue across the street to the Intercontinental Hotel to drop off her luggage. Her bags would be taken to the suite that had been booked for her by the council.

  She took the elevator to the penthouse floor where MonteCarlo’s World Headquarters was located.

  “Hi, good morning. My name is Julia Muller. I am here to see Mr. Ramirez,” she told the receptionist.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Muller. Mr. Ramirez is waiting for you. May I get you some coffee? Perhaps, a Cuban coffee?” The receptionist asked.

  “Cuban coffee would be great, and a glass of water, too, please,” she replied.

  “Of course, please, follow me,” said the receptionist, getting up from behind her desk and motioning to Julia to follow her.

  They walked into Ramirez’s sprawling office with a hundred and eighty degree view of Miami, Biscayne Bay, Miami Beach, and the blue waters of the Atlantic Ocean just beyond.

  “Julia, how good to see you,” said Ramirez, as he got up from behind his desk. He greeted her with a kiss and asked, “What can we get you?”

  “I’ve got Cuban coffee on the way,” she said, looking at the young lady who had escorted her to his office.

  “Excellent, make that two, Josie, please,” said Ramirez.

  “Yes, Mr. Ramirez,” said Josie.

  “Let’s have a seat here,” he said, pointing to a sectional sofa at one end of the office. “How was your flight?”

  “Uneventful, which is always good, I guess,” she said, as she looked into the horizon. “It’s an incredible view from up here.”

  “I know. On a clear day you can almost see Bimini. Did Jonathan come down with you?” he asked.

  “He’s flying down around noon. He had surgery to perform this morning,” she said.

  “You’ve got a busy day today, don’t you?” he asked.

  “Indeed, I guess you know about the Cuban Council appointment,” she said.

  “Oh, I know everything that goes on in Miami, and I’ll be there tonight for your installation,” he said. “What an honor for you and what a great selection by the board.”

  “Thank you. I am excited but unsure what I am getting myself into,” she said.

  “It’s a great cause, and you’ll do great. Once you get rolling, I’ll introduce you to Mark Silver. He runs our lobbying firm in D.C. Mark was Assistant Secretary of State under President Carter. Both Jimmy and Mark are good friends,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I’ve had Jimmy to my place in Miami Beach a number of times. He’s become a good friend and counsel.”

  “That sounds great. I forgot you owned a lobbying firm as part of MonteCarlo,” she said, ignoring the reference to Jimmy Carter.

  “Lobbyists, political contributions, fundraisers are ways to grease the wheels. You know that,” he said.

  “Oh, I know. Believe me,” she replied.

  Josie brought in the Cuban coffees with two glasses of water and set them on the table between them.

  “Thank you, Josie,” she said.

  “My pleasure, Mrs. Muller. Let me know if you need anything else,” said Josie, as she walked out of Ramirez’s office and closed the door.

  “I am going to have Andy, my partner, accompany you to Paris if it’s okay with you,” she said.

  “Andy is great. I am fine with that,” he replied. “To be honest, I would have preferred your company in the ‘City of Lights’, but I understand your tight schedule. No problem.”

  “All right, let’s look at some numbers. As much as I had wanted MonteCarlo to be the largest IPO ever, this year is turning out to be quite a good one for IPOs,” she said, handing him a file folder. “Take a look. AT&T wireless just priced three hundred and sixty million shares at twenty-nine dollars and fifty cents. That works out to over ten billion dollars. Nuance Communications priced four point five million shares at seventeen dollars. The dot coms have not done so well this year. However, what is referred to as the ‘old economy’—these firms are having a rebirth this year. For example, Krispy Kreme sold three million shares at twenty-one dollars and surged over fifty percent after the IPO. This tells me they underpriced that doughnut,” she said, laughing.

  He laughed and asked, “How can that be a growth company? Doughnuts?”

  “Well, Starbucks went public in 1992 at seventeen dollars. It’s been a great success story. I can only think Krispy Kreme is planning on following that model. Let’s look at one more, and then we can talk about MonteCarlo. Back on the ‘old economy’ companies which is what MII is going to be. Metlife raised almost three billion dollars pricing a little over two hundred million shares at fourteen dollars and twenty five cents,” she said.


  “So, Mrs. Investment Banker of MII, MonteCarlo Industries, Inc. What is your best advice as to our initial public offering price?” He said, tapping his fingers on the table and doing a drum roll.

