“This meal could be our last,” Rodriguez said, picking up a plate. “You’d better eat, too. We might be here awhile.”
“I’ll be here exactly five minutes,” Jorge said. “Then I’ll solve the problem my own way.”
The door swung open, and Fabio Quintero walked in. A tall, thin man Jorge had never seen before walked in behind him.
“Where are the others?”
“They’re not coming,” Quintero said.
Jorge stared at him. Fabio Quintero had a smug expression on his face. His immaculate appearance contrasted sharply with Jorge’s rumpled look. The private banker looked as though he’d spent the day preparing for this moment.
“What do you mean, they’re not coming?”
“There’s no need for them to be here,” Quintero said, smiling. “As the lead bank, the others have authorized me to speak for them.” The other man stood awkwardly by his side, clutching a file folder.
“What’s going on here? Who is this man?”
“My director of accounting,” Quintero said. “Please, sit down, gentlemen.” He nodded to Rodriguez, who had skewered a cube of steak on a toothpick. “I see you’ve discovered the excellent food.”
“I insist that the full consortium be represented at this meeting,” Jorge said.
Quintero flashed his professional smile. “That’s quite unnecessary. We discussed it over a conference call this afternoon and are all in agreement.” Quintero took a seat at the head of the table and glanced at his accountant. The thin man pulled a single sheet of paper from his folder and placed it in front of Quintero.
“And now, gentlemen, if I may summarize. You have arranged for us to purchase 1.3 billion in gold bullion for you. As collateral, you have put up commercial real estate in downtown Montevideo and Buenos Aires, Argentina. We have accepted this transaction on the strength of your stated cash flow from your . . . business operations.”
“Our cash flow is as strong as it ever was.”
“I’m very glad to hear it,” Quintero said. “The first payment is due in ten . . .” He glanced at his watch. “Make that nine days. Three hundred fifty million dollars.” He smiled quickly and said, “US.”
“It’s on its way,” Jorge said.
Quintero held his smile. “The check is in the mail, so to speak?” He paused, and his smile seemed to slip. “Then why the meeting?”
“As I explained to you when I called you back, operational difficulties may prevent us from making the first payment in ten . . . nine days. We need more time-”
“That, unfortunately, will not be possible,” Quintero said quickly.
Jorge felt a twist in his stomach. “What do you mean, not possible? You said-”
“I said I would look into it and I did. A purchase of that size strains the resources of even a group like ours. You are in a high-risk business. The feeling is that if we grant an extension once, we will be asked to grant another and another. Our cash flow will be strained to the breaking point. We must have payment on the date promised.”
“And if we don’t?”
“Now, just simmer down a little,” Rodriguez spoke up. “It’s a little early in the meeting to be making ultimatums. I’m sure we can work out a compromise without-”
“There’s nothing to work out,” Quintero said, “if the cash is not here by noon of the ninth day, the full amount becomes immediately due and payable under the terms of the agreement. The lending group will have no choice but to take possession of the real property on this list-”
“That real estate is worth billions,” Jorge said.
“So it is. We would not have made a loan of such gargantuan proportions without the finest collateral as security.”
“I’m sure it’s sheer coincidence that that list contains a half dozen of the major properties you’ve tried to acquire for the last eight years,” Jorge said.
“Properties on which I have been outbid each time. Unfortunately, I have to earn my cash legitimately. You’ll find it’s much more difficult.”
Jorge stood up. He could feel the heat creeping up his neck, into his face. Rodriguez was staring at him, moving his head almost imperceptibly back and forth, flashing a warning message with his eyes. Jorge took a deep breath. “We’re asking for a two-week extension. For which we’re willing to pay a substantial fee. Am I to understand that it’s being refused?”
“Our relations go back a long way, Señor Cordoba. If it were only me, I would do so in a minute. But the others have spoken.” Quintero examined his manicured nails under the light. “I’m sure even you can see their point. Business is, after all, business.”
