“Sir, you are the richest and most powerful of the Medellin families ...”
But Gachez was obviously worried. Now Juan held out his hand. “Perhaps this will solve your problem, sir.”
Gachez put his autographed Yankees baseball back on its stand on his desk and took the object from his assistant. It was a jar of clear liquid, of the consistency of mineral oil or turpentine. Gachez opened the jar; it was odorless. “What is it?”
“That is a half a kilo of cocaine,” Juan said. “Dissolved in water with some hydrochloric acid to reduce crystallization and precipitation. It is colorless, odorless and tasteless. It cannot be detected by X-rays or visual inspection. To bring it back you simply put it into a pot and boil out the water—and you are left with pure cocaine. Or it can be sold and marketed as a liquid.” He took the jar back from Gachez, tightly resealed the jar, then walked over to an aquarium in a corner of the office. He lifted the aquarium’s lid and dropped the jar in . . . and it promptly vanished. There was no trace of it except for the metal lid. “We can pack it in shipments of tropical fish, or seafood, or tanks of gasoline—we can even make blocks of ice out of it.
“This is even better.” Juan held up a grocery bag and extracted several grapefruit. “Each one of these has been injected with liquid cocaine,” he said. “They carry a quarter-kilo’s worth. A standard fifty-pound bag of fruit holds about twenty kilos. Even if it is cut open by inspectors they will find nothing—they look only for powdered cocaine hidden in the fruit itself. Unless they test the juice itself, it is undetectable.”
“Ingenious,” Gachez mumbled. “So you are saying we should forego air and sea deliveries? Ship product in fruit and tropical fish containers?”
“Containerized shipment is a safe alternative, sir. Thousands of sealed containers pass through American ports every day. Customs inspects only a fraction of them. If we mix up our shipments between carriers and ports and don’t try to flood the market we can maintain deliveries without having to submit to Salazar’s blackmail.”
Gachez nodded. “It is no substitute for air-and-sea deliveries, but as you say, it is an alternative for the time being. And it should take some of the air out of this pirate Salazar’s sails.”
At least so he hoped.
“Forget Salazar and his pirates, eh? I like it, Juan. See to the new process immediately.”
Miami, Florida
Three Days Later
Maxwell Van Nuys rose to his feet at the head table in the banquet room of the Gusman Heritage Center in downtown Miami, chock full of major players. He was about to introduce the evening’s guest speaker.
Even though Van Nuys was now the ex-officio chairman of the Miami Chamber of Commerce he remained a popular and admired figure in south Florida’s affairs.
“While the coffee and brandy is being served, it gives me great pleasure to introduce our honored guest for the annual Chamber of Commerce awards banquet. She has become one of this country’s most dynamic leaders. With her colleagues she has taken on the most difficult and important tasks this nation could assign—securing the borders from those who would impose their death crops on the people of our country, our state and our proud city. She has been doing this job with intelligence, determination and professionalism for years.
“She is a former Army security officer, former commander of the United States Customs Service Air Branch drug-interdiction unit at Homestead Air Force Base, a former United States pistol champion as well as a commercial and military pilot. And she is presently an air-operations commander of the new United States Border Security Force, also known as the Hammerheads. This organization, in just a few months’ time, has captured over two hundred aircraft, dozens of large vessels and nearly a half-billion dollars worth of illegal narcotics. I give you Sandra M. Geffar of the Hammerheads.”
Sandra Geffar, not liking it but doing it as a duty, had become a different person in public. However she felt inside, she could be, could seem, self-assured on the outside.
“Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen ...” and graciously named all the important ones. “I want to express my gratitude to the members of the Chamber of Commerce for their support of the Border Security Force in recent months. I know it hasn’t been easy, but with your support, the ominous predictions that tourism, commerce, shipping and the lifestyles of south Florida somehow would all be ruined by stricter border-security measures has not come true. We work as a team, and as I applaud your efforts I also ask for your continued support in the future.”
