Mary Dear - Redux

by de Gallegos, Alfredo

  ‘Natalia,’ he said, ‘what a pleasant surprise. What’s the reason for your call? Good news I hope.’ He kept his voice friendly with no hint of the turmoil raging inside him.

  ‘Good morning Esteban, where are you? I called the Carlyle but they said you’d gone, so I called your mobile.’

  ‘And here I am. You’ve caught me in the Falcon, on the way home. But you said you’ve got good news?’

  ‘I didn’t say but, actually, it is very good news Esteban. I can tell you that my client has found the Gold Virgin relic and he’s keen for the sale to proceed. He has mentioned a price of fifty million U.S. dollars that he would accept.’

  There was a pause as Blanco took in the information and the hefty price tag. He’d been expecting a high price but this was higher than even he had anticipated.

  ‘That’s a pretty steep price considering that he cannot offer it on the open market.’

  She had been expecting to negotiate and was ready for him.

  ‘My client is well aware of that problem but he trusts me to get him the best price. I’m calling you because you have first refusal. If we cannot agree on a deal I will return the $100,000 advance, of course.’

  ‘Where is the statue at present?’

  ‘I asked my client but he did not think it wise to say. He assured me that it is safe and can be delivered once the money has been transferred.’

  After some consideration, Blanco figured the statue was worth all of that.

  ‘Very well Natalia, I accept, but I will need to see it before I part with the money.’

  ‘My client anticipated that and has said that he would accept half the money as a sign of good faith and the balance once you have checked the goods. He says you will not be disappointed.’

  ‘Your client is a tough negotiator, but okay. If it is all he claims it to be he can have the balance as soon as I have seen it and approved but if it is not I will expect a full refund and you can find him another buyer. Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed. Thank you, Esteban. I will email you the account number now. It is a Swiss bank account.’

  ‘Of course.’ Why am I not surprised, he thought. ‘As soon as I have it I will arrange the transfer.’ He hung up.

  Esteban placed a call to one of his banks in the Cayman Islands. One of his expensive attorneys in the U.S. had recommended the Caymans saying that, despite its small size and population, they were home to a well-developed offshore financial centre and besides, the counter money-laundering regime embodied in the legal, supervisory, and regulatory systems of the islands suffers from serious systemic problems that they could exploit, but what had really appealed to Esteban was the privacy that these banks offer their customers—ensuring their identities are kept secret.

  Esteban received the encrypted email almost immediately and forwarded it to his bank, asking for the funds to be transferred immediately. Thirty minutes later he had a reference number confirming that his instructions had been carried out. Blanco dialled a number.

  ‘Natalia,’ he said as soon as he heard her voice, ‘the funds have been transferred.’

  ‘Thank you Esteban. Give me thirty minutes. I’ll call you back.’

  Half an hour later she was back telling him where ‘Our Lady of Lima’ would be waiting to be collected. Esteban thanked her and hung up. He contacted McFadden with instructions including precise coordinates where he was to land and await further orders.

  Esteban sat back. He was pleased. At least that operation had gone well but, as far as everything else went, it could be said that the shit had well and truly hit the fan. He went over the events of the last few hours.

  It had started with a phone call from Richard Bland. He had been agitated, almost hysterical. He said he’d seen an internal memo on a meeting with heads of the CIA, DEA and the guy from Scotland Yard, Andrew Renfrew. He told him he was calling to warn him they have enough to detain him and they feel it is enough to indict him. Bland told him it had been Wild. The memo said he’s been under investigation and sold them out to save his skin. Bland told him that, if he moved quickly, he might still get out but he had to leave the country immediately, any delay and it would be too late.

  Bland was scared, said he didn’t know if they suspected him but so far he thought he was okay. Blanco had tried to find out what Wild had told them, tried to get a handle on what they had on him but Bland had said he was in a public call box in the lobby and didn’t want to arouse suspicion if anyone caught him using a public phone booth. He was panicking; said he had to go and had added ‘you too Esteban. You have to get out, leave now, now!’ He was out of control, his voice a hoarse whisper.

