“It’s beautiful. I’ve always wanted a Sabre. You know it’s just like the fighter!” This sixty-five year old man looked like a kid at Christmas.
“Yes, it has the same wing, landing gear, and tail as the F-86,” Jimmy told him. Obviously, Jimmy had sold the jet to this man and was hammering in the good points to head off buyer’s remorse.
“Let’s get into the air conditioning,” the buyer said. He and Jimmy walked inside. Bill and Pete just shook their heads.
“Wow, that guy looks like he could buy something better than this old thing,” Pete said.
“You heard the man. Maybe he loves Sabres.”
About ten minutes later, after Bill and Pete closed up the plane, they walked into the passenger lounge at the Ellison FBO. The new lounge was spacious, ultra modern, white with lots of glass. Pete liked the old place better. It had been a WWII era wooden building with dark paneling and a pool table. Jimmy made the formal introductions as if Bill and Pete were already hired as permanent flight crew for the man’s new Sabre Jet.
Wilson Merkam was, in his own words, a “financial consultant involved in maximizing cash flow solutions for international companies”. That made Pete’s ears pick up. Those weasel words screamed out money laundering.
“Boys, tomorrow we’ll have a nine a.m. take off for Ft. Lauderdale, and then Providenciales, Turks and Caicos. Plan on being gone for at least six days. Be sure and bring your swim suits.” Then Wilson stepped forward and gave them each a wad of folded money.
Movement caught Pete’s eye. He looked past Wilson as he took the money and noticed the cute female getting out of a silver Mercedes coupe in the parking lot. She wore a thin white work out suit with a pink stripe down each pant leg. She walked in and he saw that she was much older than he first thought. The platinum blonde hair turned out to be white. But there was no doubt this woman was the most beautiful fifty year old he had ever seen.
“Boys, this is my wife, Joan,” Wilson boomed.
Joan said hello and shook hands all around. She held Pete’s hand a little too long, and stared into his eyes as she said, “Very nice to meet you.”
“Let me take you outside and show you our new jet,” Wilson said.
November 17, 1999
2100
The Old Gringo Bar and Grill
2100 Buffalo Bayou
Houston
Pete walked into the ramshackle building wondering how the owner avoided a condemnation notice from the city. Surprisingly close to downtown Houston, the old wooden structure looked like it had been in constant operation since the 1890’s.
“Take a seat anywhere, honey,” the ancient waitress said. That would be easy, since there were only a few men sitting at the bar nursing their beers.
Pete picked a table in the back and ordered a beer. He had gotten a call late that afternoon. The unknown woman asked him to be at this bar at nine tonight for an important meeting concerning the flight tomorrow.
A muscular skinhead with a dark goatee came in and looked around the bar. There’s the surveillance, Pete thought. The ratty leather jacket and ripped blue jeans could not hide the “law enforcement” aura he exuded. Pete resisted the urge to lift his beer to him in greeting.
About five minutes later, Pete jolted upright as Stephen Joiner walked into the bar and came straight over to Pete’s table and held out his hand.
“Been a long time, Pete.”
“I’ll say. What’s it been, ten years?
“Eleven,” Stephen said. He never learned Stephen’s last name, even though he worked for him for almost two years as a contract helicopter pilot.
“Have you been back to Guatemala?” Memories flashed though Pete’s head of night helicopter assault missions hauling in teams of DEA agents to capture and destroy drug labs and warehouses.
“Nope. Been trying to hold down a normal flying job.”
“You know, Pete, once you’ve been in this business, it’s really hard to get out.”
“Tell me about it. I’ve been trying to get a real job for several months now.”
“Pete, you were the best air guy I’ve ever had under me. We’ve got a big operation going, and I need you. Jimmy Rooker is running the show, and I need you as back-up for him. He’s worked his way up into the bad guy’s organization, so you can’t expose him. But if he gets into trouble, I want you to get him out.” Stephen smiled. “I remember you got me out once. That’s why I suggested Jimmy use you on this trip.”
