by Ridge King
“You know about Switzerland, too, I see,” said Fulton at last, leaning back, a rueful smile crossing his lips. “That new bilateral agreement we reached with them through Treasury a couple of years ago was the crack in the door I needed.”
“I see.”
“Yes, I know more every week, in greater and greater detail.”
“All right,” he said simply, leaning up in his chair.
Slanetti could tell by his tone of voice he meant he would vote for St. Clair and instruct his colleagues from Oklahoma to do likewise, but he couldn’t believe it.
“You’ll vote for St. Clair?” Slanetti asked timidly.
“Yes,” said Fulton, raising his eyebrows and speaking rather loudly. He saw that Slanetti didn’t believe him. He snapped up his phone.
“Connect me with President Norwalk immediately. I’ll stay on the line.” The secretary did as she was told, much surprised. Fulton hadn’t called Norwalk in years. The White House told his secretary that the President was in conference and asked if an assistant could help. Fulton broke in.
“Interrupt his conference and tell him that I mean to talk to him—very urgent. Don’t worry, he’ll take the call,” he said impatiently, drumming his fingers on his desk and glancing at Slanetti, who sat silently. Finally, Norwalk answered.
“Yes, John?”
“I’ve got your Phil Slanetti in my office right now, Mr. President. He’s told me, well—what he came to tell me, and I want you to know that as of this day I will support Sam Houston St. Clair for President without reservation. I don’t think Phil believes me, but I give you my word, despite our differences, that I will support your effort on this end if I can rely on the White House to support me in the matter Phil and I discussed.”
“Your word is solid gold in my book, John. I’m just sorry that we haven’t agreed in the past and that I couldn’t have your support previously.”
“You had more persuasive arguments this time, Mr. President,” said Fulton with a bitter smile as he looked briefly at the embarrassed Slanetti sitting opposite. The conversation was short and Slanetti was relieved when it was over.
“I know you to be a vengeful man when you want to be, Mr. Fulton, but please believe me when I say that if you vote for Thurston on the third, in the seventeen days before the President leaves office on the twentieth, you life will be ruined here in Washington and back in Oklahoma, too.”
“I don’t doubt it. I know how fast those boys over at Justice can work when they get a hot iron put up their backsides. I know my power in Congress, don’t delude yourself that I don't. A lot I could hush up, but you’ve done your homework a little too well for me. I won’t fight when I can’t win. It’s that simple. I’m a very practical man,” said Fulton, “above all my opinions and preferences, a very practical man.”
“I can see that,” said Slanetti.
He got up to leave.
“By the way,” Fulton said.
“Yes, sir?”
“If you don’t want to work for St. Clair’s people after this term, give me a call.”
Slanetti smiled.
“I’ll do that.”
In the car later, he felt sorry having to bring down a bull like Fulton. But he had great respect for the man’s ability to change with the wind when it wasn’t blowing his way. And he was outright proud that he’d been able to bring the man down. That he’d been up to the task.
With Fulton’s quick conversion, the Republicans had twenty-five states he thought would hold fast.
Hawkins was the only one left now. Slanetti had half the states in the Union behind him. He needed only one more for the majority.
Chapter 7
THE GRAND SCHEME
As soon as the go-fast boat that had brought him out from Havana tied up to the Big Fish IV, Fernando Pozo climbed into the fishing boat.
Captain Chico DeCespede extended a helping hand.
“Careful, my friend, the seas are a little choppy.”
Pozo clasped Chico’s arm and laughed as he clambered aboard the fishing boat that Chico purposefully kept in slight disrepair. It always looked good when something needed painting, or a piece of brass needed polishing. These elements enhanced the sense of authenticity Pozo insisted all his boats radiate. No one had to know how much money his team players made as sub-agents of the DI.