  Esteban decided he could not risk it and was about to call reception to ask them to prepare his bill but changed his mind. Bad move, he thought, better just leave. He could settle his bill once he was out of U.S. airspace. He didn’t need his clothes. They always laundered his stuff and kept it for him to be ready for when he stayed with them next. Instead he phoned his pilot and told him they would be leaving immediately and to do whatever was necessary so there were no undue delays. He hung up and packed a small briefcase with essential items. Then he called his driver and had him wait at the door. He’d decided to make it look innocent, like he was just off to another business meeting. They were bound to be watching him. He told his driver to drop him off at Sotheby’s main entrance and then to drive round the back and pick him up. As they pulled out, a black sedan two cars back pulled out behind them. They had a tail. This little ruse might work and meantime, it would give his pilot time to get the necessary clearances.

  His driver had pulled up at the back entrance and Blanco got in, this time going to JFK in Queens. Shouldn’t take too long, he’d thought and told his driver to step on it but keep within the speed limit. He didn’t need a traffic cop to pull them over.

  Now flying at thirty-five thousand feet, cocooned in his comfortable private world, a glass of his favourite scotch in his hand, Esteban felt safe. There would be plenty of time to sort this out. He had expensive lawyers; let them work for their money for a change. Once in Colombia he would call a few friends...judges, senators and others, all influential people. He’d soon sort this out and it would be business as usual.

  What had led Bland to make that frantic call to Blanco had started innocently enough. He had been wandering round the office when his pager rang. He checked it and called his secretary from one of the internal phones.

  ‘Ed’s looking for you, better not keep him waiting,’ she said in that cocky voice of hers. Stupid bitch, he though, still better go see what’s up. Could be interesting. Could be worth money...in the right quarters…and he smiled to himself.

  He went up to Garrett’s office on the top floor and Ed’s secretary told him to go straight in, saying ‘Mr Garrett’s waiting for you,’ so he knocked on the door and walked in.

  ‘Richard, there you are. Come in. Sit down’ his voice was flat and neutral.

  The moment he entered the room Bland knew he was in trouble.

  He saw Dwayne Young and Andrew Renfrew standing by the window but what threw him completely, what drained every ounce of blood from his head, was the sight of his nephew sitting there looking equally stunned and white as a sheet.

  ‘I believe you two know each other,’ Ed said.

  At that point Bland’s legs almost gave way and he just made it to the chair. Everyone in the room was looking at him including Ian who seemed to be hoping he could pull a magic wand out from somewhere and make him disappear.

  ‘I can explain...’ he began but before he could go on Ed stopped him with a gesture of his hand. He threw a large manila envelope across the desk at him. Bland looked at it wondering what he was supposed to do with it but then picked it up and opened it.

  Inside were several black and white photos of himself and another man that he recognized. He went cold. The photographs were pin-sharp, beyond discussion and as incriminating as anything could be. His mind was racing. There had to be somethi
ng he could say or do. Something that would make this nightmare go away. And there was, but not what he was hoping for.

  ‘Now listen to me Richard, this is how it’s going to go, okay?’ Ed said, ‘the only place you’re going to is jail and for a long time if I have anything to do with it. But not just yet.’

  Richard’s mouth was moving, but no sound was coming out. It was as if his vocal cords had been ripped out of his throat. His mouth was dry, as if it was full of sand. He needed a drink badly but wasn’t about to ask for one.

  ‘We know everything Richard. Everything. Your nephew here, well he’s been most helpful, a real canary. What you’re going to do, and note that this is not a request—’ Ed was saying and clearly enjoying himself, ‘—is place a very important phone call. Now I don’t know how good an actor you are Richard but I figure you’re pretty good, I mean, you fooled me and a lot of your colleagues in here.’

