the Viking Funeral (2001)

by Stephen - Scully 02 Cannell

  She glanced up, delight twinkling in her jade-green eyes. "What do you mean, no? This is my gift. Everything else I do just fills up the spaces in between."

  "No," he said weakly, pushing her away and zipping up.

  And then, filling in for his faltering resolve, brutish Victory Smith was towering over them, stooping slightly in the six-foot cabin. "He giving you a problem, Lisa?" the steroid jockey asked softly. "'Cause if he is, just say the word and I'll take care of it."

  "Excuse me." She got up off the sofa with no further comment and, swinging her hips, walked all the way to the front of the jet, passing through the small door into the pilot's cabin.

  A strange sense of gratitude for the weight lifter swept over him.

  "Check it out," Victory said as he did a slow, deep-knee bend. Pain registered on his face, but Shane was shocked to see that he could squat all the way down and then rise up again. "Pretty good, huh?"

  "Looks like the old abductor canal is back in business."

  "Jody ain't gonna be here to protect you forever. I'm gonna pick a time when it's just you and me, no witnesses. This is your last day on planet Earth, pretty boy. Try and enjoy it." He turned and lumbered back to his seat in the front, and never looked back at Shane again.

  Seven hours and three time zones later, they landed on the small Caribbean island of Aruba.

  Chapter 34.

  ONE HAPPY LITTLE ISLAND

  QUEEN BEATRIX AIRPORT was on the eastern side of Aruba. They taxied up to a Customs shed located between the Mantoor executive-jet terminal and the regular commercial-jet boarding areas.

  Out of the window of the private jet, Shane could see a handsome, forty-five-year-old dark-skinned man in white linen trousers and a flowered shirt leaning against the fender of a black, seven-passenger Mercedes SUV. His sandaled feet were crossed at the ankles, his arms laced comfortably across his chest.

  Jody had promised that there would be no Customs or Immigration check, so Shane left his Beretta strapped to his ankle. Except for Victory, the rest of the Vikings were also packing. Shane wasn't sure what had happened to the weight lifter's Uzi. He just hoped Jody hadn't returned it to him and that it wasn't hidden in his gym bag.

  Shane followed Lisa, Jose, and Jody off the plane into the humid tropical morning. The rest of the Vikings trailed behind with their small satchels and stopped near the waiting man.

  Jose gave the man a bear hug. Then Lisa took her turn, administering a couple of pecks on his swarthy cheeks. Jose turned toward the Vikings, who had arranged themselves in a semicircle, squinting in the nine A. M. tropical sun.

  "This is Sandro Mantoor," Jose said. "Sandy is going to take us to the hotel." All of this was spoken in perfect Ivy League English. "Sandro and I attended Harvard Business School together." He added proudly, "We were in the same Eating Club."

  They all exchanged names and handshakes, Sandro exposing two rows of porcelain-white, orthodontically perfect teeth. "I've arranged for our best villas at the La Cabana Beach Hotel. I think you will be quite comfortable there." "Sandy owns the hotel." Jose smiled proudly. "But you'll come to see the Mantoors own almost everything on this island." Then, to prove his point, Jose grinned up at the Mantoor Aviation sign hanging on the front of the private-jet terminal.

  "Isle de Mantoor," Lisa said happily. "I've arranged for a second vehicle to take us to our accommodations. Customs and Immigration have already been dealt with, so we can leave without delay," Sandro informed them. "Jose, perhaps you and Ms. St. Marie could travel with me. I have a few things to discuss before the meeting this afternoon."

  "Of course."

  Jose, Sandro, and Lisa got into his Mercedes and pulled out just as an identical SUV arrived. Shane noticed that both vehicles were brand-new, with dealer plates in chrome holders that read: MANTOOR IMPORTS. The island's motto was inscribed on the yellow and red license plate: ONE HAPPY LITTLE ISLAND.

  They all got into the second SUV, Jody choosing the passenger seat next to the driver-- a large, Germanic man who said his name was Eric.

  Shane was jammed in next to Lester and Victory in the second row. Tremaine had slightly more room in the back.

