Brown, Dale - Independent 02

by Hammerheads (v1. 1)

  Ciudad del Carmen, Mexico

  The Next Morning

  “This is your new operation?” Van Nuys said. They had touched down on a beautiful sun-drenched airport surrounded by a narrow inlet and a broad green-blue bay in southeastern Mexico. As they taxied back down the runway, Van Nuys saw palm trees, city buses plying the airport grounds, immaculately painted and maintained hangars and a modern, multi-story glass passenger terminal. The Lear jet carrying Salazar, Van Nuys, Canseco, and several soldiers and assistants taxied past the passenger terminal to a row of private hangars and maintenance buildings. They parked on a concrete ramp, complete with a red painted “welcome” runner leading from the scrupulously clean ramp into the private offices nearby.

  “A bit different from Verrettes, but every bit as functional, I assure you,” Salazar said as he parked the Lear and shut down the engines— Van Nuys quickly memorized the latitude and longitude coordinates on the LORAN navigation set before Salazar shut it off. “In Haiti I was set up as a district military commander and given full use of a base and facilities, but that was when Gachez and the Medellin cartel financed my entire operation. They were content to have me live like a common soldier, no better than a peasant. But, I invested much of my own funds into this operation, and now, as you can see . . .” A Mexican customs official met them, copied down the plane’s tail number, made a few more scratches on a form on a clipboard, saluted Salazar and departed—he made no effort to check the cargo compartments, where he would have found over one hundred million dollars in American, Mexican, West German and Colombian currency. “They are very thorough and tough in the tourist passenger terminal,” Salazar commented, “but out here they all belong to me. We can bring anything we wish into Ciudad del Carmen at any time as long as the local officials and the militia get their considerations.” “Do you keep tabs on who comes and goes in this city?”

  “Of course,” Salazar said. “The Customs officials report all Americans coming into the area, especially any American government officials—they can be DEA or Border Security, although their passport says State Department. The militia reports any suspicious newcomers into the city, and we act accordingly.”

  “Why this city?” Van Nuys asked. “Ciudad del Carmen looks like a resort town. Your base of operations is on a major tourist airport, not two hundred meters from the main passenger terminal.” “Ciudad del Carmen is a major resort city. Not as big or as fancy as Veracruz or Cancun but very popular with Europeans and Asians. The American tourists stopped coming here after the city was badly damaged by a hurricane. And why shouldn’t we be located on the main airport? Carmen del Sol Airlines is the major tourist airline of the state of Campeche, with regular flights as far away as Boston and San Francisco. The tourists like flying here because it is much less expensive than Cancun, but then they drive, bike or sail around the Yucatan Peninsula to Cancun or down the coast to Veracruz. In a sense my pilots and I are also tourists ...”

  They exited the jet and began down the taxiway, inspecting whitewashed buildings with colorful murals and welcome signs on the hangars. Everyone working at Carmen del Sol Airlines wore white short-sleeved coveralls with the company logo on the breast pocket—but Van Nuys also recognized the military-style haircuts and detected the bulges of concealed weapons on a few of the so- called mechanics.

  “And the Cuchillos are Carmen del Sol Airlines?”

  “Exactly. We are a regional and international carrier, and we run a charter service for oil companies and manufacturers in the neighboring provinces. We also hire out our mechanics and facilities to a variety of users, from United Airlines to Mexicali Airlines—including one very special customer.” Salazar motioned him to a closed hangar, where a guard checked them in and gave them I.D. badges.

  When they entered the hangar Van Nuys could not believe what he saw—two Mexican Air Force F-5 fighters, complete with missiles and guns, being worked on by Cuchillo maintenance men.