Jorge stared across the table at him. Quintero was smiling peacefully, steepling his fingers. Now it was Señor Cordoba, now that he thought he’d won. There was only one way to handle this arrogant pig.
“Very well,” Jorge said. “In that case, we will have to draw on an alternate source of capital we keep in reserve for these cases. You may tell the others that you will receive payment in full on or before the due date.”
Quintero’s eyebrows raised. “Oh?”
Jorge watched Quintero’s eyes flashing back and forth, considering this turn of events, trying to figure out what it meant. He walked to the end of the table and extended his hand. “Goodbye.” He smiled and added, “Fabio.”
Quintero stood up. “An alternate source of capital? But if you have that, why the need for-”
“It’s an expensive source of capital,” Jorge said. “We only use it when we must.”
Quintero’s eyes darted around. “I’m sorry to put you to this trouble-”
“It’s no trouble at all,” Jorge said, fixing him with a steady gaze.
“Perhaps if I talked to the others again, asked them to reconsider-”
“No,” Jorge said. The word hung heavy in the room. “We have asked, and you have answered.” He looked at his watch. “I have no more time for talk.”
“But surely, it can’t do any harm to ask-”
“My plane is waiting,” Jorge said. “But first I need to make a call.”
“Of course,” Quintero said. “Please use my office.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Jorge said. “A public telephone will do.”
Quintero ran his tongue over his lips and swallowed. “I sincerely hope there are no hard feelings, Señor Cordoba. You know that I have the utmost respect for you and Don Gallardo-”
“None whatever.” Jorge smiled, watching him squirm. “As you have said, ‘business is business.’” He turned and walked out the door.
Rodriguez hustled to catch up with Jorge who was walking deliberately down the hall. “What’s all this stuff about an alternate capital source?” he said over Jorge’s shoulder, struggling to pull on his coat. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Buying time,” Jorge said, stopping at a bank of public telephones. “I’ve got to make a call. Find me some transportation back to the airport.”
“Where are we going?”
“You’re going home,” Jorge said, picking up the phone. “I’m going to Peru. The Command Center in Campanilla. I’ve got to find that damn ship.”
“Don’t you want me to go with you?”
“No,” Jorge said. He looked at the fat accountant. He would be useless in the jungles of Peru. “We’re beyond the need for accountants now. You go on home to your family. Take a commercial flight. And don’t worry. We’re not out of the game yet.”
Jorge watched the bearlike accountant shuffle out the door, then stood facing the telephone with his heart pounding. He had never had to resort to anything like this action in his eight-year affiliation with the organization. He had convinced himself he was above such thuggery. He took a deep breath and dialed the number Don Gallardo had given him. He hadn’t wanted to use it, but now it couldn’t be avoided. The arrogant son of a bitch had brought it on himself. He got through on the third ring. A soft female voice answered. Jorge read a numbered code from the piece of pape
r Don Gallardo had given him. He had a job for them. An immediate job.
The hotel was quiet when Fabio Quintero closed and locked his office just after 2:00 a.m. He walked quickly through the lobby, ignoring the fawning gestures of the staff. He normally enjoyed the stir his presence created, but his mind was locked on Jorge Cordoba. What was that Harvard-educated thug up to? If he’d used the phone in his office to make his call, he would have been able to monitor it. All this double-talk about an “alternate source of capital.” Was it a veiled threat or would he really be able to pay him off? In either case, it was a problem.
The doorman scrambled to open the front door of the hotel, bowing with a sweeping gesture. Quintero stepped out into the night air and looked up at the moonless sky, breathing deeply. As if on cue, his black Mercedes pulled up to the entrance. The parking valet swung out of the car and stood at attention, holding the door. Quintero rounded the hood, admiring the lines of the car. The lacquered finish gave it a jewel-like quality under the lights of the portico. He slid in behind the wheel. The valet closed the door firmly, and Quintero immediately pressed the door-lock button. All four locks snapped shut with German efficiency. Safe now, he settled into the leather seat and ran his hand over the wheel, breathing in the smell of the interior, allowing the new car to take his mind off business. He had just taken delivery on the Mercedes, his twelfth. Or was it his thirteenth? He had lost count. The financier had a standing order for a replacement every twelve months. It was his one indulgence.
