Lazar's Intrigue (The Jack Lazar Series) (12 page)

TWELVE

“Excuse
me, Mr. Lazar,” the delicate voice of the first-class flight attendant
beckoned. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but you need to move your seat forward for
landing.”

As
Tasagi advised, Jack had worked himself into a deep meditative state so
engrossing that he had almost fallen asleep. He tuned out the landing
announcement entirely.

“Of
course,” he replied with an apologetic smile.

Her
radiant blue eyes were still staring at him, and she smiled in a charming,
provocative way. It was a clear proposal, and they both knew it. But Jack’s
plate was already more than full, and she had given him an easy outlet to
decline. All he had to do was change the subject.

“So,
when are we expected to land?”

She
tilted her head and gave him a disappointed, “maybe some other time” look
before answering. “About four thirty Chicago time.”

Jack
studied her thin, curvaceous legs and the sensual potency of her stride as she
walked back toward the galley, and he shook his head in amazement.

When
it rains, it pours.

Jack
had purchased an Apple iPad prior to his departure from Los Angeles since he
couldn’t go home for his laptop, and he spent the first half of the flight
using the plane’s onboard Wi-Fi to study detailed maps of Chicago’s industrial
district near the airport. He planned to venture to Intercontinental’s main
distribution facility in the morning to begin his surveillance work, although
he wasn’t sure what he would look for. Maybe if he watched the place long enough,
something would jump out at him. And if he just followed his instincts as Tasagi
advised, perhaps the appropriate steps for his investigation would be revealed
to him one by one.

The
American Airlines 737-800 came to a halt at Chicago O’Hare International
Airport, and Jack proceeded immediately to the Hertz Gold canopy to pick up a
Cadillac CTS. As usual, the engine was running, the trunk open, and a pouch
boasting his name dangled from the rearview mirror.

If
this were any more convenient, it would be illegal.

Jack
drove downtown and checked into his room at The Peninsula before spending a
couple of hours on Michigan Avenue buying some new clothes, a few espionage
necessities, and a suitcase. He knew the stores along The Magnificent Mile
would have everything he needed, and he returned to the hotel with a collection
of pretentious shopping bags. He felt like a male version of Julia Roberts in
Pretty
Woman
. If there were only someone he could walk up to and say “big mistake”,
the scene would be complete.

Upon
returning to the room, Jack ordered a comfort meal from room service consisting
of herb-roasted chicken, truffle macaroni & cheese and a half bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape.
He enjoyed the meal in bed as he watched the latest Bond movie on HBO, and he
couldn’t help but think, in a way, he was watching a training video.

Jack
had hoped the wine would help him sleep more soundly, but the night still
proved to be terribly restless. He actually welcomed the arrival of his five
o’clock wake-up call and launched right out of bed, ready to start the day.

The
first order of business was a shower, and it was not the heat that jolted him
awake but the water running over the scratches along his spine, giving him a
sharp reminder of his liaison two nights ago. Adjusting quickly, he ran the
entire series of sexual escapades with Sarina through his mind as he finished
the shower, and he smiled with the satisfaction of a night well spent.

After
shaving and dressing, Jack gathered up the equipment he had purchased and boarded
the Cadillac for his surveillance run. He felt a strange exhilaration this
morning, much like he had felt after running through the warehouse district in
Newport Beach with Sarina, and he wondered again if it was truly his destiny to
be there, just as Tasagi had suggested.

It
didn’t take long for Jack to find Intercontinental’s main distribution
warehouse, which was located on a main road with clear signage. He drove around
the facility several times, noting that everything appeared to be normal, and
he began to question his ability to identify anything out of the ordinary. What
was he supposed to look for—people loading drugs out in the open?

After
another lap around the area, he discovered a small two-story building across
the street from the Intercontinental warehouse, which appeared to be vacant, as
evidenced by the empty parking lot and a large
For Lease
sign planted in
the ground at the entrance. He surmised from its configuration that the
building had been designed for a single user, and the previous tenant had vacated.
If so, the front of the building with its reflective windows would be a great
observation point, assuming he could get inside.

Jack
directed the Cadillac toward the back of the building, pretending to be a
prospect looking it over, and he parked the car in an inconspicuous space not
visible from the street. He attempted to open one of the rear entry doors, and
to his surprise it was unlocked. He edged his way inside.

Although
the building’s lights were off, the glass exterior yielded plenty of light for
him to navigate his way around. He noticed the telltale signs of the former
tenant’s occupancy such as the demising walls segregating offices and
secretarial areas as well as imprints from desks and chairs etched into the
carpeting. He climbed the rear stairs to the second floor and worked his way toward
the front.

The
observation point he found was perfect. Not only could he watch the trucks come
and go, but with his binoculars he would be able to see through the open
overhead doors into the warehouse as they loaded their cargo. Satisfied with
his fortune, he left to secure the car and obtain his equipment before
returning to begin his surveillance.

As
the day progressed, Jack noticed trucks of all sizes rolling in and out of the
complex. The tractor-trailer rigs appeared to drop off and pick up large
pallets and crates, presumably to and from long-haul routes or the airport,
while the smaller trucks collected individual boxes that had apparently been
consolidated from the big-rig deliveries, no doubt for direct distribution to
Intercontinental’s local customers.

Darkness
gradually fell upon the city, and Jack felt the cold seeping through the
windows of the building. The sun’s rays had yielded enough warmth during the
day, but this was downright uncomfortable. He had just begun to slip on his
coat as he observed an odd vehicle turning into the service drive of the
Intercontinental facility and disappearing into the warehouse building. The
white, low-profile Mercedes Benz S65 AMG sedan with polished chrome wheels was
the kind of automobile any respectable drug dealer would drive, Jack thought to
himself, and he chuckled at the idea. This could be the opportunity he was
looking for, and he had to get a closer look.