  Bland’s mouth had stopped moving but his brain was working furiously. He was sure he knew what was coming and that it meant he was going to get fucked. He was going to have to cooperate and there was no escaping that fact. He had to choose between his old bosses and Blanco. Between the two, Ed had to be the better choice. The idea of falling into Blanco’s hands was enough to make him want to throw up.

  Better to put a bullet in his head, at least it would be over quickly. But he wasn’t going to get that choice.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Blanco landed in Olaya Herrera Airport and the pilot taxied to his hangar where his driver was waiting with the Cherokee. He got in and told him to get him to La Cañada as fast as possible.

  When he arrived he was told that Señor McFadden had called. He had news for him. Blanco thought he better get that business out of the way first and called him back on the satellite phone.

  ‘McFadden,’ he said, ‘you wanted to talk to me?’

  ‘Yes Señor Blanco. I have the cargo onboard. I am on my way back to La Cañada. I expect to land there in four hours.’

  ‘Good work,’ he said, ‘I’ll be here when you arrive.’

  Esteban Blanco spent the next hour on the phone speaking to all the members of the cartel. He told them there was a serious problem that affected them all. They had to meet and the sooner the better. They all agreed but there were difficulties to overcome regarding the schedule. One of them was in Chicago, another one in Habana with Castro. They couldn’t just drop everything. It was agreed that they needed three days and a time was set for the following Sunday at La Cañada. They were all invited to lunch. To lighten the mood, Blanco told them he’d acquired a very special piece and that they were sure to be impressed but wouldn’t tell them what it was. They all figured it had to be another icon. That was typical; even when they were in trouble, Esteban still found time for his fucking icons—but most kept that thought to themselves.

  Esteban heard the sound of the Catalina and went out in time to see McFadden approaching the runway. He’d had it built as soon as he got the house; it wasn’t long enough for the Falcon but fine for the Catalina and the smaller Cessna and Piper Comanche his associates used. It was around two hundred meters from his house and, by the time the Catalina touched down and rolled down the runway, Blanco was already in his jeep on his way to meet him. He was excited, he would not deny it. This would be by far the jewel in the crown of his collection, if it lived up to its billing. It would make one hell of an anniversary present for Cathleen. One hell of a surprise for when she got back from their place in Miami. She was due to fly back in a week’s time with their daughter Esperanza and his sisters. It had been a girls’ outing that he’d thought they’d enjoy, particularly as he was going to be in New York.

  He pulled up beside the Catalina as McFadden was opening the cargo door. Some of Esteban’s men were standing by, ready to remove the crate. His cell phone rang and a glance at the handset told him it was the call he’d been expecting. The caller said it was bad news. He was sorry to tell him that his friend Señor William Wild had met with an unfortunate accident. Seems it happened in Miami. He’d been celebrating with some of his supporters and fundraisers at a penthouse party and he fell off the balcony. Twenty stories down to the pavement below; he made quite a mess. The caller said nobody saw it happen and he was sorry to be the one to give him the sad news. Esteban thanked him for his thoughtfulness and hung up. He was smiling as he went to meet McFadden.

  ‘Hola Jim,’ he greeted him. ‘Any problems?’

  ‘None Señor Blanco; piece of cake,’ he said as they shook hands.

  Blanco was smiling like a kid with a new toy and he still hadn’t unwrapped it! A red Ford pick-up truck was parked beside the plane, its tailgate open, waiting for its precious cargo. Blanco supervised the crate being loaded onto the back of the pick-up and followed it back to his house. He couldn’t wait to get it inside. He’d made a special place for it in his spacious living room, where he was going to hold the meeting with his friends from the cartel. They would be able to enjoy it while discussing the serious business that had brought them together.