Pete remembered that night as well. Stephen had been wounded in the leg and called on his radio for pickup. Pete brought the Huey down into a tiny jungle clearing and waited for Stephen while taking constant rifle fire. Once aboard, they flew to Playa Grande while the onboard medic stopped the bleeding.
“Look, we’ll offer you nine hundred a day and you keep whatever Merkam pays you.”
Pete sat silent as he did the math in his head. Five or six days, and he could be all caught up on his child support, rent, and car payment.
“OK. I’m in. But make it an even thousand a day. And I need some cash to settle some accounts before I leave.”
Stephen peeled off ten hundred dollar bills.
“That should help out a little. Oh, and don’t ever mention me to Jimmy. We don’t know who’s listening.”
Without another word, Stephen got up and walked out. After three minutes, the lookout paid his bill and walked out without even a glance toward Pete.
Pete eased out to his old Dodge pickup, so deep in thought that he almost ran into the tailgate. I’m gonna be real sorry I agreed to this.
Chapter Two
0830
November 18, 1999
Ellison Jet Center
Houston, Texas
“It looks like Joan has a thing for blonde, blue eyed pilots,” Bob said as they drank their coffee in the FBO lounge.
Pete and Bob had arrived two hours early for the flight to Turks and Caicos to get everything ready. There were a hundred little things to do. Pete looked over the airplane, checking fluid levels, tire pressures, oxygen, battery charge, and the life raft and vests. Any over water flight was a big thing for him. Bob filed the flight plan, arranged for over-flight permits and notified customs in Turk and Caicos. Now they were relaxing, waiting for their passengers.
“What do you mean?” Pete said, looking over his coffee.
“I got eyes. She had that lovin’ look for you when we met yesterday, my friend. And she is one good lookin’ older woman.”
“Yeah, that is true. She’s really taken care of herself. I bet she has a personal trainer, the whole bit. But I need to steer clear of that.”
“That’s good. Because fooling around with the boss’s wife is a sure path to unemployment.”
Out front, a Lincoln Towncar pulled up into the circular drive. Jimmy Rooker got out and motioned to the trunk. With a flurry, lineboys rushed to the car. They unloaded tons of baggage from the trunk, and then more bags were taken from the back seat.
“How long is this trip, again?” Bob said with a smile in his voice.
“Just six days,” Pete said as he helped load the bags onto a golf cart to be taken to the plane. Even though it was November, the Texas heat already rose up from the asphalt.
The Mercedes coupe came up next and Wilson and Joan got out. She sported a medium length white sun dress, along with a big silver necklace and white high heels. The wind plastered the light fabric against her and showed off every curve.
Bob turned and jogged to the plane to get ready to start. Pete loaded the bags in the back of the jet, and then came to the cockpit. Bob was breathing hard from the exertion, his face pale.
“Are you OK? You look terrible.”
“Yeah, I’ll be fine. I just need to lose some weight. When I move fast like that I get out of breath sometimes.”
Pete went down the stairs and greeted Wilson, Joan, and Jimmy. Soon they were on the plane, and Pete closed the door. Bob already had the right engine started and the air cond
itioner running.
After takeoff, the flight settled into to a cruise climb to 35,000 feet over the Gulf of Mexico. Joan popped her head up between the pilots, and looked over the cockpit. She smelled really good.
“This thing looks old,” she said, wrinkling her nose.
“It is old, but everything works. We’ll be in Ft. Lauderdale in less than two hours,” Bob said. Joan leaned toward Pete.
“You know, after my husband does this deal, we’ll be getting a G-IV. Wouldn’t you guys like to fly something like that?” The Gulfstream G-IV is a large corporate jet with room for nine passengers, bags, and fuel to go coast to coast. A G-IV pilot job was just about the top of the heap for corporate pilots, both in money and prestige.
“You bet!” Bob answered a little too much enthusiasm.
Pete didn’t say anything. His mouth was dry because Joan was pressing her right breast against his left arm. He was trapped in the small cockpit and couldn’t move away. Frozen, his brain was screaming for him to do something, but his lower level instincts enjoyed the contact.
