The Hunt for Maan Singh

by Hipólito Acosta

  “Yes?”

  “Specifically, we would like to have Nick Díaz and Abdul Farooqi, aka Gulu, declared undesirable and expel them from the Bahamas and flown to Miami on a Border Patrol airplane.”

  “I believe I can work that out, but I’ll need a little time to check with our government attorneys to make sure it is legal. In the meantime, please keep me updated.”

  “Will do. Thank you so much, Madame Minister.”

  “Wonderful. And one last thing: Be very careful with whom you discuss,” she said as she nodded to the DCM.

  As elegantly as she had appeared, she rose up and left.

  Outside the building and waiting for our car, the DCM looked at me and said, “You did very well, A. J.” And on the ride over to the hotel, she warned A. J., “From now on, keep away from the embassy. You could be followed and your cover blown. There are too many eyes and ears on our comings and goings.”

  The team in the Bahamas kept gathering evidence on Nick and Gulu while receiving pressure from the Undercover Review Committee to take the case down. Finally, it was decided that the time was right, and A. J. put a call through to the Minister of Foreign Affairs to inform her of the status. A. J. also called Peter Hargraves, Chief of Security at the embassy, to prepare him and the DCM as well. The operation was to be coordinated around the smuggling of a group of Díaz’s aliens on a small plane that Poli had rented and was to be flown by a Border Patrol pilot out of the Miami Sector. Poli and Susan would work the undercover operation with backup from Mike Dusenberry, Tim “Rico” Tubbs and Steve Van Geem. As anticipated, the DCM called A. J. to say they had a meeting with the Minister of Foreign Affairs to see if they had permission to go ahead with the plan. The meeting with the minister was to take place at a “High Lunch,” whatever that was. A. J. shaved, combed his hair as best he could, given its length, and put on his trustee tie, hoping that no one noticed it was the same one as their previous meeting.

  When A. J. swung by the embassy in a taxi, he found the DCM dressed to the nines for an outdoor-type party. She got into the taxi with A. J. and asked the driver to go to the Bacardi Plantation.

  “It’s a lunch reception, A. J., and the minister is the guest of honor,” she announced.

  “Okay, I hope I’m dressed all right . . . ”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. But don’t tell anyone you’re a federal agent, or connected to law enforcement in anyway.”

  “No way. You already told me about eyes and ears.”

  “Look, A. J., we can’t have the embassy or its staff facilitated or covering up spying or undercover operations, you know. I can’t let you ruin the relationship we have with all these diplomats from various countries that’ll be there for the reception. You got it?”

  “Yeah, I got it. No worries.”

  “Just pretend you’re my date. Okay?”

  “With great pleasure, sweetie.”

  “Enough of that! Just behave.”

  At the Bacardi Plantation, there were scores of uniformed wait staff distributing all manner of rum drinks to a large crowd, elegantly dressed for an outdoor affair. A. J. looked questioningly at his date, who nodded her approval, so he picked up a Goombay Rum Smash. Drink in hand, A. J. followed the DCM who worked her way through the crowd, introducing him to people in their various countries’ diplomatic corps. After a while, most of the buzz from the crowd stopped and attention was suddenly focused on an open courtyard as the Minister of Foreign Affairs entered, followed by what looked like a retinue. People started milling in her direction, lining up to greet her and pay their respects.

  “Just enjoy the food and drink for now. You’ll get your chance later,” said the DCM.

  “Okay, but is it all right for me to have another Goombay Rum?”

  “Yes, but don’t get smashed.”

  A line was forming in front of a buffet spread, and A. J. and the DCM picked up plates and served themselves: roasted pork, black beans, plantains. At the tables set up on the lawn, A. J. again felt discomfort. He had worked undercover for years, posing as a drug dealer, an alien smuggler, a corrupt official, but never as the boyfriend of a DCM. This was a challenge. How long have you known the DCM? Where did you meet? You’re a cute couple. A. J., sporting a shit-eating smile, did his best to keep his answers crisp and intelligent, sans profanity.

