Sole Survivor

by Glenn Trust

  33.

  Progress

  The sign over the storefront read Taqueria Ortega. The tiny restaurant in a fifty-year-old shopping center in northeast Atlanta was the first of a chain of such shops that Bautista Ortega had opened. Since then, a dozen more had sprung up around the city, but this one remained his headquarters.

  Authorities suspected but had not proven that he used the proceeds from smuggling narcotics into the United States as his seed money. There was also the strong assumption that the chain of popular cafes served as a tool to launder his illegal profits from the drug trade.

  So far, it was only an assumption. Like everything else Ortega touched, he kept any scent of drug trafficking away from his legitimate affairs. Like a mafia don, he was always careful to cultivate an image as a simple owner of a business, Taqueria Ortega, with no ties to organized crime.

  John Sole opened the door and stepped inside. Succulent aromas of chilies, onions, and meats simmering on the griddle behind the counter engulfed him. The place was small, fifteen feet across to a counter with a half dozen tables lining the walls and in front of the window. The kitchen and rooms behind the counter took up most of the shop’s space.

  A pleasant-faced woman in her fifties greeted him. Dark hair hanging to her shoulders and a brilliant white smile spreading across her face made her look younger. Her confidence and poise made Sole wonder if she was a family relation of El Toro.

  “What can I get for you today?” she asked.

  “Two tacos … soft flour tortilla … one beef and one chicken.”

  She punched the order into the register as he spoke. “Anything to drink?”

  “Diet Coke.”

  He put a ten-dollar bill on the counter. The cashier gave him back two dollars and a quarter. Ortega’s weren’t the cheapest street tacos in town, but they were worth the money. Whatever else El Toro might do in his other life, Sole had to agree he made a hell of a taco.

  The smiling woman placed the two tacos wrapped in paper, the drink and a stack of napkins on the counter. Sole scooped them up and found a vacant table by the front window, sitting so he could watch the door and people passing on the sidewalk at the same time.

  His choice of seats was an occupational precaution, but in reality, unnecessary. He knew that by now everyone within a half mile had been made aware that a police detective was eating tacos at Ortega’s. He also knew Ortega would tolerate no one interfering with him or causing him to remain one second longer than necessary in the shop. Sole was as safe as if he were sitting at his in-laws for Sunday brunch.

  The other tables remained empty. Several customers came in and ordered, taking their food to-go in paper bags, casting sidelong glances at the detective watching them as he munched his tacos.

  When he had finished his meal, Sole tossed the wrappers and drink cup in the trash and stepped up to the counter again. The woman’s smile broadened. A knowing look in her eye told him she knew he was there for more than tacos.

  “Mr. Ortega in?” Sole asked. He nodded to the black Cadillac Escalade with the fancy wire rims and oversized hood medallion in the parking lot outside. “His car is here,” he added to encourage her not to make excuses for her boss.

  She didn’t try. She smiled and said, “Of course. He waits for you to finish your meal. This way please.” She nodded at a door in the wall to the side of the counter.

  Sole followed her past the kitchen, walk-in cooler and storeroom to the back of the store. There, in an eight by ten office seated behind a desk too large for the room, he found Bautista Ortega. El Toro lifted his head as Sole came to the doorway.

  “Come in. Have a seat.” Ortega did not rise to shake hands. He folded his thick arms on the desk in front of him and nodded. “I’ve been expecting you.”

  “Expecting me?” Sole said, taking a seat in a wooden chair so close to the desk that his knees banged against it as he sat.

  “Of course.” Ortega nodded to the side table where a monitor showed four images—front door, rear door, kitchen, and dining area where Sole had eaten his lunch. “So, I suppose we should get the formalities out of the way … Detective.”

  “I suppose we should.” Sole pulled his badge holder and ID card out.

  “Investigator John Sole,” Ortega read aloud, then looked up. “What can I do for you today, Investigator Sole?”

  “Just a few questions for you.”

  “Questions?” Ortega smiled. “Do I need a lawyer?”