It was a smart move. The Chamber of Commerce had at first denounced the Hammerheads and called for their headquarters to be moved out of south Florida, but her public relations and apparent friendship with Van Nuys had paid off.
“Let me tell you something of what we’ve accomplished together. We can see the shift in air and sea drug deliveries dropping off dramatically in the southeast. Drug-smuggling activity is spreading to other parts of the south and southwest United States, which, of course, is why we need your continued support and the support of our representatives in Washington so we can continue to expand our operations. Within the next three years I truly believe we can stop ninety percent of all narcotics smuggled across our borders. That is more than a conviction, it is a pledge I make to you tonight.
“Border security means working to keep the supply of illegal narcotics down, but we must do something about the demand too, and that means getting more involved with our children’s education, their lives. We need to tell them straight about the incredible danger of becoming hooked on drugs—the physical dependence, the emotional enslavement, the pain and suffering it inflicts on families. We all know about co-dependency. That’s a fancy term for the innocents’ being destroyed. I have urged that proceeds from fines and confis- cated-property auctions collected by the Hammerheads over and above our non-appropriated funding levels be added to the Drug Education Trust Fund to support drug and alcohol abuse education for school-age children . . .”
The rest of the speech went by flawlessly and successfully, and Geffar received her fifth standing ovation at its conclusion. That applause was only intensified when Van Nuys joined her at the podium. There was no doubt about it—Geffar and Van Nuys were the hit of the evening.
Later, in the back of the limousine provided for her and Van Nuys, Geffar kicked off her shoes. “I am exhausted, ” she said. “I feel like I’ve been on my feet all day.”
“Your day starts at five A.M.,” Van Nuys summarized for her. “You fly two or three hours a day, back and forth to that platform out there, and then you come ashore, spend half the evening in your office, and then give a speech in front of the Chamber of Commerce. I don’t know where you find the energy.”
“Sometimes I don’t know, either,” Geffar replied. She snuggled closer and wrapped his arms around herself. “Right now, I don’t have any.”
He moved his hands around and cupped her breasts in his big hands. “No energy at all?”
“Well, enough energy for that. ” But she shook her head. “As intriguing as that sounds, doing it in the back of a limo driving down an interstate is not my idea of romantic. Or maybe you just can’t control yourself, Mr. Big-Shot attorney.”
He grasped her breasts firmly with both hands and encircled her nipples with his forefingers. “I can if you can, Miss Hammerhead drugbuster.” She sat back in his arms and stared out the dark windows in silence.
“Quite a speech you gave about that education funding proposal, Sandra,” Van Nuys said. “You usually talk only about the Hammerheads. Tonight it was diflFerent. Impassioned.”
“That’s how I feel,” Geffar replied. “Children are the most important natural resource we have. It sounds cliche, but I happen to believe it.”
“It doesn’t sound cliche coming from you.” He paused a bit, then asked, “Do you want children yourself?”
He felt her entire body relax. “Oh, yes,” she replied.
“Really?”
She looked up
at him with surprise. “You don’t believe me?" “You don't really seem the settling-down type.”
“Another sexist remark, eh?” she admonished him with a humorous lilt in her voice. “You think that just because I’m the commander of a para-military organization, that I carry a gun and fly planes, that I’m not the motherly type. God, spare me from men with tiny minds ...”
“Hey, give me a break, lady,” Van Nuys said. “It was an honest question.”
She responded by wrapping his arms tighter around her body. “I’ve just never found the settling-down type,” she said. “Successful, established men who want families are hard to find. Besides, career has always come first.”
“Now? Always?”
He felt her shrug in his arms. “Children ... perhaps. With the right man. Children would be lovely.”
“That’s good,” Van Nuys said, nuzzling her neck, “because we can go back to my house and practice making a few.”
