Brown, Dale - Independent 02 (96 page)

 
          
“And
the Cuchillos
are
Carmen del Sol
Airlines?”

 
          
“Exactly.
We are a regional and international carrier, and we run a charter service for
oil companies and manufacturers in the neighboring provinces. We also hire out
our mechanics and facilities to a variety of users, from United Airlines to
Mexicali Airlines—including one very special customer.” Salazar motioned him to
a closed hangar, where a guard checked them in and gave them I.D. badges.

 
          
When
they entered the hangar Van Nuys could not believe what he saw—two Mexican Air
Force F-5 fighters, complete with missiles and guns, being worked on by
Cuchillo maintenance men.

 
          
“We
contracted out to the Mexican government for engine-repair work and structural
modification jobs,” Salazar said proudly. “We easily undercut other bidders,
and my men can do a better job than any government-trained person. We now have
a legitimate, government-approved front, legitimate outlets for our funds and
access to all manner of weapons and military equipment—no more need of black
market suppliers. Of course, we have full authorization to test- fly these and
any other aircraft we receive, and we require a great many test flights. Our
other jets, the one remaining Mirage and the Aero Albatros bombers that
survived the attack on the Border Security Force installations, are being
repaired or modified in other locations.”

 
          
“Gachez
should be pleased,” Van Nuys said, and meant it. Salazar had worked a minor
miracle since the evacuation from Verrettes.

 
          
“Gachez
is becoming an old woman,” Salazar said. “He worries too much.”

 
          
“He
also calls the shots. He wants a successful delivery and fast. Can you do it
tomorrow night?”

 
          
“I
can. Without the Hammerheads it will be much easier. There are scattered
thunderstorms in the area—we will be able to hide between them . . . How big is
this shipment that Senor Old Woman would like delivered?”

 
          
“Fifty
thousand kilos. In one drop. Drop sites in the
Bahamas
,
Florida
and near
Cuba
.”

 
          
“Fifty
thousand . . . impressive.”

 
          
“The
job’s not finished yet. What are you going to need?”

 
          
“It
will require detailed planning,” Salazar said. “I will need a breakdown of the
drop points, the timing of each drop, the exact size of the shipment.”

 
          
“I’ll
get you everything you require,” Van Nuys said, “but I will review your plan
before Gachez will allow your planes to fly to

 
          
Colombia
to pick up the shipment. Frankly I don’t
see how you can pick up so much and deliver it tomorrow night, but if you think
we can do it, we’ll go ahead.”

 
          
“You
are dealing with the new Cuchillos, Mr. Van Nuys,” Salazar said. “The job is as
good as done.”

 
          
Mexican Customs Office,
Ciudad
del Carmen
,
Mexico

 
          
When
the Mexican Customs official arrived back in his office he went immediately to
his supervisor’s office. “Sir, Senor Salazar has returned,” he told his
superior, Major Carlos Fiera, after being waved into the office. The senior
officer extended his hand, and the inspector gave him his clipboard with the
completed inspection form on it.

 
          
Fiera
scanned the form. “You indicate four other passengers on this flight. Who else
was with Senor Salazar?”

 
          
“I
did not inquire,” the inspector said, “per your instructions.” But, he paused
briefly as his supervisor’s eyes grew darker, and added, “Two were Salazar’s
men. One was a Cuban named Canseco. He was carrying a light pistol. The fourth
was an American. His name was Maxwell Van Nuys. He was carrying a briefcase.
That was all I could observe, sir.”

 
          
“Were
they carrying anything else?” The inspector was silent as he tried to think of
an appropriate response. “Unofficially, what else did you observe?”

 
          
“Several
bundles and suitcases were loaded into an armed car, sir.”

 
          
Cash,
not drugs, Fiera concluded. Any movement of drugs meant trouble, but any amount
of cash entering the country, especially this town where Salazar had such
control, was business as usual. The Customs supervisor scribbled his signature
on the inspection form in the required block and handed it back to the
inspector. “Tell no one else. Dismissed.”

 
          
As
soon as the inspector left with the report, Fiera rose from his chair,
stretched, and went to the far corner of his office to pour himself a cup of
coffee. Through the shutters he watched the battered old taxis make their way
up and down the cobblestone streets of downtown Ciudad del Carmen. He cast
admiring glances at the middle-aged, still erotic-looking European women
sifting through hats and souvenirs in the stores, and sneered at the growing
numbers of Japanese that seemed to be filling the town’s streets more every
year—he appreciated their money but despised their monotonous appearance and
their unintelligible chatter. He half-closed the louvered blinds and lowered
them down the full length of the window.

 
          
That
gesture was a rehearsed signal to an American contact who would ride past the
Customs office a few times each day. By lunchtime he would look out the window
again and check for a return signal. If there was a bicycle padlocked to a stop
sign just outside the window, with its front wheel removed and the stop
signpost placed within the front wheel fork, he would know that his signal had
been removed and the meet was on.

