“Governments are sometimes slow to react to policy changes in other countries,” Rivero said. A condescending smile crossed his face.
Frank Kozlewski finished the last bite of his steak and shoved his platter out of the way. “So there’s a group of good guys and bad guys out there. Which one owns this shipment?”
“At first I thought it was the Gallardo organization,” Rivero said. “They prefer shipment in a low-key manner, usually in freighter cargo holds, like this one, unlike the Ramirez cartel, which generally prefers shipment by plane or high-speed motorboat.”
“And now you don’t?” Blake asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Why are you confused?”
Rivero looked at him. “The presence of El Callado.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Frank Kozlewski said. “So it is true.”
“I didn’t say that,” Rivero said. “But if it is, he has long been thought to be a puppet of the Ramirez cartel.”
“And this cargo doesn’t look like a Ramirez shipment?” Blake asked.
“No. If it were owned by the Ramirez cartel, it would be bristling with armed guards.”
“So you’re saying that this one is a Gallardo shipment?”
“I’m saying it has all the hallmarks of the Gallardo organization, which prefers to quietly buy their way into ports, to not call attention to themselves.”
“Then how do you account for it?” Blake asked. “What would this character be doing on board a Gallardo ship?”
“There is one possible explanation,” Rivero said. “During the war on the Ramirez cartel, the Gallardo organization participated in raids on Miguel Ramirez’s processing labs in the jungle. It’s possible that they captured him there and tried to convert him to their own use.”
“And his true loyalties surfaced after the ship put to sea?”
“That is the only explanation that makes sense.”
“So it’s the Gallardo cartel that owns this little shipment of dynamite we’re riding on,” Blake said.
“That is my best guess,” Rivero said.
“Ain’t we lucky,” Frank Kozlewski said. “The good guys.”
Blake ignored him and stared at Rivero. “And you’re saying that they won’t be coming after it?”
“They don’t operate that way,” Rivero said. “In the first place, they are extremely wealthy and can afford to write it off as a cost of doing business. And in the second, according to our intelligence, they do not own the necessary offensive equipment, no helicopters or gunships that they would need for a recovery operation of this kind. No. If it is theirs, they will accept the loss. They won’t like it, but they will accept it. We have nothing to worry about from them.”
“What’s the matter, sir? Didn’t you like it?” Robertson asked, picking up the platters.
“I guess I’m not hungry,” Blake said. “Thanks, anyway.” Robertson went bustling off to the galley, loaded down with half-eaten platters, mumbling to himself. Blake stared at Rivero. He didn’t buy his foolish optimism for a minute, no matter how much he wanted to believe him. No one would walk away from a shipment like this one, no matter how rich, or how “peaceful” they were. There was no doubt in his mind that they were coming. The question was, what to do about it. Something his father had taught him years before began to surface in his mind. As important as it was to know your friends well, he had said, it was even more important to know your enemies. He looked at Rivero. “What can you tell me about these people?”
“Why? I’ve already told you they pose no threat to us.”
“Just call it curiosity.”
Rivero shrugged. “Don Augusto Gallardo is considered to be the Godfather of the cartel. Unlike Miguel Ramirez, a high-school dropout who rose from a petty thief to head the Ramirez cartel, Augusto Gallardo is a well-educated man with a respected background. He was an executive of a major banking house. He is prominent in social circles in Colombia. He is known as a brilliant tactician. Because of his aggressive moves into worldwide cocaine markets, he is thought to be a billionaire, many times over.”
Blake studied Sergeant Rivero’s face. His dark eyes were glowing, and his monotone had increased in pitch and intensity. There was a tone of approval, even enthusiasm, in his voice that bothered Blake. It was suppressed, but it was there. He wondered if it was for the demise of the Ramirez cartel, which he could understand, or if it was for the emergence of the “peaceful” Gallardo cartel as Colombia’s dominant drug organization. Depending on which one came after this shipment, the distinction could be important.
“You sound like you approve.”
