by Glenn Trust
19.
Land of Opportunity
Bautista Ortega’s cabin cruiser wasn’t quite a yacht, but the distinction was lost on most observers. With its name emblazoned in bold gold letters on the stern, the Águila Real, or royal eagle, it cruised the main channel and back bays of Lake Lanier cutting a wake that rivaled any seagoing craft.
Wilson Bettis sat in a leather chair on the top deck, enjoying the sun and the breeze blowing in his face. They pulled away from the marina with one of Ortega’s men at the wheel and headed north towards the less populated areas of the lake.
Bautista Ortega and his lieutenant, Esteban Moya sat across from Bettis, sipping chilled tequila, watching the palatial houses on the shore pass by. They spoke to each other in muted Spanish and made no attempt to include Bettis in their conversation. It was just as well. He had no desire to know more than was necessary about their business.
When they were clear of the marina and boat slips, the man at the controls pushed the throttle forward. The bow lifted, pushing them back in their seats. Bettis watched Ortega lift his face into the wind like a dog sniffing the air from the back of a pickup truck.
An hour later, the bow settled, and the engine noise decreased to a gentle, idling hum. The man at the wheel turned to starboard and allowed the boat to drift into a small cove. Another hand went forward and dropped the anchor.
“So what do you hear?” Ortega began the conversation without preliminaries.
“All is well. I spoke to him on the phone a short while ago. He is traveling home today.” Bettis nodded and lifted the Modelo Negra beer he had been nursing since leaving the marina. “It was a good meeting. They reached an agreement.”
Ortega and Moya exchanged knowing smirks. There had never been any doubt there would be an agreement with Bebé Elizondo.
“So when do we meet your employer?” Moya asked.
“You don’t,” Bettis said, savoring the opportunity to shove a little of their Latin machismo back in their faces.
“We want to meet with him.” Ortega’s eyes narrowed, wrinkling his fleshy brow in an intimidating way that made it plain El Toro did not like being denied.
“Sorry.” Bettis shook his head. “No can do.”
Esteban Moya leaned forward in his chair, staring into Bettis’ eyes. “I think you forget where you are.” He motioned around the deserted cove. “Who we are.”
Bettis looked beyond him to the shoreline two hundred yards away. Pine trees and oaks descended the surrounding hills to the water’s edge. No other human was in sight.
“I am familiar with who you are and what you are capable of.” He smiled. “You do not meet my employer for your own protection. He is a public man. It would not do for someone to see the two of you together. There would be scrutiny.”
“You say this? To me?” Ortega lifted the eyebrows over his hard brown eyes. “You who came to meet me at the club dressed in a suit, looking like a lawyer. Everyone noticed.” He smirked. “My friend Sokolov has warned me that there has been some scrutiny of your visit to Eruptions.”
“Who?” Bettis’ smile vanished.
“Police … two detectives. They were curious, asking questions about the gringo in a suit who was meeting with El Toro.”
“I came from work. There wasn’t time to change. You told me there were no cameras … no way for anyone to know, and I used the back entrance as you said.”
“Yes,” Ortega nodded. “But someone saw you. They reported your presence to the police.” He shrugged. “Fortunately, He could not identify you, and you are right, there are no cameras, so there is no concern … for now.”
“Who told them?” Bettis persisted.
“Ah … that.” Ortega’s lips pressed into a thin, mean smile. “We aren’t certain, but we will find out. When we do …” He shrugged. “They won’t be a problem anymore.”
“Still,” Ortega continued in a more accommodating tone. “You may be correct that meeting with your employer would be ill-advised.” He nodded. “I accept this condition for now as long as we can meet with you and there are no complications in our arrangements.”
“There won’t be any complications,” Bettis replied, his voice calm. “That’s what I’m here for.”
“Good.” Ortega smiled as a breeze came up, rocking the Águila Real on a gentle swell. “Me encanta aquí.” He looked at Bettis and translated. “I love it out here. It is beautiful, don’t you think?”
“It is.” Bettis nodded his agreement.
Surrounded by dense woods on the three sides of the cove, the boat faced out toward the opposite shore a mile across the broad lake. Birds flittered in the brush along the shore. A kingfisher dove from high in a pine beside the water to pluck a minnow from the shallows.
The day was warm and sultry. To any other boat that chanced to pass this secluded part of the lake, they would appear to be a group of friends out enjoying the sun and drinks. Gangsters and drug cartels were out of place here. Even so, it was time to get down to business.
“So now we must make our plans,” Ortega sighed and continued. “The shipment is due soon, and our inventory is running low.”
“Agreed.” Bettis nodded.
They spent most of the day planning for the transfer of Elizondo’s inventory into the United States. Tensions eased as their plans solidified, and they set a date for the first shipment. Even Esteban Moya managed a smile when Ortega chided him about putting on weight during the lunch served to them on the upper deck.
When the engines roared to life, and the boat turned back towards the marina, Wilson Bettis grinned.
“You told me I shouldn’t have attracted attention showing up at Eruptions in a suit!” He shouted over the wind and engine noise. “What about this? Drug lord riding around Lake Lanier in a big-ass boat.”