Chico DeCespede, captain of Big Fish IV, had been on the DI payroll for over fifteen years. His father had worked for the DI before him. He was but one of eight different charter boat captains working in the Keys who were Cubans sent over specifically to run deep-sea charters, or were descended from earlier operatives. All these agents were now American citizens, but they were an integral part of the DI’s network of high and low-level operatives maintained in the U.S., especially in Miami.
Chico ran his boats—as did the others—as if they were normal fishing boat captains. And indeed they were. When the DI had need of them, they kept bookings light or canceled them altogether so they’d be available.
No one knew their secret income from the Cuban government made their annual salaries about five times a year greater than the hardest working charter boat captain anywhere in the Keys.
“What you mean to say, Chico, is that I am old and might fall overboard to feed the sharks.”
“We can’t have that happen to you, Comrade,” Chico laughed. “You’re our main connection to Cuba.”
And it was true—he was the primary link between the Cuban Fifth Column in the U.S. and the mother country. Pozo smiled as he settled onto a cushioned bench in the aft of the fishing boat to take in the crisp December day.
He waved to the Cuban Revolutionary Navy crew that had brought him out to his rendezvous as they pushed off from Big Fish IV and came about for the return trip to Havana. The engines roared as they headed out to sea, due south.
He’d had some reservations about using the go-fast boat instead of the slower-moving fishing boat he usually took to the rendezvous point about 20 miles off Tavernier in the Upper Keys. The go-fast boats were watched by the always lurking aerial surveillance teams working under the aegis of HITRON—the U.S. Coast Guard’s Helicopter Interdiction Tactical Squadron—but with only a few days left before Christmas, as second in command of one of the four Operational Divisions of the Dirección de Inteligencia, or DI, Cuba’s famous and deadly secret intelligence agency, he had a lot he wanted to accomplish on this trip into Miami, so he took the faster boat. As a good Communist, of course, he didn’t believe in Christmas, but he had some kids and a couple of women who liked to get presents whether the Castro government approved or not.
Among the other things he wanted to look into was the status of the transfer of the Oyebanjos’ $27 million to the Bahamas using Omer Flores, the new guy they’d met through Derek Gilbertson and Howard Rothberg.
Pozo’d given serious thought to using two or even three of his fishing boats to ferry the money over. At least he could be sure of the integrity of the personnel involved. These were his operatives, people whose allegiance was to him, even more so than the Castro regime. But after giving it a second thought, he determined it was better to bring in some new people for the job. He’d taken years to build up the network of trusted agents in the Keys (not to mention Miami and elsewhere in America), and he wasn’t about to jeopardize them for a mere $27 million. They were much too valuable for that.
The one sure thing about the total incompetence with which the U.S. government handled its finances—especially regarding IRS and Medicare payments—ensured the flow of money, hundreds of millions of dollars, would continue unimpeded year after year, far into the future. The bloated U.S. government was like an aircraft carrier. You didn’t just hit the brakes to make a course correction.
All Pozo had to do, using agents like the Oyebanjos, was to stay a few steps ahead of the Feds. When they swooped in to catch them, his people would already be gone. If the agents’ lawyers—the best ones in Miami that money could buy—were able to get the court
to allow them to post bail, Pozo would see that it was posted and get the agents out of the U.S. and safely back to Cuba using one of the fishing boats in the Keys.
They’d been doing this for years without a single hitch.
Occasionally, yes, an agent got caught and went to jail, but no one had ever been able to confirm the link between the IRS and Medicare fraud and the state-controlled Cuban banking system to which Pozo directed all the money flowing out of the U.S.
If for some reason the Bahamas-bound $27 million was lost or the Coast Guard captured Flores and his team, it was not a big deal to Pozo. Flores knew nothing of the Grand Scheme. Flores knew nothing of Pozo. All he knew were the Oyebanjos (and little enough about them) and that they had a friend named Jorge Gonzalez.
Severo Oyebanjo was already complaining that he had another $30 million waiting to be transported out of the country. That, in addition to the $25 million wired out through banks handled by Derek Gilbertson and Howard Rothberg—just last month. No, one thing was sure: the money would continue to seep out of the U.S. Treasury and into the Banco Central de Cuba.
