Point of Honor

by Maurice Medland

  He glanced at his watch, took his place behind the mahogany desk and buzzed for his secretary. The outer door to his office opened, and Elena walked in. Two secretaries worked in shifts to accommodate Jorge’s sixteen-hour-a-day schedule. Elena was his favorite. He watched the slight sway of her hips as she approached.

  “Buenos di-”

  Jorge raised a finger.

  Elena stopped, then smiled. “Good morning, Señor Cordoba.”

  “Good morning,” Jorge said deliberately.

  Elena placed the overnight mail on his desk and turned to pour his coffee. Jorge watched the long dark hair cascade down the back of her cotton blouse, just touching the waist of her skirt, wondering what charms were hidden beneath that plain skirt and white blouse. He shook off the thought; now that the confederation had been formed, discipline would be more important than ever.

  “Did you call Rodriguez?”

  “Yes, sir, he’s on his way.”

  “I’ve scheduled a conference call at six with Señor Quintero and his staff in Montevideo. See that we’re not disturbed.”

  “As you wish.” Elena finished pouring the cup of tinto and placed it on his desk.

  Jorge watched her walk out, her perfume lingering behind. He picked up the tiny cup of mild black coffee and swiveled his chair around to face the window. Inhaling the vapors from the steaming brew, he took a sip, letting the bite of the coffee beans sit on his tongue while he watched the sun rise over the mountains. From the inside looking out, the windows surrounding the top floor gave a sweeping view of the fertile Valle del Cauca, nestled between the Western and Central Cordillera, two of the three massive Andes mountain ranges which divide Colombia from North to South. From the outside looking in, the windows were a dark mirror, impenetrable to machine gun fire from a helicopter.

  He leaned back in his chair, basking in the feeling of exuberance from the caffeine and the glorious sunrise. By the end of the day, phase one of the plan would be fully in effect. Finally, he would show the arrogant yanquis. He was grateful to Don Gallardo for arranging his graduate studies in North America, but his stay there had left him with an intense hatred of all Norte Americanos. His classmates at Harvard had thought they were being clever with their knowing smirks and their snorting noises behind his back. That was humiliating enough, but the thing that galled him most was the implication that any fool could be successful as a financial executive with unlimited amounts of cash pouring in, an implication that negated his skills as a businessman. He would soon show them who was the businessman. In his fantasies, he could see them crawling to him, begging him for a job in his industries when the whole North American economy collapsed.

  He turned back to his desk and leafed through his mail. An array of facsimile machines sat on his left, and a bank of video monitors blinked changing stock prices and foreign currency translations on his right. Before him sat a compact telephone console which kept him in daily contact with the investment banks and brokerage houses in New York, Montevideo, Paris, Rome, and The City, London’s main financial district, where Jorge transacted most of his business.

  A white telephone handset with a single line stood prominently in the corner of the desk. The black console showed the wear of daily use, but the white telephone looked new. A direct line to the Don himself, it almost never rang. Jorge was proud of that; his operation was known for its efficiency.

  He glanced at his watch for the third time in as many minutes, impatient for Rodriguez and the conference call. Uruguayans tended to work at a more leisurely pace than Jorge was accustomed to, but he enjoyed doing business there. Long known as South America’s Switzerland, bank transactions were kept strictly secret. The stupid yanquis wondered how the organization disposed of such massive amounts of cash, but it was really quite simple. The friendly government of Uruguay had no awkward laws requiring banks - or those making deposits - to report large cash transactions. Not even the customs office required cash from foreign visitors to be declared. Tons of cash could be unloaded, like cargo, from ports in Montevideo and carted to banks for deposit into dollar-denominated accounts. From there, offshore banking services were available to transfer U.S. dollars into, and out of, any bank in the world, leaving no trace of their origin. It was called El Enjuague Uruguayo, The Uruguayan Wash, and Jorge was grateful to the succession of military governments in Uruguay, all eager to attract foreign capital, that made it possible.

  The intercom on the console buzzed. Jorge picked up the handset. “Yes?”