“Is there anything to drink?” she asked.
“Right in back of you is the refreshment center. Coffee up top, in the decanter, cokes and beer in the cooler. Just open the drawer,” Bob said.
She smiled big and finally moved back toward the rear.
Bob reached around and closed the thin wooden pocket door separating the cockpit from the cabin.
“You in big trouble, boy,” he said aping a Southern sheriff. Then he laughed.
“Yeah, I know. How do I tell her to leave me alone without getting fired? And what if Mr. Merkam notices?”
“Well if you’d get fat like me, you wouldn’t have those kinds of problems,” Bob said, patting his stomach.
Before Pete was ready, they began the descent into Ft. Lauderdale. He was still trying to get his head around the faster speeds of these jets. Starting out in helicopters, then moving up to slow propeller driven planes had not prepared him for the fast pace of flying a jet. He figured the landing weight and looked up the correct approach speeds. Their approach speed could vary by as much as twenty-five knots depending on how much fuel they burned off. He listened on the discreet radio frequency that broadcast the automatic airport information on winds, visibility, runway in use, and warnings of construction.
“Gear down, landing checklist,” Bob said in his practiced pilot voice.
“Gear,” Pete said.
“Three green, no red,” Bob replied. Each landing gear had a green light to indicate that it was down and locked. A red light would illuminate in the handle if any wheel was out of position.
“Lights.”
“On.”
“Anti-skid.”
“On.”
“Hydraulics.”
“Check.”
“Speed brake.”
“Check.”
“Flaps and slats.”
“Set to land.”
“Landing checklist complete,” Pete said, between transmissions to the tower.
Bob concentrated out the windshield, and the old jet glided to the end of Runway 9 like it was sliding down a tight cable. Pete envied the smooth, confident way Bob could coax the old girl from point to point.
While they taxied in, Pete said, “I wish I could catch up with this thing.”
“Don’t worry. A few more hours and you’ll be up to speed. I’ve broken in plenty of co-pilots, and you’re doin’ ju-u-ust fine.”
The weather was gorgeous in Ft. Lauderdale. They refueled, picked up catering for lunch over the Caribbean, and were back in the air in less than an hour. This time, they kept the cockpit door closed and latched.
It was just past four o’clock local time as Bob brought the Sabre into a curving approach to Providenciales Airport. The crystal blue waters turned emerald green in the shallows just to the right of the runway, and from the air the island looked unreal, almost like a painting.
After landing, Bob taxied past the airline terminal to a special ramp and terminal reserved for private jets. Pete noticed the scrub plants growing in the sand. No tropical rain forest here. The term “desert island” from Treasure Island suddenly made a lot more sense.
When Pete opened the door of the Sabre, the warm tropical breeze soothed away something in his soul. So different from Houston. But he couldn’t quite figure out why. Like magic, he thought. No wonder people spend so much money to come here.
As the passengers unloaded, they had a similar experience to Pete’s. Each one stopped at the top of the stairs, looked around, and seemed to shrug off their cares before climbing down. The climate was a drug. Giant flowers around the small terminal building, the tall palms, the view of the sea, all mixed together to make the magic so they could forget their troubles while on this little piece of rock sticking out of the crystal blue water.
Customs officials waited inside the terminal. Within five minutes all passports were stamped and the luggage checked into the country. Through the double glass doors, the Minister of Finance, along with several underlings, waited to greet Jimmy Rooker, Wilson, and Joan Merkam.
The line boys already had the baggage loaded into a 15-passenger van, and Bob and Pete rode to the resort with the luggage. As they wheeled out of the airport onto the left side of a narrow road, they saw the caravan of black Land Rovers parked along the street, reserved for the entourage.
After a few miles, they crossed to the north side of the island, navigating several traffic circles. Turning right onto a main highway, Pete noticed the strip centers. They looked like any suburban shopping center, but instead of dress shops, hamburger joints, Starbucks, and pizza joints, these strip centers each had small, dignified signs advertising businesses such as “International Trade and Prosperity Bank” and “Talon Bank”.