  Well into devouring the lunch spread, fewer and fewer people were seeking the ear of the minister, and the DCM placed her hand on A. J.’s shoulder and said, “It’s time.” She got up and led the way to the minister’s table, A. J. thinking the minister would get up and lead them inside to a private meeting.

  The DCM caught the minister’s eye and said, “Hello, Madame Minister. You remember my friend, Mr. Irwin here.”

  “Why, yes, hello,” she said to the DCM, then turned her attention to A. J. “Get him out of my country.”

  That was it? Thought A. J.

  “Uh . . . thank you, Madame Minister. Will do immediately,” said A. J. awkwardly.

  In the cab back, A. J. was a tad bit buzzed by the Rum Goombay and a Cuban Cigar that had been offered at the party, but the DCM was excited.

  “This is going to be a great operation . . . and it’ll be wonderful for the U.S.-Bahamian relationship. I can’t wait to tell Peter.”

  “And I need to phone Poli and tell him the operation is a go,” A. J. said.

  “But right now, we’re going to the embassy. We need to meet with Peter. He’s waiting for us.”

  “Yeah, but as soon as we get there, I need to call Poli. He’s scheduled to have dinner with Nick this evening at The Crocodile Restaurant.”

  As soon as they arrived at the embassy, A. J. was able to catch Poli before they went out for dinner with Nick.

  “What happened at the meeting with the minister?” Poli asked nervously.

  “We got the go-ahead, man. Everything’s in place to grab the rat bastards.”

  “You did it, you turkey. You did it! Now what?”

  “I’ve got a meeting with the DCM and Hargraves in a couple of minutes. Then we’re going to police headquarters, see what they have on them and arrange for a habeas grabeus on these guys,” answered A. J.

  “Okay, we’ll be at The Crocodile. Keep me updated.”

  After a brief meeting with the DCM Pamela Bridgewater and Peter Hargraves, A. J. accompanied Peter to the National Headquarters of the Bahamian Police. There, they didn’t wait very long before the Chief, Sheldon Montgomery, arrived in the lobby of the headquarters. He was dressed in uniform, and seemed to be a friendly person. He was about 55 years old, average height and a little over weight. He invited A. J. and Peter, along with two deputies, into a conference room. Not anything like the chief of the police of the United States would have, but it was adequate.

  “Chief, this is Mr. Irwin. He is the agent of our government who recently met with your Minister of Foreign Affairs,” said Peter, opening up the discussion.

  He passed the baton to A. J., who then proceeded to give them a rundown on the investigation. A. J., who had lived for a time in the Virgin Islands, understood the local accent and the respect he had to show the chief. After he had fully described Nick Díaz’s operation in the Bahamas, the three highest law enforcement officials seemed surprised, but they understood that the Minister of Foreign Affairs had given her blessing and they were committed to cooperate. They assigned this matter to their “most trusted” Assistant Chief, Larry Ferguson, the head of the Intelligence Division.

  “Larry is our best man. He’ll see to whatever you need,” Chief Montgomery promised, and then sent for him.

  When Larry stepped in, Montgomery simply explained to him that we were American officials and we had received approval from the highest levels of government to capture and expel two alien smugglers. “Larry, give these gentlemen your fullest cooperation and support.”

  Once again, A. J. ran down the operation for Larry.

  Larry, it seemed, was somewhat familiar with human trafficking on the
islands and asked, “Do you know where these two individuals live?”

  “I kind of have an idea. After this meeting, I’m planning on following up on some leads we have from our surveillance of the perps, and I know where Nick Díaz is right now,” answered A. J.

  “Oh, good, I’ll go with you,” he volunteered. “You’ll need someone who’s familiar with the area.”

  “I know that street addresses are a little confusing here on Nassau, but I know how their stash houses work. I’m sure, once I talk to neighbors, or anyone in the neighborhoods, I can find them,” A. J. ventured. He actually had an address because the task force had reversed a phone call to get it, but what he did not know was that Díaz had paid a telephone company employee to falsify the address linked to that number.