Quintero pressed the accelerator and pulled away from the entrance, gratified with the surge of power. No chauffeur for him. Those Germans knew how to build cars. Not surprising. Germans did everything well. Music, literature, science, commerce, even war, if the meddling Americans had stayed out of it. Not many people knew it, but his father had been German. A banker from Munich who had met his mother on a business trip to Montevideo. The fact that they had never married was a source of embarrassment, but he was grateful for the leg up his Germanic blood gave him in Uruguay.
He drove out of the compound and headed east toward his villa on the coast, reassessing the risk of what he’d done. Foreclosing had been a huge gamble, one he normally wouldn’t have attempted, but he couldn’t resist the allure of acquiring some of the finest commercial real estate in downtown Montevideo and across the river in Buenos Aires. If he lost, the consequences would be severe, but he had looked carefully into the cartel’s finances, and he’d been sure they would have no choice but to go along. The others in the consortium were frightened of the Colombians, but he wasn’t afraid. He could outmaneuver these thugs any day of the week. He knew they were overextended, but made the loan anyway. With the collateral they had, he couldn’t lose. He would disappear until the deadline passed, then he would reemerge and start the foreclosure proceedings.
He pulled onto the expressway that ran east and west along the coast and quickly accelerated, frustrated at not being able to go over eighty miles per hour without risking the nuisance of a speeding ticket. Such a waste. The Germans had the right idea with their Autobahn. He slid a compact disc into the player and settled back. Mozart’s Flute Concerto Number 1 in G came gliding through the speakers, soothing him. He glanced up in the rearview mirror. The same headlights that he’d seen shortly after leaving the compound of the resort were behind him. The left headlamp was out of alignment, glowing yellow. He watched it for a mile or so. It hung back far in the distance, making no attempt to close the gap. He decided it was nothing.
As the concerto’s adagio spun to a close, Quintero saw the familiar four-way traffic signal shining like a star in the distance, signaling the end of the expressway. The light glowed red. Damn traffic lights were a nuisance on a deserted expressway. He braked and prepared to stop. The car behind him gradually closed the distance.
Quintero pulled up to the light. The car behind him shifted into the left lane and came to a smooth stop beside him. He glanced to his left. The car was empty except for the driver. He looked again. The driver was wearing a black hood over his head. He felt his blood run cold. Frozen with terror, Quintero stared at the dark figure. The man was sitting, calmly staring at him through white slits in the hood. He made no attempt to move. Quintero gripped the wheel, his heart hammering, unable to move. The man sat motionless, staring. What does he want? Is pulling some kind of prank? Slowly, Quintero began to see it for what it was: An attempt to frighten him. If he’d meant to do him any harm, he’d have acted by now, done something. His heart rate began to subside. He swallowed, breathing easier. It was just a cheap trick. One that wouldn’t work. Anger replaced his fear. He’d call that Colombian thug first thing in the morning and tell him he couldn’t be intimidated. The green light in the opposite direction shifted to yellow. He looked straight ahead and prepared to accelerate.
Quintero felt something press against the back of his head, a gentle nudge against the base of his skull, something small and hard and cold. He glanced up in the mirror and saw a black hood rising from the rear seat. The dull glint of a 9mm automatic shone in the yellow street light. He gasped and started to cry out just before a clap of thunder exploded in his head.
He slumped forward, his face resting against the steering wheel, amazed that he could actually feel the bullet crash through his skull, tear into his brain. His senses faded quickly. He felt the warm flow of urine below his waist turn cold, followed by a numbing paralysis that spread throughout his body. For a few seconds, he saw faint shadows and heard distant sounds. The rear door opened and closed. The light turned green. A car drove slowly away.