  “That’s up to you.”

  Sole’s eyes bored in, watching for any reaction, a nervous tic, an involuntary reflex. There were none.

  He had to give him credit. El Toro held himself together without flinching, unlike trembling Sillman or his wonder-boy assistant, Wilson Bettis.

  No doubt, he had vastly more experience dealing with law enforcement investigations—had been the target of more than a few. The prospect of being asked a few questions by investigators constrained by the protections of the U.S. Constitution did not intimidate him.

  Or, maybe, Sole had to admit, there wasn’t anything for Ortega to be nervous about. It was time to find out.

  “Well, Detective Sole,” Ortega lifted his beefy hands, palms up in a shrug as he smiled. “I have nothing to hide. Ask your questions.” He looked at his watch, “But please get to the point. I have appointments later today, and your visit was … unexpected.”

  The smile spread wider across Ortega’s face, enjoying the little game of cat and mouse. Sole recognized the arrogance as for what it was—a dare—testing him to find out what the cops knew and what they didn’t. The truth was they didn’t know much.

  Ortega may have even realized that the dare, his smug arrogance, was as much a signal as Sillman’s nervous tic or Bettis’ stammering. The difference was, Ortega knew his arrogance would not prove a damned thing in court.

  Fine. Sole decided he’d play the game.

  “Why did you meet with Wilson Bettis at Eruptions?” Sole launched in with no preliminaries, going for shock value. Platitudes and prolonged small talk would not lull Ortega into making a mistake.

  “Who?” Ortega replied without blinking.

  “Wilson Bettis … aide to Senator James Sillman. You were there together a few nights ago.”

  “Senator Sillman? You think I met with his aide? What was his name … Bet … something or other?

  “Wilson Bettis,” Sole replied evenly, his eyes never wavering from Ortega’s face. “You were seen together.”

  There was no need to pretend there was a recording of the meeting. It would not work with Ortega. His men would have verified there were no cameras on the third floor at Eruptions, and his friend Sergei Sokolov would have guaranteed it for a customer like El Toro.

  Pretending otherwise would just make the questioning appear weak, grasping at straws. Ortega would be in control then. It was best to just say it, blurt it out and see the effect.

  The effect was minimal, but it was there. A slight furrowing of the wrinkles in his forehead, an almost imperceptible downward turn of the eyebrows, a hardening in his stare. Was it annoyance? Anger? Sole decided it was both. Either way, it sent the message that there was something there.

  Ortega was not happy. He would never admit that he met with Bettis, but his eyes told the story. When their conversation ended, El Toro would have questions of his own. Sole felt a momentary pang of pity for the person who would be asked those questions. Someone would pay for putting Ortega in the hot seat.

  The smile reappeared on Ortega’s face, the brow rose again, and the defiant but playful look returned to his eyes. “Do you mind if I ask who told you such a thing?”

  “I don’t mind at all,” Sole replied. Now the smile was on his face. “You can ask. We both know I won’t be releasing the name of our source.”

  “You’re right. We both know the rules here.” Ortega leaned back in his seat. All pretenses had evaporated. They had played the game. Both came away with something. Time would tell who had won. />
  Ortega rose, nodding at the door to his office, inviting Sole to get the hell out. “Well, as I said. I have other appointments and must call this to an end. I wish you well in whatever investigation you are conducting, and I hope our discussion was helpful.”

  Sole rose from the wooden chair, tucked his notepad in his pocket and nodded. “Thanks. I think I got what I came for.”

  Ortega allowed Sole to make his way through the back of the store unescorted, sending another message. He had nothing to hide. You leave with what you came with—nothing.

  Sole smiled at the woman behind the counter as he came from the back and left the store. Outside, he stood on the cracked sidewalk, gazing up and down the line of shops.

  He had the feeling that eyes watched him from the storefronts, the cars in the parking lot, the small groups of men gathered at either end of the strip center. Let them watch, he thought, walking to his car in the first row across from Ortega’s shop.