  As soon as Our Lady of Lima was unpacked Esteban was overwhelmed by it. Even before he’d had it placed on the podium he’d had made, he was dazzled. The statue seemed to have a life of its own, a brilliance that sent rays of light bouncing off the walls in a rainbow of colours. It was quite simply the most astounding thing he had ever seen. The men who’d brought it in, unpacked it and placed it in its place of honour stood gaping and the more religious crossed themselves. McFadden had to agree that it was a work of art.

  Ana Pereira got an unexpected visitor. An Americano who spoke Spanish just like her. He said he had good news. Said he was there to help her with her financial problems. That he knew she was struggling since being exiled from La Cañada, but that it didn’t have to be like that. She didn’t know who he was or how he’d come to be at her door. She was at a loss for what to do, so he suggested they go inside and he’d explain it all to her.

  ‘Your parents,’ he began ‘they’re dead.’ It was a statement of fact.

  ‘Si Señor, but how do you know that?’

  ‘I know a lot about you Ana,’ he said, ‘more than you can imagine, but don’t worry; you’re not in any trouble,’ he assured her. He went on to explain to her what she would have to do to change her life completely. It would mean some danger but not too much and it would help to bring down a very bad man. The man who’d killed her father all those years ago. Ana had been a child when it happened and was thankful she’d not witnessed it, but the memory still hurt and she remembered what it had done to her mother.

  ‘But how will I explain the money? People talk,’ she said, ‘and I don’t know anybody rich.’

  ‘Just tell them you got it from your Uncle Sam,’ he said smiling.

  First though, she would have to get into Blanco’s house, but how?

  ‘Do you know anyone there?’

  ‘My aunt Amparo; she’s the cook’

  ‘Couldn’t you get her to say she needs help in the kitchen? Get her to take you on to see how you’d work out. In a household like that, the cook can take that kind of decision and nobody will question it,’ he said, ‘Blanco probably doesn’t even notice the people that work for him.’ Ana wasn’t sure, but it was worth a try.

  Her aunt did the shopping for the house on a Tuesday and Ana knew it, so when the day came, she waited for her outside the butchers shop. She asked her if it would be possible to work in the house and her aunt replied she would have to see. She knew Ana wasn’t rich and was always looking for ways to earn some extra money and besides, she was her only niece.

  Blanco sent for the cook. When she came into his study he told her he had guests for lunch the following Sunday and when he said they would be ten and that their drivers would also need to be fed, she took the opportunity to say she would need extra help in the kitchen. She told him that she had a niece that might be able to help if it would be all right. Blanco hard
ly paid attention.

  ‘You deal with it Amparo,’ he said, ‘you know best.’

  HMS Swordfish approached the Gulf of Panama passing Pearl and Taboga Islands, entering at Balboa and sailing underneath the Puente de las Americas. Soon after, it docked on the right next to Avenida Roosevelt. A special agent of the DEA met the submarine and its cargo was removed and taken to a bonded warehouse belonging to the U.S. government.

  As soon as it was possible, the submarine continued through the canal passing the Miraflores and Pedro Miguel locks before entering Gatun Lake. Twelve hours after leaving the docks it emerged at Colon on the Atlantic Ocean and headed home to Faslane.

  When Yuri CheyNokov heard the news he immediately tried to contact Grigori to abort the mission. With William Wild dead, there was no mission; he just hoped he was in time. His death had made the front pages of all the broadsheets and tabloids around the world. The autopsy was underway and already the tabloids were making a meal of it with speculations growing by the minute. Was he under investigation? Was he involved in drugs? Had it been a jealous husband? And on and on it went. Needless to say all the major TV networks were having a field day! Yuri CheyNokov was tuned to CNN getting the American reaction to the story as it unfolded. Still no contact with Grigori but then, he had wanted it that way. Keeping the assassin at arm’s length ensured that the usual sources that had infiltrated the KGB didn’t break his cover. He was more useful to Yuri CheyNokov like that, but still he could have done with calling him on a mobile, however that was not even a possibility and what was scaring him was that he knew that, once unleashed, Grigori would complete his mission no matter what. That thought terrified him.