by Frank Hughes
“This man is dangerous.” said Kohl. “I have lost many men because of him.”
“Sounds like you need to refine your selection process.”
“Laugh if you must, but we shouldn’t take the chance. He has already damaged our operation.”
“And we need to limit that damage, by finding out what he knows and who he might have told.” He looked at me and smiled. “Besides, he also needs know what a complete fool he’s been. Has always been.” He feigned a look of sadness. “Before he leaves us.”
Movement at the door caught my attention. Boyd came through the door, looking confused. He was followed by Ms. Ricasso.
Imperatrice turned towards the door. “Ah, Jeffrey, there you are.”
“Richard.” Boyd looked disoriented.
“So, what do you think of the operation?”
“Er, impressive. But, I don’t understand. Why am I here? I told you I didn’t want to know anything about this end of it.”
Imperatrice looked at me and shook his head. “Typical white collar criminal, eh Nick? Doesn’t want to know how the sausage is made, just wants to launder the profits.” He turned back to Boyd. “Sorry, Jeff, you were saying?”
“We all agreed,” said Boyd, a little peevishly, “that it was best for everyone that I not know too much.”
“In case you got caught?”
“Exactly.”
Behind him, Ms. Ricasso’s hands were behind her head, fiddling with her necklace.
“I couldn’t agree more,” said Imperatrice. “We couldn’t give you the option of saving your own skin by throwing the rest of us to the wolves. Fortunately, that is no longer a problem.”
Boyd frowned. “Why is that?”
“We’ve decided to go in another direction. Your services are no longer required.”
Ms. Ricasso flipped the necklace over Boyd’s head and savagely cinched it tight, pulling him off balance. He fell to a sitting position on the floor. She planted a knee in his back and kept the pressure up on the necklace, her face twisted into a snarl. The heavy pendant sank deep into Boyd’s throat. His face turned purple and he clawed at his neck, trying to find some purchase on the chain.
“You see Jeff,” said Imperatrice, “you’re just too much of a liability. Not that you’ve been anything but loyal. You’re just a jinx. You were a hedge fund manager, so you know there comes a time to just cut your losses. And when we find your son, we’ll send him along to join you.”
Boyd was beyond hearing. His bloodshot eyes bulged and the swollen tongue lolled out of his mouth. His hands dropped to his side and he went limp. A foul smell filled the room as his bowels voided.
“I think he’s dead, Isabella,” said Imperatrice.
Ms. Ricasso, her eyes shining, chest heaving with effort, looked at him uncomprehendingly. Then she relaxed and lowered Boyd to the floor.
“She sort of liked him,” said Imperatrice, looking at me. “Imagine what she has in store for you.”
Catherine startled everyone by saying, in a low, steady voice, “You murdering bastard.”
Imperatrice walked over to her and bent low, his face close to hers. “You’re half right, Chief. My parents were married. Still are, in fact. Last I saw, living the good life right on the fairway in The Villages. But, as murderers go, I’m a piker compared to your friend here.” Catherine looked sharply at me, then back at him. He smiled at her. “It’s a really interesting story, but I’m pressed for time.”
Catherine spit in his face. He didn’t flinch, just blinked and stood upright slowly, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the spittle off his face. Then he carefully folded it and replaced it in his pocket.”
“Feisty,” he said. “I like that.” Suddenly, a thin stiletto was in his hand, produced with a magician's skill from the sleeve of his suit jacket. He pressed the tip to her throat. Catherine’s eyes went wide. I prayed she would not show her hands.
“Feeling less feisty now, are we?” said Imperatrice. He pressed the knife forward and her skin sank beneath the tip, the indentation black in the harsh light. “Most people,” he said quietly, “don’t like to be spat upon.” He pressed harder on the knife. Catherine leaned back as far as she could, until her head was against the cell wall. Imperatrice kept up a steady pressure, and a tiny rivulet of blood began running down her neck. His usually placid face contorted and his voice became a hiss. “I hate being spat upon.” The trickle of blood grew wider as he continued to slowly press the knife home.