  “Señor Rodriguez is here for your conference call,” Elena said.

  “Send him in.”

  The door opened, and Ernesto Rodriguez, Jorge’s chief accountant, bustled into the room carrying a manila folder crammed with papers. Rodriguez pulled a chair out and sat down without being asked. He retrieved one of the pens arrayed across his plastic pocket protector and tapped it against the file folder.

  “Ten days.”

  “And a very good morning to you, Ernesto.” The musky smell of overheated accountant drifted across Jorge’s desk.

  “I’m serious. We’ve got ten days.”

  “Relax, Ernesto. It’s on its way.”

  “We’re leveraged to the hilt. Do you realize what you’ve committed to?”

  “Nothing we can’t handle.”

  The chief accountant opened a spreadsheet. “On the seventh, 300 million, on the fifteenth, 400 million, on the twenty-third, 350 million. With what we’re closing this morning, you’ve bought $1.3 billion worth of gold bullion on a thirty-day contract with borrowed money. The first payment is due now in ten days. Three hundred fifty million. U.S.”

  “I tell you it’ll be there in plenty of time. Stop worrying. This process is only the beginning.” Jorge had purchased the bullion as the first step in the long-range plan he’d developed for Don Gallardo. The gold was of Brazilian origin, but he’d arranged for it to be purchased in Uruguay, which had no reporting and registration requirements on precious metals’ commerce. It was a plan that Jorge alone among the senior officers of the organization was privy to, but he suspected the canny chief accountant had an inkling of what they were doing.

  “And look at this report.” Rodriguez spread out a chart showing gold exports by country. “You can’t just keep buying gold at these levels in Montevideo. At this rate, it won’t be long before Uruguay becomes the number one gold exporter in the world.”

  Jorge yawned. “So what?”

  “So what? The country itself has no gold reserves. How long do you think it’ll take the Norte Americanos to figure out what you’re doing?”

  Jorge leveled his eyes at him. “And what are we doing?” He liked the way it sounded. Polite, with just the right touch of menace.

  Rodriguez retrieved a balled-up handkerchief and mopped at a thin film of perspiration on his forehead. “I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. It’s my job to advise you, and I’m advising you.”

  “You worry too much,” Jorge said, leaning back. “No one will pay the slightest attention, least of all the Norte Americanos. The industrialized nations despise gold. It imposes too much discipline on their ability to print money. They all dropped the gold standard years ago. A ‘barbarous relic,’ they call it. No, my friend, they know what keeps them in power. Print money and spread it out among the people. A gold standard won’t let them do that. They have no use for it and couldn’t care less who buys it up.”

  “Even if they don’t, we’re moving too fast, taking too big a bite. If we stub our toe, we’ll lose half our holdings in Argentina-”

  “Nonsense,” Jorge said. “You’re a good man, Ernesto, but you lack vision. This operation is the beginning of a major event in history. Someday, you’ll be able to tell your grandchildren you were there.” He leaned farther back in his chair with his hands behind his head and flashed a self-satisfied smile. It was a global transaction worthy of a Harvard MBA, the largest of his career, and he had pulled it off without putting up a peso. The gold had been se
cured by the organization’s massive real-estate and industrial holdings in Uruguay and Argentina, through a series of complex, short-term financings. Phase one had gone well. His promotion was assured. All that remained was the final confirmation from Montevideo, and for Jorge to deliver the cash.

  The intercom on the console buzzed. He glanced at his watch, irritated. The conference call was due at any moment. He picked up the line. “Yes?”

  “Señor Ayala is here,” Elena said.

  “I told you I can’t see that fool. Tell him I’m busy.”

  “I did.”

  “What does he want?”

  “He refuses to say, Señor Cordoba, and demands to see you at once.”

  Jorge glanced at his watch, then at the silent telephone console and blew out a deep breath. “Tell him he’s got two minutes.”

  The door clicked open, and Rafael Ayala burst into the room. His eyes were bloodshot, his face ashen. He looked over his shoulder, waiting for the door to close behind him.

