Cabo

by Davis MacDonald

  They’d reached the bend in the road where the army truck had been three days before, the spot empty now. Five minutes further up the road, a new army truck and a jeep sat at the side of the road, the back of the truck filled with sleepy looking soldiers with automatic weapons. The sedan paused briefly while Garcia huddled out the window with a Captain in the jeep, then sped off again, the military falling in behind. Apparently, Garcia knew his adversaries, and how to play the hand, mused the Judge. It was his country.

  The front gate of the plant was just as before, except the security personnel took one look at the little caravan and immediately stacked their weapons against the side of the little booth and stood away, almost at attention. Two soldiers from the truck jumped out and took up stations at the gate, assuring no one would come in or go out.

  They drove through the plantation and into the parking lot of the plant, Garcia hopping out of the sedan and marching for the door to the office, leaving the Judge to scramble out the other side and catch up. Garcia bulled his way into the little office and pointed an accusing finger at the rotund receptionist sitting behind the counter.

  “Quiero al gerente de la planta aquí.” He pointed at his feet. “Now.” He made it sound as though she were personally responsible for not having the manager front and center that instant.

  Her fingers flew over her small keyboard, calling one location after another, desperately trying to track the manager down. Finally, she reached him, apparently at the back of the plant, because she hung up and whispered, “Cinco minutos.” Looking hopeful.

  “Harrumph!” was all she got from Garcia.

  Three minutes later Castillo came rushing through the shop door, out of breath. He’d apparently run all the way.

  Garcia looked suitably attended to, flipping out his badge and shoving it into the face of the panting manager.

  “English please, señor, for my friend. You know the Judge already, I understand.”

  Castillo nodded dumbly, slowly recovering his breath and his toothy smile, worry in his eyes.

  “Perhaps we could sit down in my office, Inspector,” said the manager, gesturing toward his door. “Juanita, cerveza por favor.”

  “No,” said Garcia. “The Judge and I want to see the plant. Let’s go.”

  They marched up the stairs and out on to the catwalk above the plant floor. The Judge spotted the difference immediately. Everyone was very busy as before, but everyone had white overalls on. There were no blue-clad workers.

  “They’re gone, Castillo. All the blue workers. The forced slaves. They’re all gone.”

  Castillo burst in to a large political smile, spreading his hands palm up and out, looking like a crocodile suddenly caught on dry land.

  “We only have skilled workers here, Judge. Independent, skilled workers. We have no slaves.”

  “But when I was here, half the plant was dressed in blue overalls. Unskilled labor, forced labor, forced to toil here for scant wages or none at all, no hope of leaving. Slave labor.”

  Castillo turned to Garcia. “Do you know what he’s talking about Inspector? I haven’t a clue. Americans are so… emotional.”

  The Judge started to say more, angry now, but Garcia held up his hand, stifling their exchange.

  “We’re here about murder, Castillo. The murder of María Cervantes and Ana Cervantes. And an attack on the Judge last night. By one of your drones.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about, Inspector.”

  “The Judge has drawn this picture of the drone that attacked him last night. Does this look like one of yours?”

  Castillo took the sketch, his face turning pale. “Well, maybe. Doubtful though. If anything, it might bear a vague resemblance to Station 32’s drone. But I’m sure it’s not. No. Definitely not one of ours.”

  “Let’s see the Station 32 drone, señor.”

  “That’s top secret. You don’t have clearance.”

  “NOW!”

  Castillo capitulated, looking scared. “Yes, yes. Okay. This way. Let’s go down on the floor and see.”

  They climbed down metal stairs to the plant floor, and Castillo led them to the back of the plant and off to the left where a partially assembled drone stood atop a wide work bench like an overfed praying mantis preparing to jump. It was one of the ugliest things the Judge had ever seen. Shaped like a pod, with a circular helicopter rotor above, and rocket fins at its stern for getaway flights. A nasty looking video camera at its front acted as a single cyclops eye, and a row of nozzles below suggested a mouth, no doubt for spraying gas. It rested on long, spindly, insect legs. Various spikes with sensors jutted out here and there across its skin, and in front, two long pincer arms extended out threateningly.