“Rich!” I said, sharply.
He turned and blinked, looking from one face to the other as if he was surprised to see us there.
“You had something you wanted to show me?” I said.
He looked at me blankly. Then, without looking back at Catherine, he slowly pulled the knife away from her throat and stood up straight. The smile returned to his face and he took two steps towards me.
“You’re right, Nick. I do.” He looked at one of the guards. “Keep her here. Bring him.”
Without a backward glance, he walked out the door. The guard pulled me to my feet and shoved me after him.
52.
I stepped through the door into a tunnel about fifteen feet wide, part of an old mine. Naked light bulbs hung every twenty feet or so. Here and there were patches of fresh lumber in the shoring and metal jacks reinforcing the ceiling. Imperatrice and the guard turned to the right, where the tunnel sloped gently away from the cell, towards a sharp left turn thirty feet below. Reflections off the walls hinted at brighter lights beyond.
“Watch your footing, Nick,” said Imperatrice, “I’d hate to see you trip and fall with your hands cuffed like that.”
Insulated cables snaked alongside the path and around the bend ahead of us. As we approached the turn, a steady noise grew in volume, until I realized it was the sound of rushing water. We turned the corner and stepped out into a chamber half again as big as a football field and nearly three stories high. Three quarters of the chamber was manmade, but the rear portion was a natural cavern, with stalactites hanging from the irregular ceiling. A thirty foot waterfall of impressive volume poured from high on the cavern wall into an underground lake.
Most of the chamber’s floor had been cleared and leveled. A one-story building of raw lumber, with plastic sheets for windows, had been constructed the side opposite the lake. Through the film of plastic I could dimly see three people in white clean suits and helmets moving around. In the center, on a concrete pad, stood a much larger version of the greenhouses I’d seen above. It was connected like an intensive care patient to various tanks and filters, everything powered by two generators. Wooden drums of extra rubber hosing stood nearby, alongside similar wheels of power cables, stacks of PVC piping, and, looking somewhat incongruous, several pallets of beer kegs. The lake was the source of water for the greenhouse, judging by the thick hoses snaking into it. On the near shore of the lake, the naked gantry of an elevator disappeared into the rock above.
“Quite a sight isn’t it?” said Imperatrice. “The miners accidentally found the cavern back in the seventies. Came as quite a shock. Not to mention a nuisance. We’ve found it quite useful.”
“I take it this isn’t for strawberries.”
“Oh, no, certainly not,” he said with a laugh. “Have you figured it out yet?”
“Everything points to cocaine, but that can’t be.”
“I assure you it is. We grow it right there in that greenhouse. And that’s our final processing center.” He pointed at the building with the plastic windows. “Can’t show you that, the air is a little toxic.”
“Ether and acetone?”
“Actually, no. Those are restricted chemicals and too difficult to get in the quantities we need. All that record keeping. We use industrial cleaning solvent. Works just as well.”
“Hydroponic cocaine?” I shook my head. “You’re insane.”
“Now why would you say that?”
“It’s been tried. It simply isn’t prof
itable.”
“Enlighten me.”
“If I could find the right climate and used my entire bedroom to grow coca plants, I might eventually get about 2 grams of coke. That’s after I used my garage, bathroom, and kitchen, not to mention a shit load of chemicals, to process the leaves. For a huge investment in time and money I might clear a hundred bucks. That is if I didn’t blow up my house or have the cops all over me from the smell and waste. On the other hand, I’d make about fifty k growing weed in the same space, and my only problem would be explaining the gigantic water bill. For cocaine, you’re gonna need a greenhouse the size of the Botanical Gardens just to break even.”
“That was before Dr. Fisher.”
“Fisher?” I thought for a moment. “Of course. His area of expertise is genetically modified organisms. He’s engineered the coca for you.”
“Revolutionized might be a better way of putting it.”