  Jorge remained seated, a calculated show of disrespect for this frog-faced, runt of a man who was more concerned with maintaining a full belly and an empty scrotum than taking care of business.

  “And what brings our eminent director of security out at this hour of the morning?”

  Rafael Ayala swallowed. “I need to see you alone.”

  “We’re waiting for a call. You can speak in front of Ernesto.”

  “No.” The chief accountant stood up. “I’ll wait outside. Call me when you’re ready.”

  Jorge smiled to himself, watching the bearlike Rodriguez walk out. The chief accountant never wanted to know more than he needed to. That made him smart. He waited for the door to click shut. “Now, what is so damned important?”

  Rafael Ayala ran his tongue over dry lips. “La Estrella Latina.” His voice was barely audible.

  Jorge felt the blood drain from his face. He pushed himself up from the chair. “What did you say?”

  “La Estrella Latina-”

  “What about it? Speak English!”

  “The Latin Star. It’s missing.”

  Jorge stood, disbelieving, stomach churning, fighting for control, gazing at this Neanderthal whose stupidity was about to ruin him.

  “Bastardo! You did it, didn’t you?”

  “Now don’t get excited. Just because we’ve lost radio contact, doesn’t mean-”

  The black telephone console began to ring. Jorge lunged across the desk, knocking over his coffee, and grabbed Ayala by the throat.

  “Hijo de puta! Son of a whore! I told you it would happen.”

  On the third ring, someone picked up the call. The intercom buzzed, and the light on the console flashed.

  Jorge shoved the bug-eyed security director away. He could feel the blood raging in his eyes. He straightened his coat and picked up the phone. “Yes?”

  “It’s your conference call from Montevideo, Señor Cordoba,” Elena said. “Señor Quintero on line one.”

  “Tell him I’m not in.”

  “But-”

  “Are you deaf? Tell him I’m not in!” Jorge slammed down the receiver.

  “I beg you, Señor Cordoba, don’t jump to conclusions,” Rafael Ayala said, rubbing his throat. “It could be anything, perhaps a faulty radio, or-”

  “Shut up, you fool,” Jorge said, staring at the white telephone now ringing in the corner of his desk. “We both know what it is.”

  “You know how to use one of these, Lieutenant?” Chief Belsen squinted at Blake through the cage of the small arms locker. “Snipes, I mean engineers, don’t usually-”

  “I doubt if I’ll need it, Chief.” Daniel Blake signed the receipt for the service pistol and handed the form back to the slightly obese chief gunner’s mate wedged behind the screen.

  “You better let me check you out, sir. Just in case.”

  “Sure,” Blake said, glancing at his watch.

  “Now this here is a Beretta 9mm, model 92F, also called the M-9. Replaces the old Colt .45. Didn’t nobody ask me, but myself, I like the Colt .45 better. Now that gun could stop a man.”

  “I’m in kind of a hurry, Chief.”

  “Yes, sir. It’s got a fifteen-round magazine. You just snap it in this way.” The chief snicked the magazine in place with the heel of his hand. “Fifteen rounds because the 9mm slug is smaller, lighter than a .45, but it’s got a higher muzzle velocity, so they claim it’s got a greater stopping power, but, myself, I don’t-”

  “I’m late, Chief.”

  “Yes, sir. To cock it, you just pull back on the slide and you got one in the chamber. Fifteen rounds as fast as you can pull the trigger. This here’s the safety.”

  “Thanks, Chief.” Blake wrapped the webbed belt around his waist and felt the weight of the automatic settle on his hip.

  He darted through the clatter of the mess deck, dodging startled mess boys, ignoring the sleepy-eyed stares. He couldn’t blame them for wondering what the ship’s engineering officer was doing wearing a combat helmet and side arm when he wasn’t sure himself. He felt lean from missing dinner last night, but the institutional smell of creamed chipped beef on toast and boiled coffee made his stomach turn. He shrugged off his growling stomach, pushed the combat helmet down on his head and took the jingling ladder up to the weather deck, feeling a little like Wyatt Earp heading out for the OK Corral.

