He hung up the phone, and for the tenth time, he argued with himself about Steve Joiner. Is he the mole? He knew about the arrest warrant for Jose. His agents were on the team.
Have the cartels gotten to him? Paid him off? Threatened his family? And how will I find out?
He nodded as he came up with his plan.
With his two hundred fifty pounds squeezed into the narrow seat, Tuffy read reports while the King Air 200 droned southeast at 220 knots. He tried to concentrate, but his mind drifted back to Pete Dolan beating them to Jose Leal. How did he find him? And how did Leal know that we were coming after him? Where is my leak?
A slight bump and the deceleration told him they were on the ground in Sugarland. The pilot turned right and followed the ground guide to the number one parking spot.
“Tuffy. Good to see you,” Steve Joiner said as Tuffy opened the door. “You won’t need that big coat here. This is Houston, man.”
Tuffy felt the warm breeze, saw the bright sunshine, and threw his overcoat back inside and came down the stairs.
“You said you have some leads on Dolan?”
“I’ve got a woman’s address from one of my inside men. We’ll go and see her. Pretty sure we’ll get a nugget there.”
A blue Crown Victoria pulled up, and the driver got out and opened the back door. Tuffy held out his hand.
“Give me the keys. I’m driving. You’re staying.”
“But sir, I’m the driver. I’ve signed for this car.” Tuffy looked over at Steve.
“It’s okay, Bill. I’ve got it,” Joiner said to the driver.
Ten minutes later, Tuffy threw the shift lever into PARK and bounded out of the car. He pushed his left arm down, comforted by the hardness of his revolver under the sports jacket. Next he scanned the street and the adjoining houses.
“Like a graveyard. Where are all the people?” Joiner asked. Tuffy saw that Steve Joiner was also on that edge that comes from knowing danger is near but being unable to see it.
“I guess everybody cocoons in these big houses,” Tuffy said. Still, Joiner was silent, swiveling his head to look up and down the street. He could see the tension in Joiner’s back and neck. They tried to look casual as they moved up the sidewalk to the huge double door set back between Roman columns.
An old Mexican woman answered the door, and Steve stepped forward, speaking Spanish.
“Is Mrs. Joan Merkam here?”
“No, sir. No one is here but me.” Steve pulled aside his coat, showing the badge pinned on his belt. And his pistol. Tuffy could see terror pinch the woman’s face. “We’ll just come in and wait.”
“No, no. Stay here. I’ll get Senora Merkam.” Tuffy smiled. After thirty-six years in law enforcement, he still marveled at the power of the badge.
“Good morning, gentlemen. Please come in,” Joan said. Her floor length robe matched her just-brushed platinum hair. Only a dusting of make-up. She must have just woken up, Tuffy thought. What a doll. Concentrate. Keep your mind on the job.
“I’m Tuffy Dupree and this is Steve Joiner. We’re with the DEA, and we’d like to ask you a few questions.” Tuffy saw an instant of panic zip across her face, and then her gorgeous smile returned.
“Of course. Please come in.” She showed them to the formal living room and offered them seats.
“Can I get you some coffee or something else to drink?”
“No, thank you. We’re looking for Pete Dolan.” Tuffy let the silence hang, and watched her as she struggled with how much to tell them.
“I think he’s dead. We lost him on Turks and Caicos Islands.”
“Mrs. Merkam, we know all about you and what you and your husband did for the cartels. We have no interest in you. We’re just looking for Pete Dolan.”
“Are you sure I can’t get you some coffee?”
Tuffy leaned forward, and put his left arm on his knee. He knew this caused his jacket to gap open and it gave Joan a good view of his weapon.
She stared back. Tuffy could almost see the thoughts churning in her head.
“Pete called me. I met him at the mall. Later I picked him up and he came and spent a couple of nights with me. You know my husband died of a heart attack a few weeks ago.”