  “Based on your revenues, potential acquisitions with the capital raised, the fact MII is going to pay a three percent dividend right off the get-go, and after careful consultation with the members of the syndicate, we feel we can price three hundred million to three hundred and fifty million shares of MII at between twenty and twenty-five dollars. The low on that is six billion dollars, the high is eight point seventy-five billion dollars,” she said, sitting back and looking at Ramirez with a smile.

  “Wow, I love the high estimate on that,” he said, also sitting back and crossing his legs.

  “And that’s achievable. We just have to see. The indications have been very strong,” she said.

  “Great, great, great. Maybe the international tranche will get us there. I‘ll make sure to do a good dog and pony show in Paris,”

  “I am sure you will,” she said.

  “Next question. When?” He asked.

  “I think two weeks tops. Once I get back and meet with the other syndicate members, we’ll ascertain a more precise date. Sound good?” She asked.

  “Sí, yes, and oui,” he said.

  “Good. I’ll be on my way. Andy will contact you for the final details of the Paris trip,” she said.

  Julia got up as Ramirez did. They embraced warmly and kissed each other on the cheek.

  “Thank you again, Julia. I’ll see you tonight,” he said, as he walked her out of the office.

  ****

  American Airlines Flight 742 arrived in Miami at one-fifteen in the afternoon direct from Chicago’s O’Hare Airport.

  Sitting in 4A in the first-class section was Dr. Jonathan Muller and in the seat next to him, 4B, was Katherine Adams. A past patient and his current mistress.

  “Kate, I’ll rent a car as soon as we arrive, and then I’ll drive to your hotel,” he said, grabbing her hand.

  “Am I going to get to see you at all, or are you going to stick me in a hotel room and forget I am here?” she asked.

  “My darling, how can I forget you are here? I have the installation dinner tonight, but I am free all day tomorrow for some fun in the sun,” he said.

  “Fine, but I am not going to sit in the sun all day. It’s not good for my skin,” she said, as she closed the tray table in front of her to prepare for landing.

  “Trust me, I have better plans for us than to sit in the sun and bake all day. Yeah, we’ll raise the temperature, but we will be fully air conditioned,” he replied.

  The plane landed, and the passengers disembarked. Jonathan, with Katherine in tow, walked briskly through the American Airlines terminal to the Avis counter where he had reserved a Mustang convertible.

  “The beauty of carry-on luggage. Let’s get out of here,” he said, as they got in the red Mustang convertible, and he lowered the top under the blue sky of Miami.

  “Where am I staying?” She asked.

  “I’ve gotten you an oceanfront room at the Marriott South Beach Hotel. It’s almost at the end of South Beach on Fourth Street across from some of the trendiest restaurants in the area. You’ll love it,” he said.

  “Are you going to drop me off and run?” She asked.

  “No, I have better plans for us. If the online picture of the room is correct, there is a great big glass window facing the Atlantic Ocean. If you allow me, I will remove all your clothing slowly, while you are gazing at the ocean with your hands high on the glass. From behind you, I will begin caressing your hair, your breasts, your back, your, you know what, slowly and rhythmically. Once I get to your hips, I’ll have you bend forward, and then I’ll enter your forbidden zone and we’ll make love until you cry uncle,” he said. “What do you say to that?”

  “I think I need a cigarette right now,” she said, laughing. “Step on the gas, please.”

  The red Mustang headed east on MacArthur Causeway in the direction of South Beach. The causeway connected the city of Miami with Miami Beach. It had water on both sides of the road. To their right was Government Cut, where cruise ships lined the port. To their left were guarded residential islands. One of which was home to Rick Ramirez.

  “Look back at the Miami skyline. Isn’t that beautiful how the water reflects those beautiful downtown buildings?” He asked, as he looked through the rearview mirror.

  “It is beautiful. Are we there yet?” She asked.

  “Patience, Kate, only a few more minutes,” he said, stepping on the gas pedal.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  MIAMI, FLORIDA

  INTERCONTINENTAL HOTEL

  The council had worked diligently getting the word out about the installation dinner, and the ballroom at the hotel was filled with the Cuban Council members, local politicians, Cuban Americans from all walks of life, and local and national press in attendance. Both U.S. Senators of Florida and a few U.S. Congressmen were there, also. The President had been invited, but he was unable to attend. Instead Vice President Gore, who was in the middle of his campaign for president within a few months before the election, did not waste any time accepting his invitation to attend. Republican presidential nominee George W. Bush had planned to attend, but because of the short notice, a conflict in timing had arisen at the last minute. ‘W.’ sent his wife, Mrs. Laura Bush, to the installation dinner in his place. As expected, the ballroom was crawling with Secret Service personnel. Jonathan Muller had found his way to the table of Rick Ramirez and had joined him for the dinner.