  He emerged onto the weather deck, blinked into the early morning sun and glanced up at the bridge. The exec would still be working on Captain Hammer. He hoped the skipper would come to his senses and call this whole thing off. Suddenly he felt the ship begin to slow. The wail of the bosun’s pipe crackled through the 1MC. “Now the boarding party muster on the starboard boat deck,” the boatswain’s mate droned through the ship’s loudspeaker system, “now the boarding party . . .”

  Blake felt his stomach tighten. He climbed the ladder to the boat deck and glanced around. The team he’d asked for had already begun to assemble. They were milling about, talking in clusters, helping each other buckle on life preservers, trying on unfamiliar combat helmets. Blake looked forward at the high rolling waves breaking over the forecastle. He shielded his eyes and looked out at sea. The wind was blowing harder now, kicking up six-foot waves and billowing clouds of spray. It was going to be a rough trip.

  A team of young boatswain’s mates struggled against the wind to get the starboard motor whaleboat into position for launching, under the direction of a sharp-eyed chief boatswain. The seamen all looked like kids to Blake, but the old chief played them like an instrument. Getting launched safely didn’t worry him - it was the whaleboat itself. It looked like original equipment on the fifty-year-old destroyer, and the hull looked as dry as balsa wood.

  “Lieutenant.” Frank Kozlewski walked up with a clipboard under his arm, shivering in the wind like a mole above ground. He touched his helmet in what might pass for a salute.

  “Chief.” Blake returned the rare gesture - such formalities were usually dispensed with in the engine room - and smiled at the burly chief, trussed up in a life preserver with a combat helmet perched on the back of his head. The boiler tender wasn’t the easiest man to get along with, but Blake had a soft spot for anyone who’d come up the hard way.

  The chief looked out over the rolling sea and blew out a long breath. “Unbelievable,” he said, shaking his head.

  Blake nodded. “Bit rough out there.”

  “I’m not talking about the weather. I’m talking about the orders.”

  Blake threw him a cautionary glance. “Orders are orders. You don’t get to pick the ones you like.”

  “You know what they’re calling us? I just overheard some smart-ass deck-apes. Blake’s Raiders.”

  Blake felt a sardonic smile cross his face. At least somebody had a sense of humor around here. “Has a nice ring to it.”

  “I’ll bet the exec didn’t go along with this idea, did he?” The chief squinted at him.

  Blake said nothing.

  “I t
hought so,” Kozlewski said, nodding. “He’s the only son of a bitch on that bridge knows what he’s doing.” The chief stared off into the horizon, shaking his head. “Bunch of engineers going off to board that ship in this weather. Crazy bastard’s going to get us all killed.”

  “Knock it off,” Blake said. “You’re old enough to know better.”

  The chief eyed Blake. His watery eyes were still crinkled from looking out at sea. “Yes, sir, I reckon that’s my problem. You don’t question orders when you’re young; you always figure the man on the bridge knows what he’s doing. But you do when you start to get old. I got a fishing date with my grandson in a few months. Kind of like to be around to keep it.”

  “Hey, Chief,” someone yelled from across the boat deck, “you going to shoot this thing and put it out of its misery?”

  “Would if I thought I could hit it,” the chief shouted back. He looked down at the automatic on his hip as though it was an appendage he’d found growing there. “Last time I shot one of these was in boot camp, twenty-nine years ago.”

  “You’ll be here for your gold watch,” Blake said. The chief’s upcoming retirement was an event welcomed by most of the officers on the Carlyle because of his outspokenness. Blake was used to it. He and the chief had had some spirited discussions when he’d reported aboard, imposing on what had been the chief’s domain in the engine room, but an uneasy truce had gradually replaced the old rancor. “How’s the plant?”

  “Not bad, compared to the engine room of the Arizona.” The chief removed his helmet and ran a beefy hand through thinning gray hair. A gold wedding band was embedded in his fleshy finger.

  Blake looked at the white strip on his finger where his own had been and felt something move in his stomach. He glanced out at the sea, thinking he’d made a bad bargain, losing Vicki for this assignment.