Tuffy nodded, remaining silent. Joiner scribbled in a small notebook.
“Where did you pick him up?” Tuffy shot Steve a look for ruining the moment just when Joan was telling her story.
“I picked him up at the La Quinta across from the Sugarland Mall on Highway 59.”
“And then what happened?”
“Well, he came over. And…” She looked out the window, avoiding their eyes. She turned back, defiant. “He comforted me. You know? I’m a grieving widow.” Joiner cleared his throat.
“You two didn’t meet with anyone else?”
“He wanted to know the address of David Guaymas, one of my husband’s clients. I gave it to him. He lives close by, and we even drove by the house.”
“Then what?” Tuffy’s anger at Joiner melted as he admired the interrogation technique. Joiner had a perfect rhythm, avoiding eye contact while scribbling in his notebook.
“I took him to the airport early yesterday morning. He left for Panama, I think it was.”
“He was travelling alone?”
“No, he met a funny looking man in the terminal.”
“Describe him.”
“Five foot six. Dark black hair. Big floppy hat.” Joiner stopped writing and his mouth hung open.
“What was his name?”
“I don’t remember. But he had a fake hand.”
“What?”
“You know. His left hand had been cut off in an accident, and he had one made of rubber.” Steve looked puzzled.
“Was his name Waldo?” Steve asked.
“Yeah. That was it.” Steve flipped his notebook shut and stood up. Tuffy mirrored him, confused.
“Thank you, Mrs. Merkam. If we have any other questions, we’ll give you a call.”
“What was that all about?” Tuffy asked as they slid back into the front seat of the sedan.
“Waldo Baranski is the guy I hired to watch out for Dolan. I got a message from the NSA that the cartel planned to send a hitter after him—“
“You what?!”
“The NSA emailed me that they had a phone tap on the cartel. They were out to kill Dolan. I was trying to keep the operation in play. So I brought in Baranski. I thought that any pro would see that Dolan had protection and leave him alone. I didn’t think that Leal was so bold as to attack right under Waldo’s nose.”
“Why didn’t you brief me on this?”
“Baranski’s a special asset. I don’t tell anyone about him. Heard of him from a buddy of mine in the Agency. He’s paid directly from the slush fund, in cash. His couriers take the cash and launder it, I assume. I’ve only met him once.”
“Perhaps we need to go see him.”
“He lives in Switzerland and moves all over Europe. We can call his answering service. He usually checks in every few hours.”
Tuffy started the car.
“Yessir. That’s him,” the desk clerk said, staring at the photos of Pete Dolan. Steve’s team had taken hundreds of photos during the surveillance of the Merkams when they first picked up their jet.
“Let me see the record of his stay,” Tuffy said. He scanned the paper. “He’s going by Peter Douglas now. Make me a copy of this please. And I need his full credit card number.”
The bright sun made Tuffy squint as they walked to the car.
Saturday
11 December, 1999
1012
Barrio San Felipe
Santa Marta, Colombia
Maria Elena concentrated on walking. As usual she wore her purple dress since it wasn’t as hot as her pants. With no job and no prospects, the only work she did was to watch the streets hoping to see Ramon Menchaca. She walked miles each day asking well-dressed passersby if they had ever seen Ramon. She queried taxi drivers, stre
et vendors, and business owners.
Sometimes she would take a taxi to a different part of town. She wandered the streets, looking at the drivers and passengers in the BMW’s and Mercedes, remembering that Ramon favored German cars. She stopped in every business that might have some dealings with Ramon.
Today, she found herself downtown, and turned into an air conditioned real estate office, looking to escape the humidity more than ask about Ramon.
“Can I help you, Señora?” The pretty secretary asked even though Maria Elena could tell the lady didn’t like having a poorly dressed woman in her fancy office.
Maria Elena plopped down in the chair in front of the secretary’s desk.
“I’m sorry, but all our agents are out with customers right now,” the secretary said, her suspicions coming through her voice.