  “We contracted out to the Mexican government for engine-repair work and structural modification jobs,” Salazar said proudly. “We easily undercut other bidders, and my men can do a better job than any government-trained person. We now have a legitimate, government-approved front, legitimate outlets for our funds and access to all manner of weapons and military equipment—no more need of black market suppliers. Of course, we have full authorization to test- fly these and any other aircraft we receive, and we require a great many test flights. Our other jets, the one remaining Mirage and the Aero Albatros bombers that survived the attack on the Border Security Force installations, are being repaired or modified in other locations.”

  “Gachez should be pleased,” Van Nuys said, and meant it. Salazar had worked a minor miracle since the evacuation from Verrettes.

  “Gachez is becoming an old woman,” Salazar said. “He worries too much.”

  “He also calls the shots. He wants a successful delivery and fast. Can you do it tomorrow night?”

  “I can. Without the Hammerheads it will be much easier. There are scattered thunderstorms in the area—we will be able to hide between them . . . How big is this shipment that Senor Old Woman would like delivered?”

  “Fifty thousand kilos. In one drop. Drop sites in the Bahamas, Florida and near Cuba.”

  “Fifty thousand . . . impressive.”

  “The job’s not finished yet. What are you going to need?”

  “It will require detailed planning,” Salazar said. “I will need a breakdown of the drop points, the timing of each drop, the exact size of the shipment.”

  “I’ll get you everything you require,” Van Nuys said, “but I will review your plan before Gachez will allow your planes to fly to

  Colombia to pick up the shipment. Frankly I don’t see how you can pick up so much and deliver it tomorrow night, but if you think we can do it, we’ll go ahead.”

  “You are dealing with the new Cuchillos, Mr. Van Nuys,” Salazar said. “The job is as good as done.”

  Mexican Customs Office, Ciudad del Carmen, Mexico

  When the Mexican Customs official arrived back in his office he went immediately to his supervisor’s office. “Sir, Senor Salazar has returned,” he told his superior, Major Carlos Fiera, after being waved into the office. The senior officer extended his hand, and the inspector gave him his clipboard with the completed inspection form on it.

  Fiera scanned the form. “You indicate four other passengers on this flight. Who else was with Senor Salazar?”

  “I did not inquire,” the inspector said, “per your instructions.” But, he paused briefly as his supervisor’s eyes grew darker, and added, “Two were Salazar’s men. One was a Cuban named Canseco. He was carrying a light pistol. The fourth was an American. His name was Maxwell Van Nuys. He was carrying a briefcase. That was all I could observe, sir.”

  “Were they carrying anything else?” The inspector was silent as he tried to think of an appropriate response. “Unofficially, what else did you observe?”

  “Several bundles and suitcases were loaded into an armed car, sir.”

  Cash, not drugs, Fiera concluded. Any movement of drugs meant trouble, but any amount of cash entering the country, especially this town where Salazar had such control, was business as usual. The Customs supervisor scribbled his signature on the inspection form in the required block and handed it back to the inspector. “Tell no one else. Dismissed.”

  As soon as the inspector left with the report, Fiera rose from his chair, stretched, and went to the far corner of his office to pour himself a cup of coffee. Through the shutters he watched the battered old taxis make their way up and down the cobblestone streets of downtown Ciudad del Carmen. He cast admiring glances at the middle-aged, still erotic-looking European women sifting through hats and souvenirs in the stores, and sneered at the growing numbers of Japanese that seemed to be filling the town’s streets more every year—he appreciated their money but despised their monotonous appearance and their unintelligible chatter. He half-closed the l
ouvered blinds and lowered them down the full length of the window.

  That gesture was a rehearsed signal to an American contact who would ride past the Customs office a few times each day. By lunchtime he would look out the window again and check for a return signal. If there was a bicycle padlocked to a stop sign just outside the window, with its front wheel removed and the stop signpost placed within the front wheel fork, he would know that his signal had been removed and the meet was on.