  “That’s it all right,” said the Judge. “Except at the end of the pincer arms were sharp buzz sawblades, whirling while it was in flight.”

  “No. It couldn’t possibly be.”

  “Yes. It is. Does it come with a cutting blade attachment?”

  “Err, well, not exactly.”

  “You mean ‘yes’ Castillo, don’t you?” said Garcia.

  Castillo nodded reluctantly.

  “There is as an option.”

  “What does the controller look like?” asked the Judge.

  Castillo picked up a modified iPad from the work bench and handed it to the Judge.

  “Range?”

  “Short. About twenty blocks.”

  “How many of these creatures do you have here?” asked Garcia.

  Castillo called a technician over. They conversed in Spanish, while Garcia eavesdropped. Castillo’s complexion paled again, almost matching the technician’s white coat.

  “One is missing from their inventory, Judge,” said Garcia. “Missing about a week. They had four completed units here. Now they have three.”

  “How convenient.”

  Castillo gave the Judge his toothy smile again, spreading his hands palms up.

  “Who had access to this missing drone?” asked Garcia.

  “Just Pedro here, the technician. He has the master key to the inventory room for the completed drones.”

  “Pedro, I’ve read drones are sometimes used to herd sheep. Is that true?” asked the Judge.

  “Si, señor.” Pedro was now balancing his weight on one foot and then the other, looking around the plant over the Judge’s shoulder, avoiding eye contact.

  “How’s that work?”

  “Drones can be set to guard a perimeter, or a block of space. They then herd livestock back into the confines of the space if they wander past the set boundaries.”

  “Set with automatic instructions?”

  “Si.”

  “Can a drone be set to herd an individual sheep, say, in a specific direction one wants it to go in?”

  “Si.”

  “Automatically, pre-programed?”

  “Si.”

  “Can a drone be programed to return to its base or a set landing spot after it completes such a task?”

  “Si, señor.”

  “Programmed to hover at a high altitude for a period, until it’s needed?”

  “Si.”

  “How long can it stay aloft?”

  “With spare tanks, depending on its size and weight, and its flight characteristics, perhaps up to ten hours.”

  “What about submersible drones? Ones that swim?”

  Pedro looked startled. “Those are confidential, señor.”

  “Not for us, Pedro. Tell me all you know, and now,” said Garcia.

  Pedro sighed. “They’re based on drone swarm theory. Very small drones, the size of a small fish, with steel jaws. They can be released underwater in a group and then controlled as a swarm, maneuvered to a specific location, and used to guard a perimeter.”

  “Or attack a target?” asked the Judge.

  “I guess they could be used for that. They are controlled by remote, like other drones, but operate almost as a single unit, as a swarm.”

  “
Like piranha?” asked the Judge.

  Pedro was looking very uncomfortable now. “Yes. I suppose.”

  “And you manufacture these here?”

  “Only a few, on an experimental basis.”

  “Can we see one?”

  “They seem to be misplaced right now. I was doing an inventory count last week and I couldn’t find them. It’s a single box of prototypes, easy to lose in our lockup.”

  “How many fish drones?”

  “Perhaps six.”

  “Fully operational?”

  “Well, pretty much. One could pilot them as a swarm underwater in a pond or something.”

  “Or in a sea lagoon?”

  “I suppose.”

  Garcia turned and barked at the plant manager. “Pack the three remaining drones up. Put them in my army truck out front. And no further drones leave this plant until I advise you. Understood?”

  “Si, señor.” Castillo almost saluted, some color returning to his face.

  “Put Pedro on the truck too. We’ll talk to him some more back in Cabo. And I’ll expect to see you in my office as well, Castillo, at one p.m. tomorrow.”