Geffar sighed with pleasure as his hands roamed over her breasts once again, but he felt her suddenly stiffen. She had spotted his Rolex under the cuff of his tuxedo and had saw the time. “The invitation sounds superb, Max, but I can’t. I have a staff meeting in seven hours, and I’ve still got to prepare for it.”
He let his head hit the back of the seat with a frustrated thud. “You can’t be serious, Sandra,” he said with a twinge of agonized humor in his voice. “You’ve got me so hard I can’t walk straight, and now you tell me you have to work . . . ?”
“I’m sorry, GefiFar said. “Give me a rain check for tomorrow night, will you? I take over the evening shift in two days, so I have the day after tomorrow off.” She gave him a conciliatory kiss. “We can do something about your walking problem then.
He let out another exasperated groan and a muttered, “Women .. .,” then reached over and clicked on the intercom. “Edward, turn around and head for Miss GefiFar’s residence.”
An hour later, Van Nuys arrived back at his luxurious estate at Sunrise Beach. As the driver opened his door and let him out, Van Nuys told him, “Thank you, Edward. Looks like our first meeting in the city isn’t until eleven-thirty. Have the car ready by eleven.” The driver nodded and hurried away to park the limo.
Van Nuys loosened his tie as he started up the brick steps of his house. Damn GefiFar, he thought to himself. What a bitch. No wonder she doesn’t have any children at nearly age forty—she won’t sit still long enough for anyone to get a poke at her. She could be a very sexy bitch and a ravenous lover, but she was too easily distracted by her work to pay total attention to something as in consequential as a man.
Well, she wasn’t worth losing any sleep over, he decided. He had dozens of bitches of all ages hanging around that would crawl over broken glass all the way up his driveway just to suck his kneecaps. He was with GefiFar only to learn as much as he could about the Hammerheads, not because he was going to father any of her damned offspring. For all he knew, the little brats would be born wearing fatigues and jack-boots . . .
Near the top of the steps leading to his front door he suddenly felt uneasy. His big Indian-born butler, Salman, would have heard the announcing buzzer at the front gate and have greeted his employer at the front door by now. The light was on and the lock on the front door was still secured, as evidenced by the blinking red light on the keypad next to the doorway . . .
He stooped a bit, lifted his right pants leg and removed a palmsized Beretta 21A .22-caliber automatic pistol from an ankle holster. His hand completely engulfed the tiny weapon. He entered the code to unlock the front door, pushed the latch, quickly swung the door open and stepped back. Nothing. No movement, no sound.
“Salman. Get over here.” No reply. “Salman?”
Something was definitely weird—Salman would have left a note if he had to leave in an emergency. Van Nuys hurried down the steps and around the semicircular driveway to the garage. His driver, Edward, was also an experienced bodyguard—if he was going to go through any doors, he was going to increase his own odds of survival if he brought someone else with him.
The lights in the garage were already out, but the car was still parked in its place beside the garage. He tried the side door, it was locked. No way Edward would have gone home so soon. Whoever was in the house now had Edward as well as Salman. Which meant they had muscle and firepower. Neither of his people was easy to bring down.
No way in hell he was going through that front door. He thought about calling Hokum, but the only phone outside the house was on the back patio, and it was too exposed—whoever was in the house could easily spot him on the patio. There was a spiral staircase leading from the patio to the second floor bedroom, but they could be covering that entrance too. Run for a neighbor’s house? How far would he get?
One option left. The garage was detached from the main house but connected via a second-story breezeway linking the spare storeroom over the garage with the game room. The breezeway had a halfheight roof with access on both ends and was big enough to crawl through. He might be able to get into the house through the breezeway without setting off any other alarms.