  Carlos Fiera had been so reporting unusual activities to the United States Drug Enforcement Administration for several years in every town he had worked during his tenure with the Mexican Customs Bureau. The DEA always paid well and kept relations with their informants confidential. Because Ciudad del Carmen was so small and because Salazar had such a tight grip on the town’s officials, extraordinary steps had to be taken when communicating with the DEA—no phone calls, no visits, no correspondence through the mail. In fact, the Customs supervisor would report any official visits by the DEA or the Mexican government to Salazar.

  The only safe methods of contact were blind drops, brief exchanges inside a store or a crowded restaurant, or car-to-car swaps on a deserted road late at night. He would pass a coded note with information, and the DEA agent would pass an envelope with cash— most of the time he never saw the American agent for longer than a few seconds. There were no interviews, no official reports exchanged, no cooperative efforts between the Mexican officials and the DEA.

  The Customs supervisor’s primary assignment from the DEA was to keep an eye on Salazar’s new enterprise, Carmen del Sol Airlines. The DEA had been interested in any new enterprises being established, such as air cargo, truck lines or fishing ventures. The small airline had been under observation for months, but until recently it did not seem to catch anyone’s attention. When the Mexican government contracted for work with the airline, the DEA all but ignored them.

  But when Carmen del Sol Airlines had suddenly quadrupled in size, using huge amounts of cash to buy silence and cooperation, the DEA was very interested; and when the military-style transports and crewmen arrived, right about the time of the attacks in the United States, interest quickly heated up. The DEA was paying a lot of money for information now, as was Salazar—a man could find himself very rich if he was smart and not too greedy.

  Spying on someone as powerful and as influential as Salazar was not easy. He had been reporting on as much of Salazar’s operation as he could, but it was difficult to chart the numerous comings and goings of all Carmen del Sol Airlines planes without risking discovery, so his reports on Salazar’s activities were spotty. But this was a real discovery, one that the DEA would pay extra for.

  The special request from the DEA came in just a few days earlier— be on the lookout for a man named Van Nuys, a tall dark American who might be traveling through Mexico alone or in the company of Salazar or his men.

  The Mexican Customs supervisor returned to his desk until almost eleven o’clock, then looked outside again. Sure enough, the bicycle was there, with the front wheel missing and the fork stuck through the post.

  When the rest of the office began filtering out to lunch, Fiera began preparing the coded message. It was a simple code, easily broken by an expert cryptographer, but to anyone who might glance at it if they picked it up off the street it would appear as a series of random numbers and letters. A message could be prepared in less than five minutes, without using a pencil and paper to draw a complicated encoding grid or keyword breakdown.

  Moments later the message was done. Fiera folded the message up and stuck it in a pocket, then checked the blotter and any papers underneath for any signs that the message had been creased to anything else. He refolded the paper into a thin square about the size of a peso, told his secretary he was going to lunch, and left.

  Several blocks from the office Fiera spotted a man with a jacket looped over his right arm. He headed toward him. trying not to stare at him or single him out with his eyes or his body. The man wore sunglasses and a pair of colorful Tour de France-style bicycle racing tights, which most of the tourist population of bicycle-crazy Ciudad del Carmen wore.

  When Fiera got within a few steps of him the man took the jacket from his right arm and flipped it over his right shoulder. Fiera acknowledged the message by scuffing his right foot along the pavement as he walked past. The contact cleared his throat. Fiera continued on to find a restaurant for lunch.

  On exiting the restaurant an hour later Fiera saw the man entering the restaurant just as he was going through the door. The contact had the jacket looped over his right arm once again. As they passed each other in the doorway, turning nearly chest to chest, the contact’s left hand flicked out from under the jacket and plucked the note out of Fiera’s hand.

  Fiera thought nothing else about the incident all day. If the information he had passed was worthwhile, another meet would be arranged and Fiera would get his money. He would keep a few hundred pesos for himself, send most of it by courier to his grandchildren in Mexico City, use a little here and there for his own informants and spies, and, of course, give a little to his ladyfriends. He kept his bank balance low, his excesses in check, and a traveling bag packed— knowing that the government, Salazar and doubtless others kept tabs on the financial situations of all important officials—the peaceful little town of Ciudad del Carmen could turn ugly for him very quickly.

