The Grace Bay Agreement

by D. Alan Johnson

  He used some of the money to get a room in a tiny hotel. The shared bathroom was down the hall, but he had a good air conditioner. Plus the owner said that breakfast was included.

  That night loneliness swamped him as he lay in the broken down bed. He realized that everything he valued was gone. His family, his flying career, his Lillian. His reputation. He even left all his belongings in Turks and Caicos. Plus, he was now wanted for murder. At least his parents were gone so they wouldn’t have to bear the shame. What is there now to live for? Thoughts of suicide roamed between his practical thoughts of how he was to support himself in this, his new city. What is there left to live for?

  Is this all there is in life? If I could believe in God, perhaps I’d have some solace from my grief. The memories of the last night with Lillian rumbled around the flame of his anger, feeding it like some demon, shoveling on resentment and loss until it glowed white hot.

  “First I’ll kill Jose Leal. I’ll see him suffer. Then I’ll decide about whether I want to keep on living.” Now content, he fluffed his pillow and went to sleep.

  Chapter 2

  Santa Marta Colombia

  Shipping District

  Monday

  December 1, 1999

  On his first morning in Colombia, Pete decided that he needed to find a job. There was no need for money, but he needed something to get him out of the hotel and into something that would occupy his mind. He went into three different businesses asking if they needed any help. Brusque “no’s” were all he got.

  I’ve got to change my approach, he thought. No more the wuss standing in front of a desk with my hat in my hand. I am going to sell myself to the next guy I meet.

  He saw a hanging sign proclaiming that this office held a moving company: Dos Hermanos Moving and Storage. He turned left and pushed hard on the sticking door. Inside he found the owner standing behind a counter, swamped in paperwork and trying to answer two phones at once. As soon as he finished the last conversation, Pete smiled and started talking.

  “I’m looking for work. It looks like you could use some help.”

  “I can’t afford any help right now,” the fat man said.

  “Look, I’ll work for you for a week, help you clean up your office and get your paperwork organized. I don’t want any pay.” Pete started to smash down the paper flowing out of the trashcan.

  “Where do you throw out your garbage?” Pete asked as he picked up the wire mesh can. The phone rang again, and the owner just pointed out back as he reached for the phone. Pete laughed as he carried the can out back and through the small cluttered warehouse. Using his nose, he found the cluster of fifty-five gallon drums where they dumped their garbage.

  At least I’ve found something to keep me occupied. I’ll get in with this guy and make myself useful until Waldo contacts me. Besides, I’ll be a lot less conspicuous if I have a place to work every day.

  He found a broom and started sweeping the warehouse. The physical activity felt good after the forced stay in the bank basement and the prison cell on the ship.

  Tire tracks and an oil puddle indicated that a big truck parked in the middle of the warehouse at night. Wooden crates, abandoned furniture, and heaps of trash were stacked against the walls. The corners of the warehouse had not seen a broom for several weeks. Dust, paper, and a couple of rat carcasses all got swept out the big back doors. The fat owner came out.

  “Now, I have a little time,” he said wiping the sweat from his bald head. I don’t know who you are, mister. Thanks for cleaning up, but I really don’t need any help.”

  “You need lots of help,” Pete said with a laugh.

  “I can’t afford to pay you.”

  “I know that. But you need help. I’ll help you for a week. No pay. After the week, if I do you a good job, perhaps you’ll recommend me to one of your associates who might need someone. That is fair, no?” Pete’s Spanish faltered a little.

  “Do you speak English?”

  “Yes, I am from New Zealand.”

  “Can you help me with some invoices in English? My secretary left me for a bank job, and I have several accounts that haven’t paid since I can’t send out any bills.”

  “Of course. Just let me finish this sweeping, and I’ll be right in.”

  “My name is Andres Gonzales.”

  “Pete Douglas,” he said, and shook hands with his new boss. The man’s hands were tiny.

  After sweeping and wiping the sweat off of his face, Pete went out for a quick lunch. Going back to the business, he went behind the counter and found a tiny office. Unlike the rest of the place, this office was neat and orderly. The desk faced out, and through the glass walls Pete could see the activity of the front office and anyone coming or going out the doors.

  This secretary must have kept this business running, Pete thought. He sat behind the desk and saw the In Box stuffed full of moving documents needing to be added up and invoiced out. Pulling out several drawers, he found all the things he would need to get started: the master ledger, several paid and unpaid invoices to use as examples, a ream of blank invoices, and a large Spanish-English dictionary.

  Trying to remember his accounting classes from college, he started on the oldest moving manifest. Checking the charges, he added them to an invoice and prepared the envelope for mailing. The next three went a little faster. He heard a loud rumble. Must be the truck coming in from a day of moving, he thought.

  Clattering and clinking, and then the warehouse door slammed with a thud.

  “Time to go home, Mr. Douglas,” Andres said.

  “Just a few more minutes.”

  “No, we’re locking up right now. You can’t stay here overnight.”

  “All right. I have four invoices ready to mail out. I’ll take them by the post office,” Pete said.

  “Great! We use a private delivery service. Their office is just down the block. We can drop them off on the way to the bar.”