“Don’t worry. I’m only here to get some relief from the heat and humidity.” As Maria Elena looked into her eyes, she saw that the woman was much older than she first thought. Probably my same age.
“My Lord, it’s getting hot already, isn’t it?” The secretary held out her hand. “Olga Chapa.”
“I’m Maria Elena Figaroa.” She looked at Olga, and without thinking launched into her story. “Several years ago my husband divorced me and stole all the money from my parents. He had a son by his mistress, and he left me for her. He has disappeared and I’m looking for him.”
“Men are such dogs! My husband just left me and my two children last year.” Olga’s voice caught, and she paused for a moment. “He told me I was used up, too old. And now he’s living with a twenty year old.” Both women looked outside, lost in their hatred and disappointment, embarrassed that they were rejected by their husbands.
“How long have you been looking for your husband?” Olga asked after a minute.
Maria Elena looked at the ceiling.
“Well the first couple of years we were still in court. Then I was depressed for a long time. Then my father died. I guess about four years now.”
“Oh, you poor thing! And you haven’t been able to find him? Does he owe you money from the divorce?”
Maria laughed and held her big belly.
“That’s a good one. Owe me money. No, he won everything in court. Bought off the judge and the lawyers. Totally took all my money and my father’s business.” Maria realized that she was telling this strange woman way too much information. She normally just asked people if they knew Ramon Menchaca. But this woman was a fellow traveler, another sufferer.
“Then why do you want to find him?”
Maria Elena leaned over the desk and whispered.
“I want to kill him for what he’s done to me and my parents.” The secretary nodded.
“I know what you mean.” Olga looked down, and Maria Elena could see her thinking about doing violence to her ex-husband.
Maria stood. “I’d better be going. Thanks for listening.” She turned and went to the door. Just as she pulled the handle, Olga called out.
“What’s your husband’s name?”
Monday
13 December, 1999
1120
Penthouse, Hotel Parque 84
Santa Marta, Colombia
Ramon Ledesma moaned as the masseuse found another tight muscle in his neck and dug deep to stroke the tension down toward his shoulder.
“Too much stress in your life, my Lord,” the thirty-year old said.
“Uhgg. You’re hurting me.”
“You must get more exercise and stretch. Stretch every day. This is the worst I’ve ever seen you.”
He just grunted.
At least I’ve solved the problem of Jose, he thought. He was like a son to me, but he screwed up the Turks and Caicos program. Ramon’s son, only seventeen, was too young to take over for several years. Jose Leal was destined to be his manager until Ricardo came of age. A moment of despair clouded his brain. Why can’t I have any more children? Three wives and none have gotten pregnant. The doctor says low sperm count. And worse, my only son is from my mistress. How can I have a dynasty with only one son?
How could Jose have been so stupid? No patience. I told him several times that we are not in a race, but a chess match. He moved too fast and was checkmated by Peter Dolan. A deep grief choked him for a moment.
But it was I who was stupid.
My mistake was letting him run one of our best agents inside the DEA. That was expecting too much to have him as operations manager in Texas, the main contact with Mary Warner, and hitter to take out Peter Dolan. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Now I only have El Pecador. I would like to use him only for the biggest projects. Getting everyday intelligence from Mary Warner was the best. Less chance of exposing my greatest intel achievement. But now I’ll have to use him more until this crisis is over.
But I don’t even know who he is. He sends information and I send money. He costs me a fortune, but he has helped me remain on top and anonymous.
The woman started working on Ramon’s jaw muscles.
“Stop gritting your teeth, my Lord. You must relax.”
“You are a torturer.” At least she was beautiful. And not afraid of him. She would do her best to improve his posture and his exercise routine, not intimidated by his power.
“Don’t talk. Relax.”
Now that the Turks and Caicos operation is over, perhaps I need to concentrate on another government. He started to take inventory of his assets. I have three US senators in my grip. I own several banks in the Caribbean, the Channel Islands, and even one in Switzerland.