  The capital city of Oranjestad was only five miles away, and they arrived minutes later. The outskirts of the port town were surrounded by tin-roofed shacks, happily dressed in bright Caribbean colors--red with green trim, or yellow with blue. Boxed palms lined the streets and swayed in a brisk trade wind. As they neared the center of town, the red, tin-roofed houses gave way to traditional Dutch and Queen Anne architecture. The port was picturesque, with quaint, brightly painted, stern-tillered fishing boats anchored in the magnificent horseshoe harbor, waiting for dusk. A medieval fort and a lighthouse were on opposite ends of a pair of stone jetties.

  Then they were in the center of town; they passed the First Mantoor Bank and Commerce Company, located in a two-story Dutch turn-of-the-century manor house. It dominated most of one block in downtown Oranjestad. Mantoor Travel, a Donatella Mantoor Corporation, sat on Main Street, along with the Fredrico Mantoor Shipping and Freight Forwarding Company. Farther down the street was the King Venezuelan Shipping Line--a Daveed Mantoor Corporation, and so on.

  Eric kept up a running dialogue in a thick Dutch accent, pointing out sights: "The Mantoor family is, how you say.. . Tradition of Aruba. She is a business dynasty formed by late grandfather, Elias Mantoor, yah. Elias, he come here, was Lebanese Christian.. . Migrated to Latin America over hundred years ago. He do... How you say... trading all along da Caribbean coast. Dere on corner is Mantoor Corporation headquarters." Eric pointed to a plantation-style house on two acres taking up an entire city block in the center of town. "Used to be colonial governor's mansion until Elias, he buy in 1896, for corporate headquarters. Da Mantoor family all become citizens of Netherlands, like me, with Dutch passports. Sandro Mantoor... One day soon, he make the control for all this. The great-uncle, Milos... He very ill." The spiel continued like that until Eric turned into a floral-landscaped, tree-lined drive.

  The La Cabana Beach Hotel and Casino was a beautiful Dutch Colonial structure: rococo white wood railings, fronted slanting wooden porches like delicate lacework. Huge paddle fans turned in the open lobby, swirling hot tropical air lazily around inside the exposed-beam entry.

  Shane was given the Orchid Suite. He went inside, closed the door, and set down his gym bag. The room was large, beautifully appointed, and done restfully in light blue and white. He looked through the sliding glass doors to the Caribbean waters just a few yards beyond. A twenty-five-knot wind was snapping the palm fronds just outside his window. The crescent white-sand beach was teeming with sun-bathers. Bodysurfers competed for wave space with half a dozen streaking sailboarders who shot diagonally back and forth across the turquoise lagoon. Paddle balls and Frisbees flew recklessly. Sailing above it all were a few hang gliders, crisscrossing over this frantic activity like colorful winged creatures circling for a spot to land.

  "Pretty cool, isn't it?" Lisa interrupted. He spun around and found her standing in his bathroom door. She had changed into white shorts, sandals, and a pastel orange blouse tied in a knot at the middle.

  "Are we roommates?" he asked.

  "Actually, my room is next door... But I scammed a key to yours, so I guess we get to be whatever we want." She crossed the room and kissed him lightly on the lips, then pulled away, spinning slightly to her right, showing herself to him. Certainly seductive and inviting, but Shane thought it was also a little too choreographed.

  He was being manipulated. This suddenly seemed like the too-planned dance of a professional... And in that moment, the spell she had cast over him was broken. She suddenly seemed sad, comic, and slightly desperate.

  "We'll have to save our party for later. I've got a meeting with the Harvard Marching and Chowder Society in ten minutes. When we do this again, I don't want us to have to rush." She smiled. "What did you think of Sandy?"

  "The Mantoor family is something," Shane said. "Wha
t don't they own around here?"

  "You don't know the half of it. Aside from their legitimate businesses, the Mantoors control the trans-shipping of all drugs and parallel-market product in this duty-free zone. They're the new pirates of the Caribbean. The Mantoors and Paco Brazos control most of the negotiations for black-market product down here."

  "And who is Paco Brazos?" Shane asked.

  "He's a Colombian nightmare--a 'San Andresito.'"

  "A what?"