Daniel Blake stood on the bridge of the Latin Star, peering through the rain with binoculars. A wave of desolation swept over him, watching the tiny speck that was the USS Carlyle fade over the horizon, blown by the capricious wind patterns of Tropical Storm Bruce. He lowered his binoculars and steadied himself against the binnacle.
“No way to signal her now. She’s out of sight.” He glanced at Frank Kozlewski, who was peering into the rain with a pained look on his face.
“Ain’t this ship got a radio?” the chief asked.
Blake shook his head. “It was trashed along with all the navigation equipment.”
“Let me take a look at it,” Dana Kelly said. “Maybe I can fix it.”
Blake looked at her eager eyes. She was trying to redeem herself for something that wasn’t her fault. He felt like a bastard for not telling her the truth, but he didn’t know how to tell her without scaring them all to death. The last thing he needed now was a panicked crew. He bit his tongue. “You can look, but I don’t think so. There’s not much left.”
“Without a radio, we’re screwed,” the chief said.
“I don’t know what happened to it,” Kelly said. She ran through the explanation again, as if trying to understand it herself. “It was in the stateroom with me when Doc gave me that stupid pill. Sitting right by my bunk. I lay down for a minute. When I woke up, it was gone.”
“Forget it,” Blake said. “It’s not your fault.” He couldn’t bring himself to tell her how close she’d come to buying the farm. The thought of that lunatic being in the same room with her, looking down on her while she slept, made his blood run cold.
“I thought Tobin was supposed to be watching her,” Chief Kozlewski said.
“Said he stepped away for a cup of coffee,” Doc Jones put in. “Said he was only gone a few minutes. One of the guys took it, that’s what I think. Thinks he’s being funny. Ain’t that right, Lieutenant?”
Blake didn’t answer. In his mind’s eye, he could see the radio drifting down through the undercurrents, settling onto the ocean floor as clearly as if he were watching it from an underwater camera. He cursed himself. There was no one else to blame. He knew from Doc’s report that El Callado was still aboard, but he hadn’t thought he would make a move until nightfall if he’d move at all against an armed boarding party. It was a mistake that had almost gotten Kelly killed. The wind rose to a high-pitched howl and blasted
through the superstructure. He looked out at thick sheets of rain whipping the bridge. The weather was deteriorating by the minute. He looked at the anxious faces. He couldn’t keep them in the dark much longer.
“This weather ain’t getting any better,” the chief said, holding on to a handrail. His face was drawn. “When’s that frigate due?”
“Forty-eight hours, hopefully sooner,” Blake said. It was the first time he’d seen fear in the chief’s eyes.
“That ain’t gonna cut it,” the chief said, clinging to the rail, blinking his eyes, looking out at sea. The wind was gusting, blowing the tops off waves. “We ain’t gonna be here in forty-eight hours.”
“What do we do now?” Kelly asked, leaning into a roll.
“Yeah,” Doc Jones said. “How we gonna get off this bucket?”
Blake looked at the expectant faces. They were looking to him for answers. Answers he didn’t have. He glanced out at the mountainous waves forming and the empty place on the horizon where the Carlyle had been. There was nothing to do now but level with them. He had a plan in the back of his mind, but it would take everything they had to pull it off. He couldn’t shield them from the realities of the situation any longer.
“The first thing we do is secure the ship.” He nodded to Frank Kozlewski. “Let’s get everyone together.”
“It’s him, ain’t it?” Frank Kozlewski said, drawing coffee. “That headcase Rivero was talking about.” He and Blake stood alone by the coffee urn, leaning into a steep roll, waiting for the others to assemble in the dining salon. “He took the radio and threw it over the side. Trying to cut us off, isolate us.”
Blake nodded. “I’d say that’s a pretty safe bet.” He took a sip of coffee and winced at the acid in his stomach. He hadn’t had anything to eat since noon the day before. His stomach felt like it was full of ground glass.
“What are you going to tell the others?” The chief’s face was drawn up into a worried look.
“The truth,” Blake said. He grabbed a stanchion as the freighter pitched up and yawed to starboard. The ship rolled upright, groaning loudly. “They have a right to know.”
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