“The Gallardo family is much admired in Colombia. Don Gallardo has three sons and a godson who have attended university outside of Colombia, in training to help ease the family fortune into legitimacy for the next generation.” Sergeant Rivero paused for a moment then added, “Not unlike your Kennedy dynasty.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Rivero smiled. “It’s well-known that the patriarch of the Kennedy family established the family fortune through questionable transactions involving large amounts of alcohol, the drug of choice for Americans. His fortune ensured that his children were trained at Harvard, and at other prestigious institutions overseas. The second generation has brought legitimacy to the family through careers in public service. Two of his sons were American naval officers, like yourself,” he said. “One was later an American president.”
Blake stiffened at the comparison but stopped short of challenging Rivero. He needed his cooperation to work his way out of this predicament, and couldn’t risk jeopardizing it over a trivial argument. Straightening the sergeant out would have to wait.
He looked at his watch. “Thanks for the briefing, Sergeant,” Blake said with a nod in Rivero’s direction.
Sergeant Rivero made no effort to move.
“That’s all for now, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.” Sergeant Rivero pulled himself to attention, slung his M-16 over his shoulder, saluted and stalked out of the dining room. Blake watched him walk away, wondering who he really was, knowing he would probably never know. He wondered why Sergeant Rivero wasn’t commissioned - he was clearly an educated man - and guessed that his obsession and myopic judgment had gotten in the way.
“See if you can find Doc,” he said to Frank Kozlewski. “I want to talk to him before we contact the Carlyle.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” The chief started to push himself up from the table, paused and cocked an eye at Blake. “You don’t buy that good-guy, bad-guy stuff?”
“Not for a minute,” Blake said. “Not with 350 million in cash aboard. They’re coming, all right.” He nodded toward the door. “My only question is, is he going to be with us or against us when they get here?”
“Yes, sir, Lieutenant,” Doc Jones burst out from half way across the dining room. Blake watched the hospital corpsman come paddling toward him in that whimsical gait that belied his ability.
“Have a seat, Doc Coffee?”
“No thanks, sir. That stuff Robertson brewed will keep me awake for a month.”
Blake smiled. “How’s the patient?”
“Kelly? She’s okay. Tossed her cookies over the rail. I took her to one of the passenger cabins and gave her something to settle her stomach, made her lie down for a while-”
“You didn’t leave her alone?”
“Oh, no, sir. The Koz grabbed Tobin and posted him outside her door when he came to get me. The stuff I gave her made her sleepy. She was still sawing ‘em off when I looked in on her.”
Chief Kozlewski came walking into the dining room. He scratched his belly and strolled over to the coffee urn, glancing around in search of a clean cup. “Coffee, Lieutenant?” he said, glancing over his shoulder.
“No, thanks.”
The Chief filled his cup with a tepid brew the color of tar and joined them at the table.
“You’ve had a chance to inspect all the bodies?” Blake asked.<
br />
“Yes, sir. Robertson and Tobin went with me.”
“Give me a full report on what you found - cause of death, approximate time of death, any patterns or any inconsistencies.”
“They were all pretty consistent,” Jones said. “All died of broken necks and spines snapped like twigs. My guess is that the neck was broken first, then the spine. The final part . . . the tongues being cut out came after . . . Must have been done by one crazy dude.”
“How long have they been dead?”
“I’d say a range of twenty-four to forty-eight hours, something like that, all except . . .” The corpsman pursed his lips and squinted his eyes into the far corner of the room.
“Except what?”
“Except that guy in the vault. The vault with all the money.” Doc Jones shuddered. “Big creepy-looking dude with a tattoo on the back of his hand. Blue star.” He looked at Blake. “I ain’t no doctor, but that dude was fresh.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Well, Alvarez came running out of the vault like all the demons in hell were after him, screaming that someone grabbed him by the leg, by the ankle,” Jones said. “I thought he was nuts, but when I checked this guy for a pulse, he was warm, as warm as I am. I think there’s a chance he really did grab Alvarez by the ankle, maybe when he stepped on him or something, maybe a last, dying reflex.”