  But later that afternoon, just a few minutes before his normal quitting time, Fiera heard a knock on his office door. “Excuse me, sir,” his assistant said, “but there is someone here who wishes to lodge a complaint with you.”

  “Take his report and tell him to come back tomorrow.”

  “But sir—” The aide was cut off and Fiera heard an American voice: “Yeah, man, I want to complain about your inspectors at the airport.”

  “We are closed ...” Fiera looked up from his desk and saw a tall man in bicycle racing tights standing in front of him—his contact. Fiera quickly blanked his expression and finished his sentence with “. . . come back later.”

  “Your men are trying to rip me off, General,” the man said. “They’re tryin’ to take my tunes.”

  “Your . . . what?”

  “My tunes, man.” The agent swung a huge portable radio/tape player/compact disc player up onto Fiera’s desk and pushed a button; immediately the heavy booming, guttural lines of rap music crashed in the air. “You gotta listen to me, General, you gotta.”

  His assistant took hold of the man’s arms. “Shall I escort this gentlemen out, sir?”

  Fiera held up a hand. “It’s all right, Lieutenant.” The assistant gave the American an angry look and departed. Fiera then said over the blare of the music, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Is it true about Van Nuys?” the DEA agent asked.

  “I could be shot for talking to you like this. Salazar has this entire place wired, I’m sure of it . . .”

  “The music will scramble his bugs. Answer me. Is it Van Nuys? Is he with Salazar here?”

  “Yes. I have not seen him myself but one of my inspectors reported it.”

  “Where is he staying? How long will he be here . . .?”

  “I did not ask, and neither did my man. I have as little contact as possible with Salazar. His men will slice me to ribbons if he suspects I am spying on him. You’ve got all the information you’re going to get.” Fiera raised his voice over the heavy rhythm of the rap music. “Now get out of here before I have you arrested for interfering with a police officer—”

  “All right, all right.” But before he turned off the music, the agent said in a lowered voice, “If Van Nuys and Salazar are here, the Hammerheads will be coming after them. They’re not out of business. Clean up your records and get out of town. If they ever get Salazar, your government will be asking embarrassing questions. If the Hammerheads miss, Salazar will be after your ass. Now confiscate this radio. Your last paycheck’s inside.”

  “And you will le
ave that radio here until this matter is cleared up,” Fiera shouted, immediately taking his cue. “Now shut that thing off!” The DEA agent jabbed the OFF button. “Til be back as soon as I get the receipt, General. I swear it’s not stolen, I’ll have the receipt for you tomorrow morning, I promise ...” The agent put on his sunglasses once again and hurried out. Through the side window Fiera could see him pedal off down the main street and into the crowd.

  Fiera quickly opened the compartment in the back of the radio where the electrical cord was stored and found a tightly wrapped roll of one-hundred-dollar bills packed beneath a false bottom under the cord. He removed the money and replaced the cover just as his assistant knocked on the door. “Everything all right, sir?”

  “That American tried to make me believe this radio isn’t stolen,” Fiera said casually. “He claims he will be coming back for it in the morning. If he fails to return, which I believe will be the case, the radio is yours.”

  His assistant's eyes lit up as he reached for the “boom box.” “I will put it in a safe place until tomorrow', sir.” The radio was going straight into his assistant’s car trunk, of course. No better way to insure someone’s discretion than making him an accomplice.

  Fiera stayed a few minutes longer, collecting his personal copies of reports, logs and journals and packing them in a traveling case. The American was right—this beautiful little town would not be a safe place for him if the American Border Security Force was coming for Salazar. The Mexican government would make inquiries, wondering how a major smuggling ring could operate in Ciudad del Carmen right under the nose of a senior Customs officer.

  But the head of the Medellin cartel would also be making inquiries. Fiera did not want to be around when they came for him.