“I guess those are the private banks that you read about,” Pete said.
“I’ve heard that you can buy your own bank real reasonable down here,” Bob said as he counted the storefront banks, lawyers’ offices, and tax consultancies.
After a few minutes, they reached the other side of the island and an area called Grace Bay. The Beaches Resort sprawled for three hundred yards along the shore. Bob and Pete noticed the pitiful poverty on the right side of the road. An eight foot block wall partially hid the five story luxury condos of the resort on the left. What a strange mixture of opulence and want, Pete thought.
“I guess that wall is to keep people from seeing into the resort,” Bob said.
“No, I think it keeps the guests from seeing the poor folks across the street.”
When they walked inside, the lobby area opened out into a huge room with Greek style pillars holding up the twenty foot high ceiling. On the left was the casino; on the right were the reception desk, jewelry stores, and kiosks with souvenirs, clothing, bathing suits, hats, and sunglasses. Straight ahead a large restaurant nestled in a big, round sunken room with a panoramic view of the ocean.
Checking them in, the gorgeous black woman behind the desk started her obviously memorized spiel.
“The Beaches is an all inclusive resort. All meals, drinks, entertainment, and use of equipment such as snorkels, pool tables, bicycles, beach furniture, and internet access are included in the price. Now, Mr. Dolan and Mr. Ferrara, you have unit number A835. It is a suite with two bedrooms, two baths, a full kitchen, and a large living room with a spectacular view of the beach. How did you want to pay?”
“Wait a minute,” Bob said with an embarrassed laugh. “This is supposed to be paid by Mr. Merkam.”
“We could just put the room on our card and get reimbursed,” Pete suggested. “How much is the room per night?”
“The rate for this reservation is eight hundred fifty dollars US, per night.”
“Whoa. I don’t have that much room on my card!” Pete said. “Let’s call Jimmy.”
Pete stepped to the side letting others check in, and called Jimmy’s cell. He hung up and nodded to Bob. “It’ll be taken care of.”
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After a couple of minutes, the receptionist’s phone rang.
“Mr. Dolan and Mr. Ferrara. I am sorry for the mix up. Your room is paid for, compliments of the Ministry of Finance.”
“I wonder what that means,” Bob said. Pete remained silent.
Their room sat at the end of the third floor so that the small porch looked out over the beach. Situated in the older section of the resort, the white wooden building could have been taken directly out of the 1930’s. The workmanship looked European, with decorative yellow trim along the railings and the roofline. But there was no elevator. Bob reached the top of the stairs gasping for breath.
“Bob, you gonna make it?” Pete asked with real concern in his voice.
“Yep….I’m OK…I just need to get in…and sit down.”
“Take it easy. I’m worried about you, Bob.”
“I’ll be OK.”
After a minute, Pete took his arm and guided him down the hall to their suite. He opened the door, and they paused, looking inside. A mass of cold air slapped them in the face. The suite was gorgeous. Every modern convenience, from a huge refrigerator to a big screen TV, had been retrofitted to the large, old apartment. Fresh flowers exploded out of a vase on the round kitchen table. Their luggage was piled in the hall between the two bedrooms.
“Never stayed in a place quite this nice,” Pete said.
“I have, but it was in Belgium. They really know how to do hotels over there.”
Their room phone rang.
“This is Pete. Yes, Mrs. Merkam…. OK, Joan, then.” Pause. “No, no that’s not a problem. I’ll call you when I get back.” Pete hung up the phone.
“What?” Bob asked.
“Joan left her make-up bag somewhere, and she asked me to go back to the plane and see if she left it there. I’ll just take a taxi down there.”
Pete fondled the wad of cash that Steve Joiner had advanced him and hoped the cab would be reimbursed on his expense report. After a twenty minute ride, he let down the jet’s heavy entrance door and clambered up into the oven-like cabin.
It must be a hundred and forty degrees in here, he thought. Now, where would that makeup case be? He pulled a flashlight out of the pocket behind his seat and searched the baggage area aft of the restroom.
The Grace Bay Agreement Page 3