“Notice anything else different about the guy in the vault?”
Doc Jones thought for a minute. “He still had his tongue.”
Blake felt cold sweat on the back of his neck. “Okay, Doc. Thanks for the update. Will you check on Kelly and see if you can put her and her radio back together? I’d like to report in to the Carlyle as soon as possible.”
“Sure thing, Lieutenant. I’ll wake her up.”
“Oh, and one more thing, Doc,” Blake said as the corpsman stood up to leave.
“Yes, sir?”
“Let’s keep what we’ve discussed here to ourselves.”
“You got it, sir.” Jones turned and paddled out of the dining room.
Blake watched him depart through narrowed eyes.
Chief Kozlewski blew little ripples on the surface of his coffee, studying Blake’s face. “What do you make of it, Lieutenant?” he said after Jones was out of sight.
“It’s not good,” Blake said, glancing at the Chief. “El Callado, or whatever you want to call him, is still aboard. Alive and well.” He looked off into the distance.
The coffee mug trembled slightly in the Chief’s hand. “How . . . how do you know?”
“It’s pretty obvious isn’t it?” Blake said. “Sergeant Rivero, Doc, and Alvarez must have interrupted him in the process of killing the last member of the crew during their inspection of the number three hold.”
“What the hell was this guy still doing on board after everyone else abandoned ship, anyway?” Chief Kozlewski asked.
Blake shook his head. “My guess is that he got left behind somehow in the panic.”
“But what was he doing in the vault?”
“Where would you hide if a lunatic like that was after you?”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. I’d want as much steel between him and me as I could get.”
“Exactly,” Blake said. “He must have tried to bar it from the inside. Poor devil.”
“But why didn’t he make himself known to us when we came aboard?”
“I doubt if he knew. In fact, I doubt if either one of them knew we were aboard until they heard Sergeant Rivero’s troops scrambling down the number three hold. They were probably locked in a game of cat-and-mouse in the vault, oblivious to everything else.”
Kozlewski was staring at Blake intently. Beads of sweat were forming across his forehead. His face looked puffy and gray. “So what happened?”
“After breaking this guy’s neck, he must have dropped him and disappeared into the hold when he heard them coming down the ladder. He didn’t have time to do the rest of it. He was probably watching Sergeant Rivero and his people the whole time they were down there.”
Chief Kozlewski ran his tongue over dry lips. He put his cup down and mopped his brow with a red bandanna. “It’s hot in here.”
“Stick around,” Blake said. “It’s about to get a lot hotter. We’re in way over our heads. We need to get some help out here. Where the hell is Kelly?” He glanced at his watch and looked up as Dana Kelly appeared in the door of the dining salon. She paused at the door, hesitating. Doc Jones stood behind her in the narrow doorway, eyes wide. Blake watched her advance on the table with the hospital corpsman close behind. She stood looking down at Blake, breathing hard. Her face was white.
“What is it?” Blake said.
“It’s the radio, sir.”
“What about it?”
Kelly blinked her eyes and swallowed hard.
“It’s gone!”
The Learjet 55C accelerated down the runway and lifted off with a shudder, leaving the city of La Paz in the distance. Jorge Cordoba gripped the armrests and closed his eyes, trying to keep his stomach synchronized with the motion of the plane. He leaned his head back and kept his eyes tightly shut until the jet reached its cruising altitude and leveled off, banking southeast toward Uruguay.