  Anxious to get started, all three got up and left the national headquarters and headed for Larry’s vehicle. On the way to where he had parked, Larry asked for Nick Díaz’s telephone number. A. J. looked at Peter and he nodded, so A. J. complied. Larry used a pay telephone and told them he had an address—the same one the task force had. So they got in the car and proceeded to a neighborhood. Larry drove around but could not find the address. They continued looking for about two hours, stopping in front of a number of houses. Either the addresses were not visible from the street or the addresses on the houses did not represent anything usable. A. J. began to get suspicious, losing confidence in Larry by the minute.

  They decided to return to police headquarters and do more research. A. J. was not happy, dreading his next conversation with Poli. Could they ask Larry and his men to take Nick down at the restaurant where he was meeting with Poli and Sue? There would be too many bystanders, and who knew what Nick’s reaction would be. A. J. was dreading Nick escaping to Cuba or India or somewhere else out of reach.

  Finally, A. J. announced, “Larry, since we can’t find the house, we’re gonna have to arrest him at the restaurant here in Nassau.”

  “Wha-what? That’s not a good idea. There’ll be too many people there. What if he’s armed? Someone can get hurt. Our biggest business is tourism and we cannot give the impression that crime is so bad here, it’s in the tourist areas. No, no, no, not there,” Larry argued.

  “Larry, wait a minute, let me confer with my team. Excuse,” A. J. said as he headed to use a phone in private.

  Over the phone, Poli had a hundred questions, A. J. tried to pull out as many answers from his bag of tricks.

  “Man, A. J., we have no options left. Sue and I are keeping our date with Nick. Okay, partner, let’s see what I can do on this end,” Poli said, ending the conversation.

  So A. J. returned to Larry’s office and continued to negotiate.

  “But Larry, it was none other than your Minister of Foreign Affairs who told me, ‘Get this man out of my country.’”

  “Mr. Irwin, I’m sorry, but it is quite more complicated than that.”

  “Well, maybe you should tell that to the minister.”

  “Okay, okay, we’ll arrest him at the restaurant. But I will personally observe the situation.”

  “Agreed,” A. J. said. “We’ll forget about Gulu for now. Nick was the head of the snake.”

  “Yes, then I’ll send a contingent of my men over right now to survey the restaurant,” Larry said.

  “You’ll do no such thing!!! Goddammit, Larry! Are you bent on destroying this operation?!”

  “What on earth do you mean?” countered Larry.

  “If Díaz sees a bunch of cops, he’ll know something’s up and get the hell out of there.”

  “Well, I need my men there.”

  “You know what? I’m gonna call the minister right now! You are not cooperating, as promised by her and the chief. Let’s see what she says.”

  “Okay, okay. You and I will go together. No advance contingent,” Larry finally agreed. “What do your people look like? How many are they?”

  “That’s a need-to-know, and you DON’T need to know, not right now anyway,” A. J. said, feeling he at last had some advantage on the assistant chief.

  “Likewise, you won’t know who my undercover people are. I’ll accompany you to the restaurant and my men will follow us.”

  “Yeah, okay, you’ve gotta deal . . . a Mexican stand-off,” said A. J. “We’ll take Nick down there and any members of his entourage.”

  As soon as they arrived at The Crocodile Restaurant, A. J. saw Mike Dusenberry, one of his guys. He approached A. J., who signaled with his head and eyes for him to keep moving. A. J. made a quick sweep of the perimeter and saw Steve Van Geem on the other side of the restaurant. They were not armed, but A. J. felt better about their chances if they had to fight. Next, he saw Poli and Susan sitting at a large table, and there was Nick. The trio was having dinner and drinks, just like everyone else. Gulu was not present. But the greater problem was, Nick had six big Bahamians with him, obviously bodyguards. A. J. had no way to communicate with Poli.

  Larry and A. J. walked through the restaurant, scanning the dining area.

  “Which ones are your agents?” he asked.

  Without pointing, A. J. motioned to him and whispered, “That couple over there . . . the woman in the yellow sun dress and the Mexican-looking guy.”

  Larry looked and then did a double-take. “Oh shit,” he whispered, “we cannot do this. It’s too dangerous. Let’s leave.”

  Larry did an about face and A. J. followed him. As he moved past Mike Dusenberry, he whispered, “Tell Poli it is off.”