“Wait until the Nobel Committee hears about this.”
“Don’t be too hard on the good doctor. You’d be surprised how hard it is to get anyone to fund really radical research into GMOs, all those restrictions from the European Union and our own government. We gave him the ability to test some theories and do some things that would have otherwise taken years to get approval.”
“So he’s fine with being a cocaine dealer?”
“Producer, Nick, let’s get our terms right. And no, not really. For Dr. Fisher it’s really all about the continued health of his wife and son. Anyway, the plant has responded quite well to his manipulation and this artificial environment he created. Not only do we grow it successfully, it grows faster than we ever imagined. Something to do with gene splicing and nutrients. I don’t really profess to know.”
The airlock door of the greenhouse opened and Fisher approached, absorbed in his tablet computer.
“Ah,” said Imperatrice, “here is the good doctor now. Good afternoon, Professor.”
So, I thought, it was past noon.
“Oh, yes, good afternoon,” said Fisher, looking at Imperatrice, then at me. After a moment of intense study, he said, “We’ve met, haven’t we?”
“Briefly,” I said. “You were making a salad.” I turned to show him my arms. “I apologize for not shaking hands.”
A great sadness came into his eyes. The absent minded professor was suddenly in the moment. Deep down he had to know his ultimate fate, and he recognized a fellow victim.
“There is no need to apologize, sir.”
“Say goodbye, Professor,” said Imperatrice.
“Goodbye,” he said, uncertainly. For a moment, it seemed he might cry, but then he turned and walked towards another one story building that stood against the rock wall, close by the elevator.
“And what do you have planned for him,” I said, “once he’s outlived his usefulness?”
“Not decided, yet,” said Imperatrice, “but I’m partial to a car accident. He’s not what you’d call a sporting man, so the choices are limited.”
“So, are we done here?”
“Oh, Lord, no. I’m having fun. One of the downsides of a secret operation is you don’t get to show it off. Besides, there’s a big surprise for you at the end. I guarantee you’ll be riveted. Come along.”
The guard pushed me towards the building. Two forklifts were parked by the door, near a row of yellow fifty-five gallon drums. One of the forklifts held a pallet with two more drums. The smell of kerosene was strong.
“You’re using jet fuel from the airfield.”
Imperatrice smiled. “It’s virtually identical to kerosene and getting that in the amounts we need would also raise unwanted questions. We siphon a little away at a time, charging it to our guests’ fuel bills of course. Now come along. You haven’t much time.”
We stepped through the door into a foyer of sorts. Directly ahead was a tunnel echoing faintly with the sound of Latin pop music. To the right, separated from us by a cyclone fence, was the economy version of a chain gang barracks, consisting of six bunk beds, two sinks and two toilets. Three of the beds were occupied. Near the entrance was a cage made of more cyclone fencing with two firing ports cut into it. A single guard sat on a raised platform, a shotgun within easy reach.
“This is our workers dormitory,” said Imperatrice.
“The leg shackles are a nice touch.”
“Unfortunate, but sometimes necessary. We’ve had some labor issues.”
“The man who froze to death.”
“Yes. He got out somehow. Hence the need for the new facility you recently spent time in. We can’t have our volunteers wandering about the tonier parts of Colorado. As you know, we had to steal his body back.”
“What exactly have they volunteered for?”
“Someone has to process the stuff, so we brought in experts.” He walked to a door opposite the dormitory and opened it. “We provide all the tools, free of charge.”
It was a storage room with a roll up door at the other end, through which I could see the elevator gantry and part of the waterfall. On shelves to my left were different sized plastic containers bearing warning labels and NFPA Fire Diamonds. The closest blue plastic drums were sulfuric acid. The shelves on the right side of the room held fifty pound white sacks that had to be sodium carbonate. Near the back of the room were several plastic fifty-five gallon drums.
“The cleaning solvent?” I said.
“Yes. This way,” said Imperatrice.