  Garcia imperially swung on his heel and started to walk to the front of the plant, leaving the Judge to trail behind again.

  “What about the forced labor people, Garcia? What about the sex slaves? What about Cristina? And Felipe Martínez? We can’t just abandon them. Just because these bastards set up shop with their victims somewhere else is no reason to look the other way.”

  “Not my department, Judge. I’m only interested in murder,” said Garcia, waving his hand, pushing air away from his head as though it were all nonsense.

  And so they left. The Judge fuming, arguing to at least peek into the dormitories behind the plant, to no avail. Hustled into the SUV and carted off, back to Cabo, Garcia simply ignoring him.

  As they pulled into the back side of the town, something nagging at the edge of the Judge’s mind took flight, blossoming into a full flung idea. “Garcia, can you call your office and get a telephone number for me?”

  “Whose number do you want?”

  “All Mexico Transfer Agent.”

  “Who? Who’s that?”

  “The transfer agent for ASAM shares.”

  “Oh.” Garcia took his cell out and called to get the number, then punched it into his phone and pressed call, handing the phone to the Judge.

  “Hello. I understand you are the transfer agent and the keeper of the shareholder records for ASAM. I need some information on outstanding shares. Can you help me please?” The Judge was routed to another person and repeated his request.

  “Who am I? I represent Alan Clark, one of ASAM’s key consultants, and he has asked me to check on an issue regarding its shares.”

  “No, I need the information now. I don’t have time to submit paperwork, or obtain board approval for release of information.”

  “Okay, then, perhaps you’d like to give the information to Chief Inspector Garcia of the Cabo San Lucas Police Department.”

  The Judge handed the cell back to Garcia, who barked his identity and title into the phone. “Now that you know who I am, let me talk to your supervisor, por favor.” He snapped. Thirty seconds later Garcia lapsed into Spanish, speaking staccato fashion into the phone, his voice rising with each sentence, clearly snarling over the voice of the supervisor in the transfer agent office. Garcia went silent for a few beats, listening, then handed the cell back to the Judge. “Tell them what you want.”

  The senior supervisor on the other end of the line, older and terribly apologetic, listened with bated breath to each word now as the Judge spoke.

  “I want to know if anyone has filed with your office an irrevocable proxy, or a proxy trust, or any sort of document or agreement that affects any ASAM shareholder’s right to vote his shares, or assigns voting rights to another party.”

  “Let me look,” said the clerk.

  A minute and a half later the clerk was back, suggesting the Judge take a pen and pencil.

  “A proxy coupled with an interest was filed for all the ASAM shares owned by Roberto Cervantes, granting the irrevocable right to vote all of his shares in ASAM to his designated agent in perpetuity.”

  “And who is Roberto Cervantes’s designated agent?”

  “It doesn’t give a name. It just appoints someone else to determine who the designated agent is to be.”

  “And who has the power to appoint the designated agent to vote the shares?”

  “A Juan Moreno, Attorney at Law. ASAM’s Corporate Counsel.”

  CHAPTER 31

  The Judge was unceremoniously dumped at the front door of the Hotel Finisterra, as if excess baggage now he’d served his purpose in identifying the drone. It was three in the afternoon.

  He mentally said to hell with Garcia and his murder case, determined to move on to enjoying his vacation in this never never land of Baja, looking forward to dinner with Katy. It was hot in the lobby, and hot in the elevator and hot in the hallway, and unfortunately hot in the hotel suite, Katy having gone somewhere and taken her key card out of the pocket beside the door, shutting down the air-conditioning.

  Katy must have been gone awhile, otherwise the suite would still be cool. Her cell phone and passport weren’t on the bureau; perhaps a little shopping, a blood sport for her; a ritual he detested.

  As he stood by the wall, trying to crank the air up to its maximum, the phone rang. A pleasant voice sounded over the phone, with a slight hint of a Mexican accent, asking to speak to his wife. “Katy’s not here right now. This is her husband, the Judge. Can I take a message?”