But how will I increase my political power? How will I achieve political leadership? I am fifty-four years old. I don’t have much time left.
The masseuse ticked under his jaw, signaling that his weekly massage was over. She walked to the Jacuzzi and tested the water temperature. She poured in some perfumed soap and helped him get up and step down into the bubbles.
As soon as she walked out, his secretary came in.
“Your wife is here to see you, my Lord.”
His young wife pushed through the double doors and marched past the old secretary up to the edge of the bath. Ramon slowly shook his head, still blinded by her beauty even after six years of marriage.
“I need some help for my mother,” she whined, tilting her head so that her long blonde hair trailed down one shoulder. He could almost see up her skirt, and he knew he could deny her nothing.
“What is it, my love?”
“Her doctors told her this afternoon they can do nothing more for her cancer. Can’t you help?” Ramon’s heart went out to his young wife. His second wife had died of breast cancer, and he knew well the pain and the wasting, the nausea of the chemo and the burns from radiation.
“Take her to Paris. I’ll charter a jet for you. When would you like to leave?” Turning to his secretary, he said, “Charter a Gulfstream for them, and get Señora Marin an appointment at the best cancer center in Paris for tomorrow night. How does that sound?”
“Oh, Ramon! You’re so good to me.”
“Oh, and be sure to take Dr. Luis with you. Just in case.”
She blew him a kiss. He nodded as she turned and almost ran out of the bathroom. At least I’ll be rid of that distraction for a few days.
*****
When Pete Douglas walked back into the office early Monday morning, one would have thought that Andres was receiving a son lost for several years.
“I thought you would never make it back.”
“Andres, I told you I would be gone for a week or more. I came back in only seven days.”
“Yes, but it’s been terrible here without you.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll get everything straightened out. Where are the drivers?”
“I’ve sent them out on a job I sold while you were out.”
“Good. You get back on the phone and sell. I’ll handle the paperwork.”
Now almost noon, Pete finished up the big invoice for Drummond Coal, the operator of one of
the largest coal mines in the world located just west of Santa Marta. Collecting this bill alone will put Andres in the green for a couple of months. Why did Andres agree to bill them quarterly? Bad for cash flow.
He called Servi-Intrega, the delivery company. One of their motorcycle couriers would have the invoice at the Drummond office by 1400 this afternoon.
Time for lunch. I’ll call Waldo and see if he’s found out anything.
“Hey, want to go to lunch?” Pete asked.
“Yeah, I need to get out of this hotel room. I’ve already run up a twelve hundred dollar phone bill trying to keep up with my work in Europe.”
They met in the hotel restaurant, and Waldo got the table with the best view.
“I’ve talked to my intel guy in Switzerland. He’s working on this Don Humo/Ramon Menchaca thing.”
“What do you mean, ‘my intel guy’?”
“My friend, there are all types of ways that individuals make their living. This man hacks computer systems and sells information. He’s so good most systems don’t even know that they’ve been compromised.”
“So? What did he find out?”
“No so fast. I need to order.”
Pete knew Waldo was playing with him, so he went along with the small talk while they ordered. Patience was a virtue pounded into Pete by flying helicopters at ninety knots. He could wait. The salads came out, and after a few bites, he could tell Waldo was tiring of the game.
“Ramon Menchaca is one of the richest men in Colombia.”
“Duh. He’s a drug lord.”
“No, he has the cover of being the head of a major Colombian corporation that owns hotels and movie theaters. The profits from his businesses are enormous. Some of the drug money is obviously being washed through them.” Waldo took a sip of his wine.
“In the last two years he’s expanded to buying real estate in Mexico, Brazil, and the United States. More interesting, he’s used his US corporations to make political contributions. You can bet those contributions are only a tiny part of the bribes he pays to politicians.”
The Grace Bay Agreement Page 14