“They only think I am a drug lord!” Ortega nodded, laughing. “They have no proof. They can think all they want, but in this country, I am innocent until proven guilty. Isn’t that what your Constitution says?”
“It is indeed,” Bettis replied, nodding.
Ortega reached over and slapped Moya on the back as they sped across the lake. “You hear? Innocent until proven guilty. America truly is the land of opportunity!”
20.
Fairy Tale
“Now what?” Travis asked.
“Damn good question,” Sole replied with a shrug. “I guess now we have to do actual police detective type work.”
“Cool,” Travis said. “Been wanting to try some of that.”
“Yeah, but let’s not try too much of it on this one.” Sole started the car and pulled from their hiding place into the alley, turning in the opposite direction Luis Acero had taken. “We’ve spent a lot of time on it with nothing to show.” He shook his head. “There is the chance Luis is trying to pull one over on us … just all talk.”
“It’s crossed my mind,” Travis replied, adding, “But I would have bet anything he was genuinely terrified … had the shakes … voice trembling.” He shook his head. “I have a hard time believing our boy Luis is that good an actor.”
“True,” Sole agreed. “If he’s lying, he should get an Oscar for his performance.” He sighed. “I expect we’ve rattled Luis’ cage all we can for now. Let’s give it one more day to turn something up … a name, a face … something we can sink our teeth into. If we don’t, then we close out his ticket. Call it past due and turn him over to the narcs, no strings attached.”
“Fair enough. Where you want to start?”
Sole pondered that for a second as he steered the Ford through the morning traffic. “We already hit the club so let’s expand it and check video recordings at every ATM, parking lot, building lobby … any place in the area our white dude in a suit might have stopped at on his way to Eruptions for a head to head with a drug kingpin.
“That’s a hell of a lot of video.”
“Got a better idea?”
“Nope.” Travis shrugged. “Let’s do it. Maybe start
with parking lots. He had to get there somehow, and if he drove, he had to park somewhere.”
“Right.” Sole nodded, glad to have a plan. “If we don’t turn anything up, we move out to ATMs and other buildings from there and see what turns up.”
Nothing turned up. Two of the four parking lots within walking distance of Eruptions had camera coverage, but only on the attendant’s shack, which was of no use for identifying after hours parkers. The other two had good camera systems but no useful images.
They moved on to ATM surveillance cameras at three local banks and in the lobbies of two major high-rise buildings. Bank and building security staff were more helpful than the parking garage attendants, but nothing useful turned up. The ATMs were busy. A few of the customers wore suits, but there was no way to tell where they headed after they left the ATM.
By the end of the day, Sole and Travis realized they could spend years questioning every occupant of the dozens of midtown office buildings and never identify the unknown white male. He was a blank face in a crowd of thousands of possible suspects.
“What do you want to do now?” Travis pulled his sunglasses down from their perch at the top of his eyebrows and settled them on his nose.
The waning afternoon was warm. The car’s interior had become uncomfortably hot and stuffy parked in the sun while they sat in the dark rooms scanning video images. Sole opened the driver’s door slid behind the wheel, started the car and cranked up the air conditioner to an icy gale.
“I want to stop seeing spots,” he said, rubbing the corners of his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. He looked at Travis and shrugged. “Well, it seemed like a good plan this morning.”
“Still is.” Travis nodded. “Just need more manpower to go through the video, check all the possibles, eliminate the ones who were home having supper, and verify alibis until we come up with a reasonable list of suspects that’s not in the thousands.” He shrugged. “Simple. Shouldn’t take more than five or six years.”
“Yeah, simple, but there’s not going to be any more manpower.” Sole shook his head. “Not on a shaky tip from a CI who might be playing us.”
“True.” Travis nodded. “Mind a suggestion?”
“Shoot.”
“Let’s call it a day. Give it a rest and rethink things tomorrow. If we don’t come up with anything else, then we turn Mr. Acero over to the narc squad and get back on our cases.”
“Sounds good to me.” Sole pulled the car into the city’s rush hour traffic.
It was after five in the afternoon. The streets and sidewalks were flooded with people pouring from the surrounding high-rises and offices. The odds against identifying one person out of that throng were a Vegas bookie’s dream.
Reality settled in. Luis Acero would not be the first informant to concoct a story to lighten the pressure from his handlers. His account of an over-dressed white male meeting with El Toro might be nothing more than a doper’s fairy tale.
21.
Everything was in Order
The American was nervous about making his way through the airport. On any given day, Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport is the busiest air terminal in the world with about two hundred and sixty-thousand people passing through its gates. Thousands more service personnel and airline employees are required to keep the flow of humanity moving.
At first, he thought the mass of bodies congregated in one place would make it easy to disappear into the crowd. His assistant, Wilson Bettis, warned him it also increased the likelihood of an encounter with someone who might recognize him and ask questions. Donning the ball cap and sunglasses Bettis had provided, he walked along the bridge from the Aero Mexico jet to the concourse, head down, avoiding eye contact.
The next hurdle was U.S. Customs. There would be facial recognition technology there, cameras and computers scanning for faces that matched those in the terrorist watch list database. He was a known figure, but he wasn’t a terrorist and unless someone recognized him or was looking for him, his passage through the airport should go unnoticed. That was the plan, at least.