  "The San Andresitos are the five families that control all the smuggling into Colombia. They get that name from black-market malls called San Andresitos that are located all over Colombia. The malls are owned by the Medellin cartels. Paco's malls are owned by the Bacca family, the same people that Jody's L. A. drug cash came from. Our smokes will be sold in their malls, and that's how the cartel gets its money back. The five smuggling families--the San Andresitos--operate out of a desert town called Maicao. Since we're running such a huge load of cigarettes, and no one or two families can place that much product, Paco Brazos has subcontracted the deal to include his competitors. But he's charging the other families a big commission, and this could cause a problem. The other San Andresitos don't want to pay him. That's why I'm off to meet Sandy, Jose, and Paco. We're trying to hose these guys down. Then at four, Jose and Paco are meeting with the rest of the San Andresitos to do the deal." She walked toward the door. "These smugglers make me a little nervous. I can hardly wait to finish this and get back to L. A."

  "Do we all go to the four o'clock meeting?"

  "No. Just Sandy and Jose. I won't be there, either, because--"

  "Because as an All-American Tobacco executive, you don't really have a clue what's going on, right? You're just selling duty-free cigarettes."

  "Don't be a shit, darling."

  She smiled, planted another kiss on her fingertips, and wiggled them at him from the door, then turned and walked out of his room, a sexy package designed for trouble.

  After she left, Shane sat on the bed and thought about what she had told him.

  The problem was, he didn't seemed to care anymore. He felt a heavy layer of depression just off the edge of his psyche... A rolling fog of guilt and darkness. It was threatening to overcome what was left of him... To make him completely disappear.

  Chapter 35.

  THE DUTY-FREE ZONE

  You LOOK LIKE Ricky Ricardo," Shane said to Jody, who was standing in the hall outside Shane's door, wearing a wild flowered island shirt. It was ten minutes to four in the afternoon.

  "Just bought this in the gift shop. We're comped." Jody grinned. "Everything's on Sandy. Despite his greasy look, I'm beginning to really acquire a taste for that guy. This place a'his ain't bad, either. You should see all the A-caliber trim hanging by the pool." He smiled broadly, then added: "Let's go. Eric's waiting downstairs. We're supposed to be at the duty-free dock for a meeting with the Colombians in ten minutes."

  "I thought we weren't invited."

  "An hour ago we weren't; something musta changed."

  They met the rest of the Vikings in the lobby and again found themselves packed into the black Mercedes SUV, Shane wedged in behind the driver's seat, staring at Eric's Teutonic wrinkles. Lisa wasn't with them, and Papa Joe had taken the seat up front.

  "We got a little problem," he said to Jody as soon as the vehicle was in motion. "Unfortunately, it's not something I can fix."

  "Unfixable problems are a Viking specialty" Jody said, smiling.

  "Paco Brazos decided to cut one of the San Andresito families out of this deal. The man he left out is Santander Cortez. Santa is not a man you get rid of easily. He's something of an enigma out in the desert... A black marketeer with a political agenda. He will undoubtedly make trouble."

  "Don't worry," Jody said. "We'll take care of it."

  Jose shook his head. "Don't be so sure. There are frequent kidnappings and murders surrounding parallel-market transactions in Maicao. It's out in the desert. There is no law, no police or civil government. Worse still, there is only one road in and out. Once you go in, you are in a trap. Making things more complicated, the leftist guerrillas and the right-wing death squads hide in that desert preying on each other and the San Andresitos' shipments. As white Americans, you will be easily spotted. Everyone in Maicao will know you are there from the first minute you arrive. There are no Anglos in Maicao. You will have only Paco Brazos standing between you and all this, and Paco cannot easily be trusted."

  When they arrived at the port, Eric drove the Mercedes to a fenced-off wharf with a guarded gate. Signs identified it as the MANTOOR SHIPPING COMPANY FREE-TRADE ZONE. NO TRESPASSING warnings were printed on the gate in four languages. A uniformed guard with an out-of-date carbine swung the bar arm up and allowed Eric to drive the German-made SUV down the bustling pier. There were several old three-hundred-foot freighters tied to the wharf. All the ships were registered to different countries. English, Japanese, Dutch, and Venezuelan flags tugged at their halyards, snapping energetically in the stiff breeze. Crane engines roared as loaded containers swung from cables over the dock and above rusting freighters, creating a deafening racket. Green John Deere forklifts, piled high with boxed merchandise, were zipping around, scooting loads of duty-free in and out of ten huge warehouses located on the pier.

  The wharf was immense, almost fifty yards wide, and swarming with people and product.

