The Shadow Cartel (The Dominic Grey Series Book 4)

by Layton Green

  Schaefer patted the boy on the rear before excusing him, eying John Wolverton as his hand lingered longer than appropriate, demonstrating his control over his flock.

  The boy left, and all signs of internal conflict were consumed by the flare of Schaefer’s smile. John Wolverton greeted him with his most well-known alias, a smuggler of drugs and guns from Guyana. Schaefer was a far bigger player on the international crime scene, and Wolverton let him assume the role of mentor.

  “I am so pleased you could visit,” Schaefer said, his English thick and chewy from the German accent. “You must be starving, weary beyond belief from your travels. My chef is preparing dinner, and please let me know if there is anything you desire during your stay. We have full amenities at the colony.”

  “Too kind,” John Wolverton murmured.

  “Well,” Schaefer swept a hand towards the window showcasing the compound, “what do you think?”

  “Most impressive, I must say. A little slice of Germany in South America, exhibiting all of the excellent Teutonic traits. Order, discipline, beauty, invention. I look forward to seeing more.”

  Schaefer beamed. “And you shall, you shall. You are young, but wise to recognize the value of relationships in a business such as ours. As you know, on this continent, if one is isolated from the local government one becomes vulnerable. And if one does gain the favor of the local authorities”—he paused, his lips curled in a conspiratorial expression that John Wolverton found weak and distasteful—“one may do as one . . . pleases.”

  John Wolverton returned the expression, because he knew that was what Schaefer wished him to do. He had already formed the opinion that while charismatic, Schaefer was not overly bright.

  Which made his visit even more interesting. For how did a man of limited intellect and voracious passions manage such an impressive project as Colonia Dignidad? Imagine the possibilities in the hands of someone more like him.

  Then again, he thought, do any of us ever truly shed our passions?

  He thought not. It was just that some passions were more overt than others.

  “And how is the local climate at present?”

  “You may know,” Schaefer said, “that when Pinochet seized power, there was a moment of indecision about the fate of our colony. I took matters into my own hands and let it be known that I was well disposed to the regime.”

  He understood Schaefer’s allusion: it was known in certain circles that Pinochet had needed secure locations for the torture of political dissenters, and Colonia Dignidad was just such a place.

  A clever move, he thought. Maybe Schaefer wasn’t so simple after all. In the underworld, cunning often trumped intelligence.

  “Of course,” Schaefer continued, “our mutual business partner from the north is supportive of Pinochet. Everyone, it seems, is pleased by the arrangement. Business has been good. And you? I understand the other side of the continent thrives as well?”

  John Wolverton let a swallow of Scotch slide down his throat, enjoying the burn. “As never before. I believe our industries are poised to explode.”

  Schaefer’s nod was vigorous. “Indeed, indeed. The pipeline you’ve proposed is exceedingly timely.” He rose to his feet. “But let’s wait until tomorrow to discuss details. I’ve a bit of business to attend to. Enjoy your dinner, and one of my boys will see you to your room. Would you like companionship for the evening?”

  “I would not object.”

  “Male or female?”

  “Female. Indigenous, please.”

  “Excellent. I keep the libidos of my women under strict regulation, and I think you will find that, once loosed, they are . . . quite uninhibited. Your consort will view her duties as penance owed to the colony, punishment for her gross sins of the week.”

  Schaefer’s smile was a handful of snow stuffed under the collar of a winter coat. “She will be eager to perform.”

  As promised, a woman came to John Wolverton’s bed that night. She performed admirably and with good cheer, and allowed him to fantasize about Tashmeni. He was impressed by the absolute control exhibited by Schaefer over his subjects.

  Over the next few days, Schaefer entertained him with gourmet food and fine wine and children’s choirs, putting on theatre plays and taking him for long walks in the countryside. As John Wolverton studied Schaefer, he kept in mind the man’s background.

  What he knew about Paul Schaefer: a gifted orator born in 1921 in a small town in Germany, a terrible student by all accounts, rejected from the Nazi SS due to an eye injury, fired from his position as a church youth leader on suspicion of child molestation. Later he became an itinerant preacher who founded an orphanage for war widows and their children.