In
less than a minute Jack found himself jogging across the street and making his
way carefully through the shadows along the service drive leading up to the
main loading area. Most of the overhead doors were still open, allowing light
to spray into the still night air, and Jack knew it would be difficult for the
few evening workers to see anything beyond the docks. He darted around the
right corner of the building and gradually scaled his way to the far side near
the office. He detected the brewing of an argument as he approached.

“I
don’t care what you think! You’ll fly the routes we tell you to fly, goddamnit!”
It was a strong, authoritative voice. Very American. Almost Generic. And
familiar.  “For the kind of money we’re paying you, you should be following our
orders without question!”

“But
if my flight plan say I go to Chicago, I cannot go first to Kentucky. I must go
straight to Chicago!” This other voice was strong Latin American in origin, a
Mexican or Puerto Rican strain, Jack surmised. “Someone is going to find out.”

“No
one is going to find out, Rico! We have it covered. Jesus, Hank, where did you
find this guy? I thought these pilots were supposed to be fully briefed on our
operation before we put them in the cockpit.”

“I
think the problem, Phil, is Rico got over his head and is a little spooked.” Hank
sounded tired and irritated.

Jack’s
heart leapt as he heard Phil’s name. He had hoped he would never meet up with
that asshole again, and here he was standing only a few feet away.

“I
don’t have time for this shit,” Phil growled. “We need to get that plane down
to Miami! It should have been out of here hours ago. Otherwise we can’t make
the switch tomorrow afternoon. Now, Rico, my little Latin pain in the ass, are
you going to fly that plane, or do I need to find myself another pilot?”

“I
not understand, Mr. Phil, how this works. I supposed to fly to Miami, then take
off in the morning and fly to Kentucky, then wait one day, then fly to Chicago,
then fly to Colombia? This does not make sense to me! I thought I supposed to
fly only two routes. One between Miami and Chicago, and the other between
Chicago and Medellin.”

“Look,
goddamnit, it’s very simple. There are three planes. When the first aircraft
from Medellin meets up with plane two at Point Alpha at thirteen hundred hours,
it turns off its transponder, while the second plane, which spent the night at
the remote airfield in Kentucky, flips on an identical transponder and takes
its place. Then the first aircraft from Medellin goes to the remote airfield
and waits for the signal from the third plane from Miami, at which time it takes
off, flies to Point Bravo at approximately fourteen hundred hours, switches to
the Miami aircraft’s transponder, and then continues to Chicago. The Miami
plane then lands at the remote airfield and waits until thirteen hundred hours
the following day to begin the whole process over again.

“That
way,” Phil continued, “Customs in Chicago won’t inspect the real plane from
Medellin, because they’ll think it came from Miami. A domestic flight. Now do
you see? All they’ll find aboard the plane they think is from Medellin are
South American publications, like the ones sitting in your plane right now. When
you arrive in Chicago day after tomorrow, all you have to do is claim you’ve
just arrived from Medellin.”

“And
the plane from Medellin. It also come up here to Chicago?”

“Yes,
after making the identity exchanges at Point Alpha and Point Bravo. Then, our
people can freely unload the cargo and send the plane on to Miami later that
afternoon, which is the flight you were supposed to have made hours ago!”

“Please,
Mr. Phil. Why are we doing this? I still do not understand!”

“You
stupid, ignorant son of a bitch!”

“Phil,
let me try,” Hank interrupted. “Look, Rico. It’s not that difficult once you
understand the concept behind it. Now, there are three planes, right?”

“Yes,
Mr. Hank.”

“Officially,
one of them flies between Chicago and Miami, and the another flies between
Chicago and Colombia.”

“But
that is not what happens!”

“For
chrissake, Rico, I know that! Just listen to me!”

“Yes,
Mr. Hank.”

“When
the plane from South America flies to the States, we don’t want Customs to
discover what’s on it. So we switch identities with the plane that’s supposed
to be flying from Miami to Chicago. That’s where the third plane and the remote
airfield come into play, so that ATC never knows what’s going on. Then, the
plane from South America will appear to be a domestic flight, and no one will
inspect it.

“On
the other hand, the plane that was
supposed
to fly from Miami to Chicago
goes to the remote airfield after the identity switch at point Bravo. And when Customs
inspects it the next day, after it switches identities with the next real plane
from Colombia, all they will find are the South American publications the
reserve plane picked up a couple of days before when it flew from Medellin to
Chicago. We leave the publications on board and unload everything else
including the cargo that Phil was just talking about. In effect, the three
planes rotate positions every day, meaning that you will fly the same route
every third day. Now do you see what we’re doing?”

Rico
began to stutter. “I—I am sorry Mis—Mr.  Hank, this is so confusing. If you
could just—”

The
gunshot came as such a terrifying shock that Jack’s whole body wrenched in
revolt.

For
God's sake! Did they just kill a man over a simple misunderstanding?

“What
the hell are you doing?” Hank screamed under his breath. “Rico was starting to
get it!”

“Bullshit.
The guy was a complete idiot.”

“So
why didn’t you just fire him? I mean, Jesus, how are we supposed to cover this
up?”

“C’mon.
It’s late at night, and there’s no one around except our skeleton crew. And I
can only hope you’ve done a better job selecting
them
than you did with
Rico, the imbecile pilot! Now get rid of his body, and give me the manifest for
the plane. I’ll fly the goddamn thing myself.”