  He started the engine and hit the Bluetooth button on the wheel to call Travis.

  “Where we at partner?” he asked when Travis answered.

  “Made some progress. Turns out, Sillman Shrimp Company is not doing so well.”

  “How so?”

  “Checked UCC filings in Chatham and Fulton Counties … Savannah and Atlanta … for Sillman’s known company’s. That’s Sillman Shrimp Inc., Sillman Enterprises and James J. Sillman, LTD. All three are heavily leveraged, borrowing money to continue operations.”

  Travis paused, shuffling through his notes. “Looks like he’s been using a sort of pyramid scheme to keep things afloat … no pun intended. Sillman Shrimp borrows from Sillman Enterprises which then receives funds from Sillman LTD, which includes the family fortune plus funding from credit obtained on the good senator’s family name … a lot of credit.”

  “Another piece to the puzzle,” Sole said as he pulled onto I-85 headed downtown. “Sillman is on shaky financial ground.”

  “The shakiest,” Travis agreed. “Liens filed on equipment, a good portion of his shrimp boat fleet, even a couple of houses. Bottom line … Sillman is a few bad shrimp hauls away from bankruptcy.”

  Travis put his notes away and leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. “How about you? Did Ortega crack?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “Elaborate please. I’m too tired to play guessing games.”

  “Well, he didn’t break down and admit to being a narcotics dealer, but it’s not so much what he didn’t tell me. It’s the way he didn’t tell me.”

  “The way?”

  “Yeah. He denied any meeting with Bettis, but was clearly annoyed that someone had spotted them together.”

  “That’s something.” Travis agreed.

  “Yep. I’d say it’s enough. Luis Acero gets to keep his get out of jail card one more day.”

  34.

  A Damned Fine Feeling

  The last of the sun flashed brilliant orange in the east, its glow undulating across the water. It had been a perfect day. It would be an ideal night for the Sara Jane’s maiden voyage.

  After leaving the St. Mary’s river channel, they moved into the main shrimping grounds that began just offshore, extending out about eight miles. Tully Sams pushed on to the limit, then had Hermie and Paco lower the net cranes to give the appearance they were trawling for shrimp. Even without deploying the nets they would look like any other trawler cruising along the coast.

  The last of the sun dipped below the horizon. Stars appeared in the darkening sky. They had lost sight of land five miles out. At eight miles even the tallest buildings along the coastline were below the horizon. Within a few minutes, the glow from the coastal lights was nothing more than a hazy ribbon on the horizon. Overhead, a billion stars burned in the inky black night.

  Tully checked the radar scope for any nearby traffic, then stepped out from the deckhouse and lit a cigarette. He stood smoking in the night breeze, turning three hundred and sixty degrees as he flicked ashes into the air. No other navigation lights were in sight. Nothing on radar and no visual signs of other boats or ships. Best to be safe though.

  He motioned to Hermie and Paco, to join him amidships. After offering each a cigarette—Hermie accepted with a grin, Paco declined with no gracias—he used his finger, pointing at his eyes, then their eyes, then the surrounding horizon to communicate that he wanted them to check for lights from other trawlers and ships.

  They nodded and turned to scan with their younger eyes. After a minute, each looked at him and said, “Nada, Capitán.”

  “Good,” Sams smiled. “That’s what I figured. Just making sure.”

  He leaned in the deckhouse and cut the switch for the Sara Jane’s running lights. They were black now. He stood with his small crew for a few more minutes finishing his smoke, enjoying their silent company, seamen, like him who felt alive out on the ocean.

  He tossed the butt overboard, stepped back into the deckhouse and called down into the galley. “It’s your show. Best bring Julio and his special skills up on deck.”

  Esteban Moya poked his head into the deckhouse, gave a quick look around, turned and said something in Spanish and stepped up beside Sams. Behind him, Julio grabbed the sides of the door and pulled himself out, in better shape than earlier, but still a touch of green around his gills.

  “Where to?” Sams asked.