  After more accusations of child molestation at the orphanage, Schaefer used donations from the war widows to move his community to Chile in 1963, buying a ranch that would eventually grow to more than seventy thousand acres.

  Once on foreign soil, Schaefer moved quickly to establish control. He forbade private conversations as tools of the devil, prohibited anyone from leaving the compound without permission, limited and even faked news from outside, required confessions of sin on a daily basis, and separated the men and women, banning marriage or reproduction without his consent.

  Violence and torture were commonplace punishments, including electroshock, pharmaceutical concoctions, beatings, and starvation. Schaefer also kept a troop of young boys called “sprinters” at his beck and call, automatons who followed him around the compound and were subject to frequent sexual abuse.

  Though it was not to his personal taste, John Wolverton noted the sexual abuse in a clinical manner, weighing the effects on the community. It was obvious everyone knew of Schaefer’s proclivities, and what intrigued John Wolverton was why the members allowed him to get away with it.

  It took two to tango, as they said in Buenos Aires, and the members of the utopian community bore personal responsibility for letting their demigod run rampant, for letting a warped man such as Paul Schaefer touch their children.

  Yet this was why he had come: to unlock the secrets of Paul Schaefer’s power over these people.

  To study.

  To learn.

  He had begun the inquiry in Jonestown, watching every move made by the Reverend Jim Jones. Influential as he was, his community in Guyana had barely lasted two years.

  And in Mexico City, after witnessing the absolute terror Tata Menga inspired among the citizenry, John Wolverton had lingered until gaining the confidence of the feared palero, studying his religion and discussing how they might mutually benefit from a partnership.

  Schaefer was something else entirely. He had an industrious work force in his thrall, which produced a considerable income. He treated the local community well, establishing a hospital and giving to the poor. He went to great lengths to ingratiate himself to local government and the wealthy private sector.

  Yet there were negatives. Schaefer’s empire was local, his international influence limited. He was too visible, easy to find if things took a turn for the worse. And it was obvious he was more concerned with playing God and maintaining a personal pleasure palace than with expanding his territory. Yet perhaps that was the limit of his ambition, and what worked for him.

  It did not work for John Wolverton.

  The night before he was scheduled to leave, he played a final game of chess against Schaefer, a nightly ritual. While John Wolverton made many concessions to the ego of his host, chess was not one of them. To his credit, Schaefer didn’t seem to mind losing. He even invited the best players from the colony to play against his guest, promising great privileges if they bested him. No one had come close.

  During the game, one of the guards burst into the private dining room. He had a rapid exchange with Schaefer, waving his rifle as he spoke. Schaefer’s face paled at the news, the first sign of stress he had exhibited during the visit.

  John Wolverton understood enough German to catch the gist: one of Schaefer’s favor
ite sprinters, a Chilean boy sent to the colony by his impoverished parents from a nearby village, had managed to slip a note to someone on the outside. Though the guard danced around his words, the note was apparently a cry for help, alleging that Schaefer was molesting the boy. In response, an angry mob of peasants had gathered around the gate, threatening reprisal if the boy was not released.

  Schaefer released the guard with a flick of his wrist, clenched his fists, and shuddered. Once in control of his emotions, he looked across the table at John Wolverton. “Well, my young friend, it seems we have a predicament. You understood?”

  “Enough.”

  “Then tell me, what should I do?” He asked the question not as a plea for assistance, but as a test.

  John Wolverton cradled his tumbler between thumb and forefinger. “The obvious options are to let the boy go, deal with the crowd, or do nothing.”

  “Yes.”

  “If you let the boy go, it sets a bad precedent. Moreover, he might accuse you before a court of law. That can be dealt with, but it’s bad publicity.” He swirled his Scotch. “Dealing with the crowd is even riskier. The protection of the regime only goes so far, and might not extend to the slaughter of a crowd of villagers. Perhaps shooting one of them would disperse the mob. Perhaps not.”