  Mike just looked at A. J. confused.

  But, A. J. wasn’t giving up.

  Once outside, A. J. began debating with Larry again. Larry insisted it was too dangerous, too many innocent people could get hurt. “And, why didn’t you tell me Díaz would have his own army along?!”

  Try as he might, A. J. could not budge Larry. A. J. was tired, frustrated, overwhelmed. He needed time to think and regroup, maybe get some help. For the first time, he really began to have doubts about pulling off the snatch.

  Inside, Poli, who had seen A. J. and expected the takedown, was in the men’s room yelling at Mike: “What the hell is going on? Why aren’t they taking Nick down? What is A. J. doing?” Poor Mike had no idea what had just happened. He was only the messenger.

  After dinner, A. J. met up with Poli, Susan and the surveillance team for a few beers at the Marine house behind the U.S. embassy. The Marine embassy guard living quarters includes a bar, open to U.S. government personnel. It was a good place to argue, cuss, drink and even fight, if it came down to that. Poli was not happy that they had had Nick in their hands and had to let him go. No one was. But, not all was lost. At the restaurant, it had been clear that Nick was happy with Poli and Sue and was going to give them plenty of smuggling business, and plenty more opportunity to take him down, and anyway, Gulu had not been there. If they had arrested Nick on the spot, Gulu would have heard and been in the wind immediately. It was the team’s version of making lemonade out of Bahamian lemons. But, who were they kidding? Their window of opportunity was closing. Larry and the Bahamian police knew about the operation, and soon the bad guys would know. Team INS was screwed.

  So the team decided to get a good night’s sleep and regroup in the morning. A. J. could not sleep, however, and the more he thought about what had happened, the more determined he became. At 5:00 am, he decided to get out of bed, showered and called Peter Hargraves at home.

  “Peter, I’m sorry to get you up this early. This is urgent.”

  “Yes, A. J., what is it?”

  “Peter, that Larry Ferguson, all he did was give us the run around. I’m sure he’s on their payroll.”

  “Well, I’d stay away from making accusations. This could turn into a diplomatic nightmare. And . . . ,” Peter was cut off.

  “Peter, I’m gonna drive around that neighborhood myself and I’m gonna find them,” A. J. swore.

  “Now, calm down, A. J. Hold off. I’ll call Larry for a meeting early this morning,” he offered. “Give me a
few minutes, let me get dressed and I’ll meet you at 8 am at police headquarters. Okay?”

  “Okay,” agreed A. J., but he had his own plan in mind and he did not want Peter or Poli or anyone else to talk him out of it.

  After waiting enough time for Peter to leave his home, A. J. broke down and called Poli.

  “I don’t care if they bust me in DC, Poli, I’m not going back empty-handed.”

  “All right, let’s meet for coffee down in the hotel restaurant, tell me what’ya got in mind, A. J.?”

  “Sorry, man, I’m in a hurry. I’m gonna pull something off, and it’s better you don’t know what.”

  “Okay, brother. I wish you luck. Be safe, man, and keep in touch.”

  With that, A. J. left the hotel and made the fifteen-minute drive to Nassau and Larry’s office. Peter was waiting, but Larry was not. Peter let A. J. know he supported him fully and he agreed that Larry was interfering and not to be trusted. After about thirty minutes, Larry arrived, in no hurry, slow to get out of his car and to walk into his office.

  After following Larry into his office and shutting the door, A. J. said, “Larry, I’m not fucking around anymore. I’m going out to that neighborhood and I’m going to find Nick.”

  “Please take it easy, Irwin. Let me make some calls, see what I can do,” Larry offered.

  Larry never picked up the pace, but eventually they left again in Larry’s car and drove to the neighborhood. They circled the same blocks, all the while Larry mumbling to himself. Again, the address was illusive.

  Losing his patience, A. J. said, “Larry, pull over.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m going to knock on doors and I am going to talk to the neighbors. You know, basic police work 101.”

  Surprisingly, Larry pulled over and asked, “What are you going to ask the people?”

  “Just if they know where this address is, and if they’ve noticed any suspicious people in the neighborhood, specifically any Indian people.”