 
          
Carlos
Fiera had been so reporting unusual activities to the United States Drug
Enforcement Administration for several years in every town he had worked during
his tenure with the Mexican Customs Bureau. The DEA always paid well and kept
relations with their informants confidential. Because Ciudad del Carmen was so
small and because Salazar had such a tight grip on the town’s officials,
extraordinary steps had to be taken when communicating with the DEA—no phone
calls, no visits, no correspondence through the mail. In fact, the Customs
supervisor would report any official visits by the DEA or the Mexican
government
to
Salazar.

 
          
The
only safe methods of contact were blind drops, brief exchanges inside a store
or a crowded restaurant, or car-to-car swaps on a deserted road late at night.
He would pass a coded note with information, and the DEA agent would pass an
envelope with cash— most of the time he never saw the American agent for longer
than a few seconds. There were no interviews, no official reports exchanged, no
cooperative efforts between the Mexican officials and the DEA.

 
          
The
Customs supervisor’s primary assignment from the DEA was to keep an eye on
Salazar’s new enterprise, Carmen del Sol Airlines. The DEA had been interested
in any new enterprises being established, such as air cargo, truck lines or
fishing ventures. The small airline had been under observation for months, but
until recently it did not seem to catch anyone’s attention. When the Mexican
government contracted for work with the airline, the DEA all but ignored them.

 
          
But
when Carmen del Sol Airlines had suddenly quadrupled in size, using huge
amounts of cash to buy silence and cooperation, the DEA was very interested;
and when the military-style transports and crewmen arrived, right about the
time of the attacks in the
United States
, interest quickly heated up. The DEA was
paying a lot of money for information now, as was Salazar—a man could find
himself very rich if he was smart and not too greedy.

 
          
Spying
on someone as powerful and as influential as Salazar was not easy. He had been
reporting on as much of Salazar’s operation as he could, but it was difficult
to chart the numerous comings and goings of all Carmen del Sol Airlines planes
without risking discovery, so his reports on Salazar’s activities were spotty.
But this was a real discovery, one that the DEA would pay extra for.

 
          
The
special request from the DEA came in just a few days earlier— be on the lookout
for a man named Van Nuys, a tall dark American who might be traveling through
Mexico alone or in the company of Salazar or his men.

 
          
The
Mexican Customs supervisor returned to his desk until almost
eleven o’clock
, then looked outside again. Sure enough,
the bicycle was there, with the front wheel missing and the fork stuck through
the post.

 
          
When
the rest of the office began filtering out to lunch, Fiera began preparing the
coded message. It was a simple code, easily broken by an expert cryptographer,
but to anyone who might glance at it if they picked it up off the street it
would appear as a series of random numbers and letters. A message could be
prepared in less than five minutes, without using a pencil and paper to draw a
complicated encoding grid or keyword breakdown.

 
          
Moments
later the message was done. Fiera folded the message up and stuck it in a
pocket, then checked the blotter and any papers underneath for any signs that
the message had been creased to anything else. He refolded the paper into a
thin square about the size of a peso, told his secretary he was going to lunch,
and left.

 
          
Several
blocks from the office Fiera spotted a man with a jacket looped over his right
arm. He headed toward him. trying not to stare at him or single him out with
his eyes or his body. The man wore sunglasses and a pair of colorful Tour de
France-style bicycle racing tights, which most of the tourist population of
bicycle-crazy Ciudad del Carmen wore.

 
          
When
Fiera got within a few steps of him the man took the jacket from his right arm
and flipped it over his right shoulder. Fiera acknowledged the message by
scuffing his right foot along the pavement as he walked past. The contact
cleared his throat. Fiera continued on to find a restaurant for lunch.

 
          
On
exiting the restaurant an hour later Fiera saw the man entering the restaurant
just as he was going through the door. The contact had the jacket looped over
his right arm once again. As they passed each other in the doorway, turning
nearly chest to chest, the contact’s left hand flicked out from under the
jacket and plucked the note out of Fiera’s hand.

 
          
Fiera
thought nothing else about the incident all day. If the information he had
passed was worthwhile, another meet would be arranged and Fiera would get his
money. He would keep a few hundred pesos for himself, send most of it by
courier to his grandchildren in
Mexico City
, use a little here and there for his own
informants and spies, and, of course, give a little to his ladyfriends. He kept
his bank balance low, his excesses in check, and a traveling bag packed—
knowing that the government, Salazar and doubtless others kept tabs on the
financial situations of all important officials—the peaceful little town of
Ciudad del Carmen could turn ugly for him very quickly.

 
          
But
later that afternoon, just a few minutes before his normal quitting time, Fiera
heard a knock on his office door. “Excuse me, sir,” his assistant said, “but
there is someone here who wishes to lodge a complaint with you.”

 
          
“Take
his report and tell him to come back tomorrow.”

 
          
“But
sir—” The aide was cut off and Fiera heard an American voice: “Yeah, man, I
want to complain about your inspectors at the airport.”

 
          
“We
are closed ...” Fiera looked up from his desk and saw a tall man in bicycle
racing tights standing in front of him—his contact. Fiera quickly blanked his
expression and finished his sentence with “. . . come back later.”