  John Wolverton rattled his ice and took a sip. “Doing nothing is probably the best option of the three, as I am guessing the villagers are not equipped to force their way inside. Eventually they will leave, disgruntled but impotent, their only recourse a plea to the authorities based on a note whose author is unavailable for testimony. Yet another option,” he showcased a palm, “is to let a few of them slip through the gate, where you will be well within your right to respond with force.”

  Schaefer’s eyes had grown brighter and brighter. “You would have made quite the SS officer.”

  John Wolverton had been regaled with many tales of Schaefer’s exploits in the Nazi unit in which he had never served.

  “And were you me,” Schaefer continued, “which of those would you choose?”

  John Wolverton leaned back, the arm holding the Scotch extended on the table. “None.”

  “Is that so? What, then?”

  “Who is the boy’s closest companion inside the colony?”

  “His sister.”

  “How old is she?” Schaefer asked.

  “Ten.”

  “Let the boy return to his family. Tonight. Before he goes, have a little chat with him, perhaps a small demonstration, and let him know exactly what will befall his sister should he do anything other than return home, confess his lie, extol the virtues of Colonia Dignidad, and return for good on the weekend.”

  Schaefer’s thin lips parted, then broke into a cruel grin. “A master of the chess board, orchestrator of cross-continental business relations, and now this.” He raised his glass. “An officer is too pedestrian a title for one such as you. A general, you are. Ja, ja, my young friend. Perhaps that is what we should call you. The General.”

  YUCATAN JUNGLE

  PRESENT DAY

  The enormous ficus roots reached into the cave like the tentacles of some mythological beast. A few bats circled the opening, and spiderwebs stretched twenty feet across the diameter of the hole.

  Wincing at the shallow knife wound in his side, ears cocked for sounds of pursuit, Grey helped Fred climb out of the hole, pulling down spiderwebs with the tire iron as they went. They surfaced to find palm fronds as big as cars surrounding the rough edges of the sinkhole. Moonlight revealed the pitted gray surfaces of Mayan ruins crumbling in the jungle, as well as a footpath leading into the darkness.

  They caught their breath sitting on a block of limestone stained green with moss. Exposed pieces of statues and columns lay scattered in the jungle around them.

  Fred slumped against the stone. “I always wanted to be Indiana Jones.”

  “We should keep moving,” Grey said. “We might still be on Tata Menga’s property.”

  Grey eyed the quarter-size hole on the side of Fred’s shoulder. It didn’t look life threatening, though he worried about infection and blood loss. Grey’s own wound was an ugly gash in the middle of his left obliques.

  “Why don’t we just stay here until first light, and shoot anyone who climbs out?”

  Grey helped Fred to his feet. “C’mon. You need medical care.”

  Fred kept his hand clasped on to Grey’s forearm. “Thanks for sticking by me. Lots of men wouldn’t have.”

  Grey took the gun and stuck it in his belt, then led the way down the path, praying it didn’t lead them back to Tata Menga’s compound.

  They followed the trail for over an hour. This part of the jungle was much damper, a different ecosystem. Grey was wary of the constant rustling in the trees and hoped nothing decided to see how they tasted. He wished Nya were there to guide them. She was an expert tracker and comfortable in the wild.

  Both Grey and Fred jumped when a deep-throated roar shattered the lull of insect chatter. It sounded like it had come from right beside them, but Grey knew from other jungles that the source of the noise could have been up to three miles away, and belonged to a primate the size of a baby bear.

  Fred was peering into the jungle. “Was that a dinosaur?”

  “Howler monkey,” Grey said. “Nothing to worry about. I thought you knew this area?”

  “Are you kidding? I know the cities and the coast. I’ve never stepped foot in a jungle in my life.”

  Near another cenote they saw a wild boar snorting and snuffing in the brush, and Grey thought he heard the throaty grunts of a jaguar in the distance, but nothing approached them. As the sky began to lighten, filling the jungle with dappled shadows, he thought of the parting words of Tata Menga and then again of the spirits of Palo Mayombe, flitting through the trees and vines, a mass of dead souls saturating the spaces in between.