About a half hour later, as Pozo smoked a cigar, Chico came back to him and pointed to the sky. Pozo looked up and saw a helicopter descending swiftly.
“Looks like it might be a HITRON chopper,” said Chico.
“Yes,” said Pozo. “Rig up a line.”
Pozo knew the drill well. A chopper from HITRON must have seen (on radar, anyway) the go-fast boat meet up with the fishing boat and become suspicious. Or a plane patrolling high above observed it and the plane’s crew had sent in the chopper for a closer look.
He saw the MH-65C Dolphin chopper bank over them as it circled the Big Fish IV twice before powering up to follow the go-fast boat.
Pozo took his seat in the back of the boat where one of the crew gave him a rod and reel. To the casual observer, this was just another charter fishing expedition out of Tavernier. (During one such show for a curious Coast Guard cutter, Pozo had actually caught a sailfish!)
Speaking of Coast Guard cutters, thought Pozo, over the horizon he saw a white hull appear, the wake at its bow foaming up as it made toward Big Fish IV at full speed.
“Cutter bearing down on us,” Chico said as he watched the approach through binoculars.
“Everybody has papers?”
“Yes, we all have our papers, Mr. Gonzalez,” he said with a laugh. Pozo instinctively reached behind him to feel for his wallet that carried proof of his identity as Jorge Gonzalez, a Miami businessman down for a little fishing trip. He owned Gonzalez Patio Furniture, a small but profitable store in Hialeah. Pozo never came to sea with his real identity papers on him. He was always Jorge Gonzalez.
The sound of the Dolphin chopper faded in the distance, but it wasn’t much longer before USCGC Fearless hove into view.
A voice through a bullhorn announced in Spanish that a boarding party was coming over. Everyone on Fearless could see Mr. Gonzalez begin reeling in his line as Chico brought his engines back to idle.
A few minutes later a ship’s boat bobbed over the waves and an officer with two sailors behind him boarded.
“I’m Ensign Doheny,” said the officer in what Pozo thought was pretty good Spanish for an American. He then asked about the go-fast boat that had stopped briefly. And yes, this had been observed on radar.
“They wanted water,” Chico answered, pulling a half-liter plastic bottle of water from a cooler with a shrug. “We gave them water.” He held the bottle out to Doheny. “You want some?”
Doheny smirked.
“No, thanks. Were they Americans?” asked the ensign.
Another shrug from Chico.
“We didn’t ask.”
“Where were they from?”
“We didn’t ask that, either.”
“Smarter not to,” said the ensign with a smile. He checked all their IDs; one sailor went below deck to have a quick look around and came back, shaking his head.
Doheny went over to Pozo.
“How’s the fishing?”
“So-so,” said Pozo.
One of the crew threw up the lid on the well where the catch was kept and pulled out a bonito (maybe a 5-pounder) and a 3-pound chub mackerel. Doheny went over and had a look.
“Sorry to interrupt your day, guys,” Ensign Doheny said quickly as he took his escort and went back into the ship’s boat.
“No problem,” said Chico.
“Feliz Navidad,” said the ensign as he shoved off.
“Same to you,” Pozo waved.
* * *
From the bridge of Fearless, Lieutenant Rafael St. Clair watched Ensign Doheny climb back into the boat to return to the cutter.
“A waste of time,” he said to Captain Skye Billings in a conversational tone.
“Yeah,” said Billings, and Rafael was immediately sorry he’d bothered to say anything at all.
Billings turned away to speak to Chief Petty Officer Renzo and Rafael thought about the torture Billings had put him through ever since Antonia’s older sister Raven had caught them kissing in front of Il Mulino on First Street in South Beach. If it wasn’t complicated enough that he was sleeping with Antonia, while his brother Jack was sleeping with Babe, it was downright nasty that Skye was sleeping with Raven, who had taken up with Skye only after she’d jealously forced Jack out of her life a couple of years earlier. It seemed like the St. Clair and Fuentes families were destined to live in turmoil with each other, whoever was sleeping with whom.