  Julia was seated at a raised dais which faced the gathering. Together at the table were Alex and the other nine members of the Council Executive Committee.

  “Quite a group you’ve gathered here,” she said to Alex, who was seated to her left.

  “After all these years of exile, what we are achieving here is historic,” he said. “Everyone wants to be here.”

  Enrique Esteban, chairman of the Executive Committee, took the gavel and pounded it hard on the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Vice President, honorable members of Congress and distinguished guests, our meeting will now come to order,” he said loudly into the microphone. “It is my pleasure—,” but before Esteban could finish his sentence, the band broke into “Hail to the Chief.”

  A commotion at the back of the room took everyone by surprise, and they all looked back. Entering the room surrounded by Secret Service Agents was President Clinton. Everyone stood up, and applause broke out as no one was expecting the President to show up.

  “What the —? He said he was not coming,” Vice President Al Gore muttered to his chief of staff standing next to him.

  “Is that the President?” Julia asked Alex.

  “No, that’s Darren Hamm who does a killer impersonation of the president,” said Alex. “We thought we’d open with a little levity. Only a handful of people are aware it’s not Clinton.”

  “He even looks like him,” she said, in some amazement.

  “A little shorter and chunkier, but from a distance you can’t tell,” he said.

  The president made his way to the podium, while motioning to the crowd to keep up the applause and raising his hands to ask for an even louder reception.

  Half the crowd was confused. Some were sure this was President Clinton, but others could tell it was Hammond from his many Saturday Night Live appearances as Clinton. All were enjoying the moment. The president finally raised his hands to have the gathered quiet down so he could start.

  Biting his lower lip and in a perfect imitation of Clinton’s speech pattern, he began his monologue, “Good evening all. sorry to be late. It seems Cubans in Miami don’t understand what to do when a presidential motorcade is trying to make its way around the city. You are supposed to move out of the way, not join my caravan to expedite your own travel,” he said to roaring laughter from the crowd.

  “I am happy to see that many in Miami still think
I am number one. At least, that’s what I thought from seeing all those fingers raised as we drove by on our way here,” he went on. “Of course, I acknowledged their sentiments by raising my own finger through the sunroof as we drove.”

  With perfect timing, he continued, “I heard a few of you say as I walked in that I had gained weight. I have to admit that when we landed, I had my Secret Service Detail head straight to the Versailles Restaurant counter to pick up some of your Cuban pastries.” His point that was met with applause. “You call those pastelitos with guava, cheese or some with carne, whatever the hell that is. Now, I know how my good Cuban friend Alfie Fanjul made millions as the sugar baron. Those pastelitos are a hundred percent sugar. Wow, they are good! I’m taking a few back for Hillary. Although, that might be a mistake. I may have to buy her a whole new set of pantsuits if she eats these things. Along with a larger girdle.”

  Finally, the crowd was beginning to realize it was not Clinton, yet they were roaring with laughter.

  “Look at Al Gore,” he said, as the crowd turned their attention to Gore. “No, really look at Al Gore. He is so pissed that I am here. They had promised him he could do the opening act, a duet with Santana singing ‘Oye Como Va.’ I heard he spent all day learning the words to the song,” he paused, as everyone laughed still looking at Gore, “all five of them.”

  He gave the crowd an opportunity to quiet down a bit before going on, “I am a little disappointed, however. I expected a happy start to my monologue, but there is no one underneath the podium. I still brought my Macanudo,” he said, as he pulled out a cigar from his coat pocket. “You never know when you are going to need a good cigar,” and there was more applause and laughter from the crowd.

  “Anyway, my good friends. I won’t keep you much longer. I know you have to install a beautiful lady on the top of your Council’s hierarchy, and I’ve always liked a lady on top,” he said to some muffled laughter. “I am headed back to the airport, but instead of my motorcade, I got me a Cuban taxi driver, Jose, waiting outside. I know we can get there much quicker. You see, Jose does not have to wait for my police escort to stop traffic. He just goes regardless of stop signs or traffic lights.”