  With the dawn came visibility, but also biting insects and flat humid air. Grey’s legs felt like twin blocks of cement. Fred was putting one foot in front of the other like an automaton, head bowed.

  Grey felt a burst of energy when the path widened and the jungle became less dense, as if pruned. A hundred feet later they spied two palapas in a clearing through the trees. They approached warily, but the huts looked abandoned. On the other side of the outpost they found a rusty four-wheeler underneath a canopy, and Grey felt a surge of hope when he connected the wires on the engine and it roared to life.

  The aging ATV was not much faster than a bicycle, but it did the job. Grey couldn’t imagine how ridiculous they looked as they followed the tiny dirt road on the other side of the clearing to a larger dirt road, and then to a one-lane sliver of blacktop.

  Eventually they merged into a two-lane highway, and a sign announced they were on the road to Tulum, an hour south of Playa del Carmen along the coast. They ditched the ATV once they flagged a taxi, and rode unmolested to the tiny town built to service the ruins at Tulum. Fred found a triage center using his cell phone.

  The doctor stitched them up without a word, as if knife and gunshot wounds were normal occurrences in the jungle. After grabbing a prescription for painkillers, Grey and Fred sat on a bench in the courtyard. Grey’s cell phone was ruined from the fight with Lucho, but his pants had finally dried.

  “The Alianza’s going to be looking for us everywhere,” Grey said. “I don’t even trust the airports now.”

  “Agreed.” Fred extracted a toothpick and gnawed on the end. “I know a guy who flies crop planes out of Merida. I say we hire another taxi across the peninsula and fly our asses back to Miami.”

  Grey slapped at a mosquito and gave a slow nod.

  Fred’s contact agreed to fly them out that same evening, so they hired a taxi for the long drive to Merida, took a Cessna to Belize, and then caught a late flight to Miami. Both men were so tired they fought to stay awake on the taxi ride to an anonymous hotel near the Miami airport. They didn’t trust Fred’s house, or anyone in the system.

 
; The next morning Fred called Lana and arranged to meet. She wasn’t available until the evening, but she instructed Fred to drop the fingerprints off at the FBI office in town, saying she would expedite results.

  In the morning, Grey called Viktor to update him. There was no answer and he left a message.

  Grey and Fred had an early dinner at Titanic, a brew pub near the University of Miami. Soon after the sun went down, they drove over to Lana’s coffee shop. This time a handful of patrons dotted the patio and they had to talk in low voices near the fountain.

  Though Mexico was in the rearview, Grey knew the cartels had eyes and ears in Miami. He sat with arms crossed and his back against the fountain, eyes sweeping the café.

  It took the better part of an hour to update Lana on everything that had happened. Her eyebrows stayed raised the entire time.

  When Fred finished the story, Lana brought her cup of green tea to her lips. “That’s quite an adventure.”

  “Adventure? Lady,” Fred said, his hand moving to the edge of his stitches, just visible through the open collar of his short-sleeved polo, “that’s the understatement of the decade. In all my years . . . a fence made out of human spines . . . goddamn.” He crossed himself. “Goddamn.”

  She turned to Grey. “Any thoughts?”

  Grey gave a low chuckle. What a question. “I just hope the trip wasn’t in vain. What’s the ETA on those prints?”

  Her face expressionless, Lana reached into her shoulder bag and placed a manila folder stamped CIA on the table. “Delivered.”

  Fred clucked. “Half a day?”

  “As I said, I expedited.”

  Grey cocked his head. “Well?”

  Lana drummed her fingers on the table, then told them about her fight to the death in the CIA safe house. It was Grey’s and Fred’s turn for widened eyes.

  “I assume no ID on her?” Grey asked.

  “Completely outside the system. And believe me, we checked them all. Approximately thirty-year-old woman of Quechuan origin, no identifying marks. Clothes handwoven. The knife was clean, no residual DNA. Oh, and it was a bronze alloy ceremonial knife that forensics pegged at about seven hundred years old.”