  "How come they don't warehouse onshore?" Shane asked. "Why store all this stuff out on the dock?"

  "Because none of it is going to stay here more than a day or two," Jose answered. "It's all contraband. Parallel-market goods heading into Colombia."

  "All of this is going to Maicao?" Shane asked as he watched a forklift with three crated washing machines whiz by in front of their vehicle.

  "Maicao and Culcata, Panama," Jose said. "It is no wonder the Mantoors control so many businesses, no? They have much money to invest."

  Shane nodded as he again remembered the maps he had found in Jody's airport house. Culcata was the other city that was circled.

  Eric drove the Mercedes into the last warehouse on the pier and parked. "This building contains only cigarettes and liquor," Jose told them.

  Shane was looking at billions of cigarettes from every U. S. manufacturer: Phillip Morris, Reynolds Tobacco, Liggett & Meyers, and Lorillard. On the other side of the warehouse were the liquor products: huge wooden pallets were stacked forty feet high with cases of Seagram's, J&B, Early Times, and Beefeater.

  "Our cigarettes came from Norfolk, Virginia, yesterday, on that Dutch freighter tied up across the pier. They are now on those pallets over there." He pointed to more than three hundred large shipping containers stacked near the door, with the AAT logo stamped on every box. Each carton also sported a big red duty-free sticker. "They will soon be loaded on a Venezulean ship to cross the channel."

  "How many cigarettes is that?" Shane asked.

  "There are twenty cigarettes in a pack," Jose began. "Ten packs to a carton, fifty cartons in each case, and nine hundred sixty cases in each of these containers. We have shipped three hundred fifty containers." He paused for effect. "That comes to ninety-six million cigarettes."

  As soon as they got out of the SUV, Sandro Mantoor came out of a door a few yards away and headed toward them, his leather soles clacking on the shiny concrete. "This way, my Friends" he said, and led them through another door and up a flight of stairs, into a plush suite of offices. They walked down an air-conditioned corridor, then entered a small conference room. A plate-glass window dominated the far wall, overlooking the bustling warehouse operation below.

  There were four men standing in different parts of the room, and despite their expensive tropical clothing, they all looked like extras from the movie Rio Lobo... Round, sweating men with crooked teeth turned brown by tobacco. Greasy smiles lurked menacingly under hungry eyes. If one of them had started cleaning his teeth with a knife, it wouldn't have surprised Shane. Tucked in their pants, under loose shi
rt-tails, he could see handguns bulging.

  "Paco, mi amigo> " Sandro said expansively as he embraced Paco Brazos, who was only five foot four and bald on top but wore his fringe hair long and pulled back in a ponytail.

  He had on tan slacks and a Mexican guayabera with two Snickers bars stuffed into the breast pocket.

  "Buenos dias, mis companeros, " Paco said to all of them with something approaching two-faced warmth. Then Papa Joe introduced Jody, who introduced the rest of the Vikings.

  "These are my dear friends and trusted business associates," Papa Joe said first in Spanish, then turned to Jody and translated it all into English.

  "Bueno, bueno," Paco Brazos said, nodding and bowing all in the same motion, then introduced the three other men in rapid Spanish.

  Spartacos Sococo was the tallest at around five-seven. He had the worst haircut Shane had ever seen. It looked as if he had attempted to cut it himself using garden shears. Emilio Hernandez was five-five, fat, and had a recent-looking red-welted scar that cut through his left cheek, running down his neck into his collar. Octavio Randhanie, the only skinny San Andresito, just smiled at them, never removing his straw hat or dark glasses.

  The San Andresitos kept stretching their humorless grins over hard eyes that were expressionless as licked stones. Shane had done enough undercover gun and drug deals in Los Angeles to spot the deadly crosscurrents.

  The six men began speaking rapid Spanish. Shane was struggling to keep up, but their Colombian accents sounded different from the Mexican Spanish he'd encountered on the streets of L. A. It appeared that the San Andresitos were arguing over how many containers of cigarettes each family would handle. At one point, Spartacos Sococo slammed his fat brown hand on the table. "Ay te huacho!" he said angrily as he got up and made an elaborate false exit.

  "Tu no tengas miedo, vete," Paco replied sharply, calling Spartacos's bluff, challenging him to go ahead and leave.