  The next few days Pete worked at getting Dos Hermanos Moving and Storage back to a profitable footing. Each morning he arrived at the warehouse early and organized the moving crews. Insisting on clean clothes, he told the men they were the representatives of Dos Hermanos. Next, he had them wash the truck and clean out the cab and the cargo box. After sending them out to work, he focused on getting invoices mailed, and then calling late accounts. With a few of the larger ones, he took a taxi across town to collect the checks.

  Andres Gonzales continued to do what he did best, sell jobs. He was a genius on the phone. Their customer list included several multi-national corporations who moved managers in and out of the country to oversee oil compounds, coal and gold mines, and manufacturing plants. Dos Hermanos Moving and Storage took care of the household goods, packing them for ocean transport, or unpacking them and moving the furniture all over Colombia.

  As Pete collected more and more of the delinquent accounts, the bank account of Dos Hermanos started to increase. On Friday afternoon, Andres came into the office with a smile on his face.

  “Last Sunday, I went to church and prayed to God to help me, because there was no way I was going to make payroll at the end of this week. But with your help, we have paid all our people. My wife thanks you. My men thank you. I thank you.”

  “Andres. I am grateful for an opportunity to work.”

  “Let me take you out tonight to a really nice place. We will talk about your future here, and what you want for your salary.”

  “Alright. I need a night off.”

  “The Gato Pardo is the finest bar in town. It’s right on the city side of the harbor, and all the best people of Santa Marta go here,” Andres said as he sat back in the seat, too fat to be comfortable in the small taxi.

  Pete watched the buildings going by and felt unplugged from the world. He wondered if anyone showed up to his daughter’s funeral. His disjointed thoughts rambled through his head. Did his friends believe he killed that guard and Lillian in Providenciales? This funny little man has taken me i
n and given me an island of sanity. Why won’t Waldo answer any of my emails?

  Soon, they pulled up to the entrance, and Andres led Pete under the thatched roof and up to the main bar. One side of the room opened to a patio next to the bay, the other side to a tropical garden. The sea breeze tickled his hair. Still early, before the crowd was thick, they found two seats together at the bar.

  After two Club Colombia beers, Pete ordered a steak and Andres a hamburger. Pete noticed a woman telling a story a couple of seats down. Even though he couldn’t hear the details, he was drawn in by her body language and enthusiasm. Andres tried to hold his attention, but Pete could only see the long blond hair and athletic body.

  “What will it take for you to stay with me?” Andres moved his body to block Pete’s line of vision.

  “I’m not so much in it for the money. How about five hundred dollars a week?” Pete laughed when he saw Andres swallow hard and then look down and to the left.

  “That’s a lot of money in Colombia.”

  “Then let me work one more week for free, and then you can decide if I’m worth it.” Pete picked up his beer bottle and drank down the last swig, glancing over at the woman again. Now finished with her story, she noticed him and smiled back.

  The money isn’t important, but I’m not going to let this guy off easy, Pete thought. He can sweat while I work next week. Then he’ll negotiate me down. But I’ll hold out for a bonus based on profits. He has no idea how much this job means to me. It keeps me from thinking about how my life is now garbage. The job keeps my mind occupied at night, and I have a reason to get up in the morning. Shoot, I’d probably pay him to work there.

  “What are you smiling at?” Andres asked.

  “I like my job. I like you. By the way, why haven’t you introduced me to your wife yet?”

  “Why do you change the subject? We are talking important things. Money. Business. Why do you bring in my wife?”

  Pete realized that he had stepped into a dangerous area. Andres must be jealous about his wife. If he follows Colombian custom, she’s probably beautiful and a lot younger. He lacks confidence. Afraid someone will steal her.

  “I think we ought to plan on getting a second truck soon. We could double our business,” Pete said, and saw Andres relax. Pete motioned to the pretty bartender to bring them two more beers. As soon as they finished their meal, the waiters whisked away the dishes, made the patrons move to the sides of the room, and started pushing the smaller tables to the side. The large tables, made from stone masonry matching the flagstones, remained, like islands in the central room. Each large table was flanked by two stone benches.

  “What’s going on?” Pete asked.

  “The restaurant changes to a dance club at nine o’clock. You didn’t notice that they stopped taking food orders about an hour ago?”

  “No, I guess I was enjoying my meal too much.”

  The music ramped up in volume, making it difficult to converse. Andres and Pete stood at the bar and enjoyed watching the young women on the dance floor. More partiers came in, and as the place became more crowded, couples climbed up on the stone tables to dance.

  Pete felt a touch behind his shoulder, and turned to see the blond standing close behind. She leaned in with her mouth close to his ear so no one else could hear.

  “What three letter identifier are you?” she asked. The aristocratic English accent thrilled him, but the words made Pete’s defenses go up.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said, ‘What three letter identifier are you?’ You know, DEA, FBI. Maybe even CIA.” Pete laughed, and the beauty joined him.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Pete glanced over at Andres and was relieved that he couldn’t follow their English conversation.