He rubbed his eyes and gazed out the window. The sun slipping away in the west cast an orange glow over the Bolivian capital. The brief refueling stop had given Jorge a chance to stretch his legs, but the welcome whisper of the jet now lulled him with a feeling of distance. The farther away he got from Don Gallardo, the more relaxed he felt. Still, he knew that a reprieve was only temporary. If he couldn’t produce results quickly in the form of restructuring the debt and recovering the ship before the Colombian Navy got to it, there would be no going back. He’d been on the phone most of the trip down talking to Ayala’s replacement, the acting security director at Campanilla, and had been assured that a dozen planes were in the air, sweeping the coordinates Admiral Cuartas had given them, and that they would soon have a sighting. The helicopters were being prepared and would be ready for him to board in the second wave when he got there. Jorge felt his pulse quicken at the thought. He rubbed his face in his hands, distressed at the frightening speed with which he was becoming enmeshed in the side of the business his parents had warned him about. He’d wanted desperately to avoid it, but now he had no choice.
He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the memory of that morning. He couldn’t shake the question that kept hammering at him: Had Ayala still been alive when he’d been thrown into the lion compound? The fool deserved it for putting that cretin aboard the ship. Still, Jorge knew that unless he got some results, he could find himself in the same position. His hand trembled as he reached for the call button.
The flight attendant, a brunette with the longest legs he had ever seen, was there in an instant, smiling down on him. “Yes, Señor Cordoba?”
“Bring me a whiskey. Straight.”
“Yes, Señor.”
Ernesto Rodriguez looked up from his papers. “Since when do you drink?”
“There’s a time for everything.”
Jorge tilted his head back and poured the twelve-year-old Scotch down his throat. It seared all the way down, like liquid fire. He made a face that looked as though he had taken medicine.
“Madre de Dios. This stuff is poison. Veneno.” His face flushed from the burning in his throat and the memory of the subtle insults he had endured during his two years of graduate school in the United States. Arrogant yanquis, strutting in their cloaks of legitimacy. How could anyone who sold poison like this sneer at him for the business he was in?
The flight attendant handed him a glass of mineral water. He downed it in three swallows. “Bring me another.”
“Better take it easy with that stuff,” Ernesto Rodriguez said.
The chief accountant sat heavily beside him, quietly laboring over a debt-restructuring plan. Jorge glanced at Rodriguez, reassured by the older man’s presence. He’d asked him to c
ome along specifically for his negotiating skills and his coolness under fire. Negotiating was never Jorge’s strong point - he had too short a fuse - but negotiating with a snake like Quintero in his present state of mind would be especially dangerous. With his plodding, disarming style, his chief accountant could be a formidable opponent across the conference table.
The Learjet hit an air pocket and bucked with turbulence. Rodriguez dropped his pencil and gripped the armrests, his sagging face the color of the spreadsheet on his tray. “You’re a pilot, aren’t you? Why don’t you go up there and fly this thing?”
Jorge laughed. “I just got licensed to fly single-engine props. One step at a time.”
The plane lurched and took a sickening drop. “You couldn’t do any worse than these gorillas,” Rodriguez said, clinging to the armrests. “I still don’t see why we have to go flying off to Montevideo in this flea of an airplane.”
“We can’t risk negotiating over the phone,” Jorge said. “You know that. If Quintero gets antsy about the delay, we’ve got a problem.”
“I told you we were moving too fast,” Rodriguez said. “Buying over a billion dollars worth of bullion in thirty days with borrowed money, for Christ’s sake. What’s the hurry?”
“You know what the plan is,” Jorge said, probing. It was becoming important to find out just how much Rodriguez knew, or how much he would admit to knowing.
The plane stabilized. Rodriguez picked up his pencil and flicked eraser dust off the spreadsheet. “I just keep the books. I don’t know anything.”
Jorge tensed at the dismissive tone. A cavalier attitude toward a problem of this magnitude was something he couldn’t afford. If they were to have any chance in the negotiations with Quintero, the chief accountant would have to be as committed as Jorge was, would have to fully understand what was at risk. The only way to incentivize him was by telling him enough of the plan to show him what was at stake. He wouldn’t tell him about the confederation that had just been formed, that was forbidden under penalty of death, but he felt he had no choice but to reveal enough about Don Gallardo’s plan in general terms to make him understand the consequences if they failed.
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