  “Yes, of course. This is the U.S. Consular Agency in San José del Cabo. Katy was here this morning, seeking help for a young lady she met, and she believes is a victim of human trafficking in Mexico. I promised to get her a Mexican government contact in Mexico City who might be able to help. Can I give you the information?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “José Ramiro is the Senior Staff Attorney for the Congressional Commission on Human Trafficking and Enforced Labor. We’ve referred matters to him before; he’s very dedicated to his job.”

  He rattled off a telephone number which the Judge jotted down.

  “What time did my wife leave your office, if I may ask?”

  “About eleven a.m.”

  “Thank you.” The Judge hung up.

  He stretched out on the bed and pretended the temperature was cooler, drifting off into a troubled sleep, the tension in his body slowly receding, occasionally startling himself awake with a random snore. Finally, he shook himself awake, stood up, and stretched. The clock by the bed said six p.m. Katy should have been back. But she wasn’t. The Judge was concerned.

  He took out his cell phone and dialed Katy, despite their mutual promises not to use their cells because of expensive Mexican cell rates. There was an immediate dull ringing from the closet beside the bathroom. Three steps and the Judge was looking inside the closet, at the wall safe there, rumbling with the ringing from Katy’s cell phone. She’d left her cell in the safe. Damn.

  The Judge opened the safe with the code, always his birthday, and pulled out her phone, her passport, and her purse. She’d come back to the room, put her things in the safe, then left again. He grabbed his hat and headed for the pool, expecting to find her asleep under an umbrella. But both pools held no Katy, nor did either restaurant around the pools, nor did the lobby bar or the restaurant on the upper level of the resort. The Judge was frantic now.

  He returned to the room and checked his computer. There was no email from Katy. His phone had no text from her either; of course not, he had her phone. He sat there for a while, letting the cool air waft over him from the overworked conditioner, trying to think.

  He called down to the lobby to asked if there were any messages. It turned out a package had been left at the desk for him. He asked them to send it up immediately.

  He paced the room for twenty minutes until
a bellhop arrived with a small square box wrapped with brown paper and string, collected his tip, and scooted out. The Judge looked at the package, rolling it around in his hands. There was no indication of the sender. There was only the Judge’s name in printed letters on its top. The Judge had a bad premonition. Taking a big breath, he tore the sting and paper off, and opened the box.

  His heart stopped. Nestled inside was a patch of soft aqua material and elastic. Katy’s bra!

  CHAPTER 32

  The Judge charged about the room like a bull, cursing Mexico and all its inhabitants, raging. He finally forced himself to take deep breaths, to calm his pounding heart, lower his blood pressure. He splashed cold water on this face and sat on the edge of the bed again, trying to think.

  He took Chief Inspector Garcia’s card from this pocket and dialed the Inspector, forced to leave a message when Garcia didn’t answer. He took the note he’d made for Katy from the U.S. Consular Agency in San José del Cabo, dialed the office, and after several minutes of fighting with an after-hours switchboard, was patched through to the same pleasant voice, now sounding tired, the sounds of food preparation echoing in the background, likely his kitchen.

  The U.S. Consular guy was appalled, but had little to give in concrete help. He said the best he could do was move an urgent message up through State Department Channels, over to the Mexican counterparts, and down to the local police, the Federal police, and the Mexican Army, seeking all assistance. It sounded like a bureaucratic thicket that would take time. He promised to start making calls immediately.

  After that the Judge just sat on the bed, holding his head in his hands, rocking slowly back and forth, distraught, uncertain what else to do.

  Forty-five minutes later the Judge was pacing the room again. It was coming up on nine p.m., and an orange and pink sunset had faded now to black; black sky, black water, black mood. The Judge finally settled in a balcony chair, brooding at the occasional whiff of white and corresponding crack of sound that confirmed the surf was still there, still turbulent, still dangerous.