  “You men are all the same. You come down here undercover, trying to fit in, and you still keep the short hair, the sexy posture, blue jeans and American running shoes. You’ve got to get a ponytail, some old cowboy boots, and learn to slump better. My word. You do dance, at least, don’t you?”

  “Ye-e-es.”

  “Well, that’s one thing, at least,” she said, taking his hand and dragging him out on the floor.

  The DJ played 1970’s and ‘80’s rock, and they started to dance. Pete hoped for a slow song, or some salsa so that he could hold this creature close. Her short black dress, elegant, yet sexy, just heightened his desire. After they danced to songs by the Rolling Stones and ZZ Top, Pete took her hand and pulled her out to the garden.

  “At least it’s not so noisy out here,” Pete said. He sat her on a stone bench by the fountain, and brushing aside a giant elephant ear leaf, he sat close beside her.

  “All right, now tell me why you have this fantasy about me being a government man.”

  “Come on. I can see you from across town. You have every marker.” A little worry poked Pete in the back of his brain. If this woman can tell, who else can? He thought.

  “I was a pilot in the Army a long time ago. But now I’m just helping turn around a small moving company here to get a little money and continue my trip around the world.” I need to think up a better cover story, he told himself. “What’s a woman like you doing in Santa Marta?” he asked seeking to turn the tables.

  “I hate it when men lie to me.” She stood up, offered her hand to help him up, but Pete didn’t take it.

  “I don’t even know your name.”

  “And you shan’t. I have to get back to my boyfriend before he thinks I’ve run off with you.” She turned on her high heel, and walked away, a regal posture yet with the perfect sway of her hips.

  He returned to Andres, who had a little smile on his face.

  “Who was that?” Pete asked.

  “How should I know? You’re the one who danced with her. What did she ask you at first? You looked like she hit you in the face with a dead fish!” Andres laughed long.

  Chapter Three

  Monday

  01 December, 1999

  0900

  El Paso Intelligence Center (EPIC)

  El Paso, Texas

  “Mr. Monk, we’re happy to have you with us.”

  Christopher Monk stared at the DEA intel analyst across the desk, but he was lost in his own frustrations. So this is my punishment. I’ve been banished to El Paso. What a dump. All because I wanted to save someone’s life.

  After arriving at 0800, Chris first had to get a new ID badge, process through the safety briefing, and then he was issued thick manuals about operations and communications security. Last stop on in-processing checklist was this interview with the station chief.

  “You know, we started out the EPIC with only DEA and US Customs intel back in 1974. Then the Sherriff wanted in, and we said OK. That opened the floodgates.” He gave a polite laugh. “Now, nearly every government agency has a desk here. But I never thought NSA would want a desk.”

  “Sir, we like to listen,” Chris said with a plastic smile. Should I tell him that he’s being saddled with a reject? That the “No Such Agency,” as they liked to call themselves, doesn’t know how to get rid of me? That they hope this assignment will force me to quit?

  “You’ll have plenty of opportunity to do that! I’ll make sure you have access to radio and telephone intercepts; both the audio and transcripts. Let me know if there is anything I can get for you. Now, let me show you your new desk.”

  “Thanks.”

  Chris struggled to get out of the deep chair, and the exertion made the sweat pop out on his bald head. They walked down a perimeter hallway that always curved to the left. The DEA man (I’ve already forgotten his name, Chris thought. I have to pay more attention) led him to a gray steel door. Chris shivered as the chief gave a mighty tug on the latch and the seven-inch-thick portal swung open on massive hinges. This looks like a giant refrigerator door, Chris thought. They walked up the ramp and into a secure world. The smell of too many bodies and too much air freshener brought a frown to Chris’s face. I’ve got to work in this
prison? I don’t know if I can.

  The windowless room was much bigger than Chris would have guessed. It measured sixty feet by thirty feet. At least forty intel analysts worked at skinny tables running lengthwise across the middle of the room and down the long walls. There was a steady hum of noise from the equipment and the muted conversation.

  “This is Kathleen Adkinson, the EPIC senior analyst. Anything you need in here, just ask her.” With that, the DEA man fled the room.

  I don’t blame him, Chris thought.

  “It’s a little dirty in here. We can’t get a cleaning company with the needed security clearances,” Kathleen said. Chris looked down for the first time and noticed the filthy carpet. No telling its original color. It was dirt colored now, and matted slick in some places.

  “This is your desk over here.” She led him to a corner desk at the end of one of the tables on the back wall. He was thankful that there was only open space on his right. Then he smelled the bathroom. His station was the closest. Could it get any worse?

  He sat down and fired up his computer. The phone looked like the newest eight line model from NorthStar. That’s good. He looked through his packet and logged in with the provided password. He sent word back to DC that he was at work in his new duty assignment. Now, all he needed to do was find a way to get back into the cartel’s email. He still worried about Peter Dolan.

  Escuela Abraham Lincoln

  North Santa Marta

  Tuesday

  02 December, 1999

  Renee Hedley-Fields pushed open the door to the school, and smiled as she saw the second hand sweep past twelve, indicating exactly 0900. This is the first good thing that has happened this morning, she thought.