“Remove your hat and sunglasses.” The customs agent looked up from his passport.
His heart skipped several beats. He reached up and removed the cap with one shaky hand and the sunglasses with the other. You are so fucked, his mind screamed at him. What were you thinking?
The agent leaned forward, peering into his eyes, then looked at the passport and back at his face. After an excruciatingly long period of examination that lasted all of ten seconds, the officer handed him his passport and smiled.
Was it a smile of recognition or just the perfunctory smile he gave a thousand times a day? No, he knows me. This is it. All of the planning, the partnership, the money was about to blow up in his face. Fuck!
The American’s eyes darted to the side, to the armed officers lining the back wall. They would take him in some backroom. There would be questions about his unscheduled trip to Mexico.
Why were you in Michoacán?
Why did you meet with a drug cartel boss?
What did you do when they murdered a man in front of you?
“Welcome home. Have a nice evening,” the agent said, handing the passport back and looking beyond him to the line of waiting passengers. “Next!”
He managed to mumble, “Thank you,” as he pulled the ball cap visor down over his face and settled the sunglasses on his nose.
Exhaling a deep breath, he walked through the door into the main terminal. Thousands of people bustled around him, unmindful of his existence.
Or was it just a show? Were they pretending not to see him, not to know him? Did the customs agent pretend not to recognize him? That’s it. It was all a setup, a trap. Somewhere the security cameras were watching, FBI agents following his every move.
Everyone in the crowded terminal stared. He felt their eyes on his back as he passed, imagined he heard their whispers.
Look, there he goes. He’s the one who met with the drug cartel murderer.
Who? That tall man there?
Yeah, that one. The one about six foot one, two hundred pounds, graying hair, clean shaven.
See him over there. He’s got that stupid ball cap and sunglasses on to fool us, but that’s him.
He clenched his eyes for a moment. Stop! The whispers faded.
He had done nothing wrong, he told himself. He had killed no one. It wasn’t a crime to see someone else commit a murder, was it? He wasn’t sure.
The point was, he told himself, he didn’t plan it. He didn’t want it to happen. He didn’t take part. They planned it. They made it happen in front of him, a demonstration of what would happen to him if …
Focus! Calm down!
You are just another anonymous face moving through the airport. Keep moving. Don’t stop and let anyone ask you questions. Questions are bad. Bebé won’t like questions.
He hurried out of baggage claim to the public transportation curb and tugged the cap brim even lower on his forehead. Outside, the evening air was warm and sultry. A trickle of perspiration formed on his brow. He made his way to the taxi line just as the next available cab pulled up. Yanking the door open, he tossed his bag across the seat, and climbed in behind it, pulling the door shut with a bang.
“Where to?”
He looked up to see the curious eyes of the driver watching him in the mirror. For a moment, he thought of pulling the door handle and looking for another cab, but that might have drawn attention.
Still, it was disconcerting. The driver—a man of Hispanic origin—bore an uncanny resemblance to round-faced, smiling Bebé Elizondo. He forced himself to relax and examine the man’s ID posted by the meter. Emilio Garcia could have been Elizondo’s brother, or at least a close family relative.
“Buckhead. Peachtree Road.” He gave him the address of a deluxe high-rise condominium.
The driver picked his way through the airport traffic. He settled back in the seat, feeling safe enough to lift the brim of the
ball cap and peer out the window. Outside, everything appeared normal. No police pursued. No fingers pointed. No one shouted, stop the drug smuggler! He breathed a sigh of relief.
Emilio braked to avoid another taxi that darted in front toward the passenger departures lane.
“¡Mierda! ¡Estúpido hijo de puta!” Shit! Stupid son of a bitch. Emilio lifted his arm, glaring at the other driver as he came even with the car, then gunned the engine and passed.
The American in the back smiled. He was home.
Traffic wasn’t bad for that time of day. The drive to Buckhead only took twenty minutes.
He paid the driver and gave him a moderate tip. Not too big or too small to notice and remember.
Usually, he would have had Wilson Bettis, arrange a limo or would have driven himself and valet parked his BMW at the airport. Those options would leave a paper trail and involve too many people.
A brief nod to the doorman and he was in the elevator on his way to his penthouse condo. He pushed the heavy double oak doors open, dropped his bag on the wood parquet, and went into the living room to stand before the wall of windows that looked out over the Atlanta skyline.
The sun was well below the horizon now. The red-orange glow in the west contrasted pleasingly with the city lights below. On another evening he would have sat on the balcony for a few minutes, sipping bourbon and taking in the view.
Instead, he pulled his phone from his pocket and hit the speed dial for Bettis’ number.
“You made it home safe and sound, I trust.” Bettis sounded pleased and annoyingly calm.
“Just got in.” He changed the subject. “How did your meeting go?”
“Not bad.” Bettis smiled. “Good, actually.”
He could imagine his assistant’s self-satisfied smile over the phone, and it irritated him. “Tell me.”
“We made the arrangements for the first delivery. Do you want the details now?”