It had been bad enough when he was posted to Fearless because Skye had it out for him as Jack’s younger brother. But at least Skye hadn’t gotten involved with Raven at that point. Now the whole damn thing was a mess. There was nothing he could do aboard Fearless to please Captain Skye Billings. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
“What course should I set, sir?” he finally asked Skye.
“I’ve already told the helmsman, Lieutenant,” Skye said as tersely as he could. “Check with him if you’re curious where we’re headed.” Skye spoke just loud enough for the other crew on the bridge to hear him. The whole crew knew the situation, and Rafael knew they were all on his side, but still that didn’t make it any easier.
Rafael decided that little jab didn’t require a response. He found himself hoping his dad actually did become the next President just so there would be some counterbalance to what he was sure were consistently negative write-ups Skye put into his file every day.
He’d thought about requesting a transfer out of Fearless, but since his dad had been caught up in the Presidential campaign, he thought the best thing for him to do was lie low and not do anything that might draw attention to himself. The media would have been all over him. His dad was the sitting governor of Florida and that was already too much visibility for Rafael’s comfort level. With his dad as a Presidential contender, every move anybody in the family made was scrutinized under a microscope.
When his dad had first got the nomination, a Secret Service detail appeared at the gangway of the ship when they were docked at the Coast Guard Station adjacent to South Beach. They were there to assess the security situation surrounding Rafael.
“It’s something we do to all the candidates’ immediate family,” the agent had explained to a livid Captain Billings.
“I think my crew will be able to protect Lieutenant St. Clair from any great bodily harm,” he’d told the agent, looking daggers at Rafael at the same time. “Don’t you think, Lieutenant?”
“Oh, yes, sir—of course, sir.”
As soon as the new President was named, Rafael knew the very first thing he was going to do was get a fucking transfer out of Fearless and put an end to what had become a hellish existence.
Ensign Doheny came up to the bridge to report to Skye.
“Nothing, Ensign?” asked Skye.
“No, sir. Said the speedboat stopped for some bottles of cold water, that’s all. Just a guy out from Hialeah fishing.”
“Oh, well,” said Skye as he lef
t the bridge, “carry on.”
Skye disappeared below decks and Rafael went over to the helmsman.
“Where to?”
“Back to Miami, sir.”
“Very good.”
Doheny walked over to Rafael, who had walked out onto the flying bridge and was looking through is binoculars as Big Fish IV began trolling for fish again.
“Nothing, huh, Ensign?”
“No, sir. Nothing. Clean as a whistle.”
“Looks harmless enough.”
“Funny thing, though,” Doheny said.
“What’s that?”
“The bonito he pulled out of the well—the fish they said they caught today?”
“Yes?” Rafael turned to look at the ensign.
“I know my fish, and that bonito was at least two days old.”
Rafael raised his binoculars and had a longer look at Big Fish IV.
* * *
Down in his cabin, Skye threw himself onto his bunk and breathed out deeply, emptying his lungs.
God, how I hate that asshole, he thought.
He knew the first thing Raven would ask him when they got back into port was: Did you make life miserable for that little fucker?
And, of course, he would say Yes, he had, even though there wasn’t too much he could do without being so obvious it would reflect badly on him. He was sensitive enough to the mood of his crew that he knew they were on Rafael’s side. This limited the number of things he could do. If he went too far belittling Rafael, it could come back to bite him in the ass.
He got up and splashed his face with water. He looked into the mirror. He knew he was handsome. Why did life have to be such a torture for him with Raven? He ran his hands through his blond hair and noted the odd looking black streaks that ran through it. It was as if instead of having “salt and pepper” hair that middle aged men got, he had “black and blond” hair. It looked like it had been dyed, but there was no reason for a good-looking healthy man of 32 to dye his hair, not when it was as gorgeous as his.