  “East,” Moya replied. “Julio will show you.

  “Right.” Sams spun the wheel, and the Sara Jane rocked on the swells, turning from her northerly course along the coast to head out into the Atlantic.

  Julio took a book-sized device from the cargo pocket of his trousers and pressed a power button on the side.

  “GPS?” Sams said with a shake of his head and motioned to the dashboard at the front of the cockpit. “Got GPS onboard. That’s his special skill?”

  “He is in contact with our target, through his device. You are not. You never will be. Your job is to steer the coordinates that Julio provides. That is all you must know.” Moya’s fingers tapped the pistol tucked into his waistband. “Questions?”

  Sams shrugged. “Whatever you say.”

  Radar scanning in all directions, running dark, the Sara Jane proceeded out into the vast Atlantic. At twelve miles off the coast, they reached the limits of United States territorial waters. Still, they continued east. At twenty-four miles, they arrived at the boundary of the U.S. contiguous, legal enforcement zone.

  Thirty-five miles out, they were still within the two hundred mile economic zone claimed by the United States. Julio made a circular motion with his hand, showing Sams that he was to orbit the trawler in this area until given further navigational instructions.

  Throttling back, Sams let the Sara Jane cruise in a two-mile-wide circle. Standard trawling speed was between four and five knots. He had bumped the throttle up to seven knots, covering the twenty-seven miles out from his usual trawling distance in just under four hours. Now they turtled along at about 3 knots, just enough to make headway.

  Julio sat in a chair beside Sams, huddled over his two-way GPS communicator. He typed a message into the device and pressed send. A minute later, it beeped with a reply. With meticulous care, checking to verify what he wrote, Julio printed a set of coordinates on a piece of paper and handed it to Sams.

  “Go here,” he said in broken English.

  Sams nodded and spun the wheel to line the bow up with the coordinates, bumping the throttle up again. He wondered how much Julio-with-the-special-skills was being paid for his part in their venture.

  As he made the turn, a blip showed up on the radar screen, sailing in their direction. The fifty-thousand-ton Panamax class container ship closed until they could see the glow of its lights just below the horizon.

  *****

  After sailing from Lázaro Cárdenas, the freighter passed through the Panama Canal. From there, it navigated through the Caribbean shipping routes, an innocuous cargo ship sailing amid the swarm of drug enforcement ships
and aircraft from the United States.

  Turning to the north, sailing past Cuba and the Florida Keys, it ran another gauntlet of anti-drug smuggling craft operated by several agencies. Coast Guard and U.S. Customs authorities were alert to ships offloading containers with drugs in ports, but this one did not sail into port. Its passage was noted, filed and forgotten.

  It sailed north along the Florida coast, staying fifty miles offshore, bound for a common transatlantic crossing route. By the time it reached the waters off the Georgia coast, the ship was just a blip among hundreds.

  *****

  As Sams guided the Sara Jane toward the mid-ocean rendezvous point, the captain of the cargo ship slowed engines allowing the huge freighter to coast under its own momentum. Then he sent the watch crew below. They asked no questions. It was no secret that Bebé Elizondo was a part owner in the shipping company.

  Only the first mate and a cargo crane operator remained above deck with the captain. While the captain stabilized the ship, the first mate went to one cargo container and broke open the seal. Inside, he attached the lifting chains to the steel framework supporting a tarp-covered bundle resting on three pontoons. These sat atop conveyer rollers installed in the container's floor.

  It took skill, and this operator was one of the best on two continents. Moving the crane laterally, he slid the secured cargo from the container over the rollers, until it hung from the end of the crane. It was an immense pontoon raft loaded and covered with a tarp.

  The operator waited a full two minutes for the swaying load to stabilize. Then with subtle movements of the controls, he swung the raft overboard and lowered it to the water.

  A twitch of control here, an almost imperceptible nudge there, and the precious cargo settled into the water. The raft floated, perfectly balanced, not too high in the water or it could capsize, or so low it might swamp.