He climbed the steps to the second floor of the garage, used his keys to unlock the door, slipped inside. He made his way to the hidden doorway that connected into the breezeway, hoisted himself through the tiny door and into the breezeway roof. This space was only intended as access to phone lines and as extra storage space, hardly big enough for his large frame, but it was the only way. He low-crawled across the breezeway eaves to the house, then found the door that led to the storage room. Prying open the door, he slid through and crawled inside. He removed his shoes, picked his way in the darkness past boxes and old pieces of furniture and found the door leading to the short stairway. Slowly, carefully to avoid making any sounds, he moved down the narrow stairs that led to the game room. The door was unlocked. He cracked it a few inches, saw that the game room was dark and quiet, crouched low, slowly opened the door and went inside.
At least for a few seconds he might have the element of surprise over whoever had broken in. Trying not to cause any creaking sounds in the hardwood floor, he stepped carefully around the pool table and made his way to the door to the upstairs hallway.
He was a few yards from the door when the lights snapped on. Two men were crouched down in the corners of the game room, Uzi submachine guns in hand. Behind him was the sound of derisive clapping.
“Very good, very good, Mr. Van Nuys. You have the makings of a master spy, or at least a second-story man. Perhaps you should forget the drug smuggling business and take up espionage or house-breaking, no?”
The two men in the corner moved quickly forward, one placing the barrel of his Uzi against Van Nuys’ right temple, the other taking the Beretta out of his hand. They grabbed his hands, put them on top of his head and spun him around to face back inside the room—to face a man in his mid-to-late forties, with dark hair, a moustache to match and a dark suit with a flowered tropical shirt underneath. Seated on a barstool in front of the bar, he twirled a pair of sunglasses in one hand while his other rested on the handle of a cellular phone sitting on the counter. He was smiling at the dirty, insulation-covered frame of the usually elegant Maxwell Van Nuys.
Flattened against one wall, hands on their heads, were Edward and Salman, both prevented from turning by the shotgun barrels in their faces. Salman showed trails of dark dried blood down the side of his face. Edward showed enough anger to chew off the barrel of the shotgun covering him from behind.
But the biggest surprise was the man seated beside the gunnery stranger—none other than Fire Chief, Police Chief, Chief of Community Services Joseph Hokum. He did not have his hands on his head like Edward or Salman, though he too was being covered by a gunman. “What the hell is going on in here, Joe? Who are these people—?”
“Silence,” the man in the flowered shirt told him in Spanish. “Not say a word.”
“What’s going on—”
Van Nuys was instantly slumped ov
er the billiards table, his head ringing, his vision blurred from a blow from one of the gunmen behind him. He felt as if he were going to black out.
“Herve will crack your skull open next time,” the man said. “I will not warn you again. It is only because I am intrigued with you and your little operation here that you are still alive—I was told to come here, cut you up into little pieces and scatter you across your front lawn for the pleasure of your fine neighbors.”
“Bullshit,” Van Nuys said. “Whoever sent you wants something.” He heard a rustle of movement behind and prepared for another shot to his head, but the man in the flowered shirt raised a hand.
“I have killed men for less than calling me a liar, Van Nuys—”
He doubted it. “You’re a messenger boy. Now let’s cut the gangster crap and tell me why you broke into my house.”
“I do indeed have a message for you, but if I shot you and yours right here and now I wouldn’t be blamed for anything but making a mess. Do you understand me?” He said it quietly.
Van Nuys’ face was pushed hard into the green velvet of the pool table, but he managed to look up enough to say, “If you’re going to shoot me, goddamn it, then do it. Otherwise, give me the message and get out.” Bravado, of course, but he’d lived by the bluff his whole life.
He heard the metallic snik of a safety being removed from a weapon, and he closed his eyes and prepared himself. But instead of a bullet crashing into his brain he heard the man in the flowered shirt laugh, then was hauled upright, the gunmen backed away and the guy sat back in his chair by the wall and smiled at Van Nuys.
“How did you get in my house?” Van Nuys said, continuing his own show of machismo and with more confidence now—whoever had sent the men didn’t want him dead or he would have been. He could challenge them, so long as he didn’t overdo it . . . He glanced at Hokum, who seemed to withdraw under his gaze.
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