We entered the tunnel. The sound of music increased, becoming a booming annoyance when we entered a mineshaft that had been widened into a broad chamber. Fluorescent lights illuminated three wooden troughs, each roughly five feet by twenty and three feet deep.
“Pozos,” I said.
“You know your cocaine, Nick. Yes, these are our coca paste pits.”
The nearest pozo, lined with clear plastic sheeting, was the only one in use. In it, three dark-skinned men in gray coveralls and rubber boots were tromping methodically on a thick mass of wet coca leaves. Outside the trough, another man, dressed identically, stared down at the mixture with arms folded. All four men had the prominent cheekbones of South American Indians.
Nearby were some of the sulfuric acid containers, a few bags of sodium carbonate, and one of the yellow drums of jet fuel with a hand pump attached. On top of the drum was the source of the music, a boom box style CD player.
A guard with a shotgun sat reading a magazine, his chair tipped back against the wall. An old army field telephone sat on the table next to him. He was startled to see Imperatrice and sat forward.
“Are we paying you to read?” said Imperatrice.
The man leaped to his feet, the magazine dangling from his hand. “No, sir.”
“And do I have to listen to this shit?” He pointed vaguely at the ceiling.
“No, sir.”
The guard walked over to the fuel drum, laid the magazine down, and switched off the music. In the sudden silence, the sound of the men’s sloshing feet seemed very loud.
“Do your job and read on your own time.” said Imperatrice.
The guard walked back to his chair, leaving the magazine on the drum. The men in the trough did not look up during any of this, but continued working as if nothing had happened.
“Slave labor?” I said.
“I like to think of them as guest workers, like the guy who does my lawn. These men are experts at what they do. Pablo, our foreman here, has years of experience.”
“What do you pay them?”
“We feed them, of course. And we don’t kill their wives and children back home. There is a small stipend to the families. Not much, but more than they made from the cartels. We also have one female, who does double duty, if you know what I mean, just to keep the lid on. Have you ever seen this done, by the way?”
“Not in person.”
“It’s very interesting. Come on.”
We walked over and stood near the fuel drum. The foreman knelt and scooped a handful of liquid from the
sodden mess with his cupped hand, took it into his mouth and swished it like a connoisseur of fine wine. He spat it back into the trough and picked up a wide blue plastic bowl with both hands. In careful, controlled pours he added some of its contents to the leaves.
“That’s our drying room, where the leaves go after they’re picked,” said Imperatrice, pointing to a shed at the opposite end of the cave. “No worries about tropical downpours ruining them. We get to use almost one hundred percent of the crop here. Once the leaves are dry, we begin the process.” He patted the drum. “Kerosene, as you mentioned, is a key ingredient.”
There was a siphon pump attached to the fuel drum. The seals on the pump must have been wearing out, because a thin stream of fuel ran down the shaft, feeding a shallow puddle gathering against the down slope rim of the drum. The overhead lights created an oily rainbow on the surface.
“Your equipment looks a little iffy.”
“Yes, well I’ll make sure that gets fixed before OSHA wanders in.”
He pointed back at the men in the trough. “Once these guys make the paste - they call it pasta, by the way - we finish the process in the other building I showed you. We’re looking at ways to automate this part. That will be tough to do and still hold down the number of people in on our little secret.”
“When you automate this process, what happens to them? Send them home?”
“Really, Nick? You already mentioned our expenses. Got to cut costs where we can. Don’t get broken up about it. We didn’t bring them here because they were expert tostada chefs. These guys were already producing cocaine for a living. They deserve whatever they get.”
“Just like you.”
“I’m fine with that, really. Look at Khadafy. He ran an entire country for forty-two years. It ended with a bullet to the head. I doubt he’d trade that deal in for fifty years of catching the 6:17 to Penn Station and dying in bed with the mortgage unpaid. It’s not how life ends that counts, Nick. We all die. How we die doesn’t matter. It’s how we live. And I live well.”