The Grace Bay Agreement Read online

  The Grace Bay Agreement

  Copyright © 2012

  Chapter One

  November 15, 1999

  0945

  Conference Room

  Patel, Dunlap, and Pheagen Law Firm

  Houston, Texas

  “They’re killing me,” David screamed through his clenched teeth. “I can’t lose two million dollars just like THAT…” He swept his hand across the conference table, scattering papers, cell phones, and half-full Styrofoam coffee cups.

  David Guaymas placed both hands on the conference table and leaned forward. His pressed blue jeans and black silk polo shirt accentuated his lean physique. The Brietling Aviator’s Chronometer on his wrist, the diamond on his pinky ring, and his twelve hundred dollar custom cowboy boots were too showy for his Colombian bosses, but when David was in the US, he liked to show off his toys.

  Jimmy Rooker had never seen David so upset. To hide his delight Jimmy bowed his head, smoothed his handmade dress shirt, and checked his Dockers for lint. Jimmy turned left and looked out the window at the Houston skyline. Great view from the twenty-fifth floor, he thought.

  “We’ve got to do something. Get some arrangement. Those big banks all buckle under to any government investigation. What can we do?” David ranted as his two financial advisors glanced up at him from their papers, and then looked at each other.

  Mick and Mo, as Jimmy called them, were both educated at Ivy League schools. They graduated top of their class and were destined to be the CFO’s of Fortune 500 corporations, that is until the cartel contacted them. The insane amounts of money drew them into the drug business just after graduation. Using their knowledge of computerized banking, they helped wash the drug proceeds, and then put the cash to work in legal businesses providing a clean and legal source of profits for the cartel.

  But the new crackdown on money laundering was hurting the drug business like never before. Tighter regulations, commissions paid to anonymous informers, and secret government software were, for the first time, actually hurting the cartels’ cash flow.

  “We need to own a bank so we can launder our own money,” Mick said.

  David stared at Mick’s fat baby face, and with a fierce whisper said, “We owned our own banks on those stupid Indian reservations like you suggested. And I lost my ass.” Mick shrank back from David’s stare. “No, we don’t need to own another bank. Banks are whores to their government.”

  Everyone sat silent. It was uncomfortable, but no one dared speak until David gave permission.

  “We need a bank, yes. But we need a bank that is independent. Mo, how can we get a bank that is free of those DEA cabrons?”

  Mo made a face and threw up his hands. David continued, but now he spoke instead of screamed.

  “We ought to buy another bank: that is the only place we can get our cash moved over to the legal business. But what about these new money laundering…Como dice?” David spoke great English, but sometimes when he got upset, he would lose a word. Then he would ask, “Como dice”. How do you say it?

  “Provisions,” Jimmy interjected. Jimmy spoke no Spanish, but enjoyed it when David had troubles with English.

  “Yeah. Provisions. These money laundering provisions are killing us, man. How are we going to do this, people?” The longer David spoke during these meetings, the stronger his Mexican accent would grow.

  “Come on people. I pay you a LOT of money to have ideas. Have some ideas!” David looked up at the ceiling, raising his hands and shaking his head. He took on the mantle of a teacher.

  “What is the problem with the banks? Their governments. How can we get around that? We need to control the government. Yeah, we need to OWN a government.” David’s fury turned to glee. He sat down and started gesturing with his manicured hands. “Yes, we need our own government to shield us from the prying DEA and FBI accountants.” He turned and leaned directly at Jimmy.

  “Jimmy, find me a government to buy.” This is turning out pretty good, David thought. I have made it look like buying a government was my idea. Last month, during a series of meetings in Mexico between the Mexican cartels and the Colombian cartels, the two groups defined the goal of buying control of a government. But David had waited over two weeks for just the right moment to give the assignment to his senior staff. No one else could know of the cooperation between the cartels.

  “What’s the budget, David?” Jimmy asked, sitting forward and ready to take some notes.

  “We won’t spend more than three million up front, and the normal five percent.” The cartel normally paid seven to ten percent commission to any bank that would launder their cash.

  “Be realistic, David,” Jimmy said, settling back in his chair. “You can’t buy a government for less than twenty million. Then you’ve got to pay the cutout, and then the mordida.” Mordida was the Mexican word for a bribe to a government official. It meant the “little bite”.

  Jimmy was used to this internal negotiation. David would always low ball the expenses allowed on every project, and then make his subordinates justify each and every cost. That was his job. He was the money man for the Santa Marta drug cartel. Jimmy tried several times to find out who the big guys were, but he never got past David.

  David sat back, deep in thought. Mick and Mo knew enough not to interrupt when the boss was making a decision. Jimmy was aware of at least thirty million dollars seized from cartel accounts in the last sixty days. Of course, Jimmy got his commission on each seizure.

  Several years ago Jimmy Rooker worked as a small time aircraft dealer who, in a moment of weakness, hauled a load of cocaine in a Turbo Commander from Mexico to Oklahoma City. The DEA met him there when he landed. After a couple of years in jail, Jimmy made parole. Then he found out there were no jobs available for ex-cons, and no financing for him to restart his aircraft sales business.

  One day a DEA agent showed up at Jimmy’s house offering to finance some aircraft purchases if Jimmy would help them with a sting operation. Even though it would be dangerous, Jimmy’s wife, who waited for him while he was in the joint, encouraged him to try.

  “It’s the only way we’re going to get back on our feet, Jim.” She was the only one in the world who called him Jim.

  Jimmy was then introduced to David Guaymas by a DEA undercover guy. Being an ex-con, Jimmy possessed instant credibility. He had little trouble convincing David to use more aircraft, both to bring drugs in and take money out of the country. Jimmy sold the cartel seven jets, and also made a salary as a “consultant”. Now, after three years, Jimmy owned a fat bank account in the Caymans from working for the new cartel, and another couple of hundred thousand in an account in Panama from working for the DEA.

  “I’m going to Mexico City,” David announced. “I’ll talk with the bosses and see what they want to do. Jimmy, get the Gulfstream ready to take me and Juliana down this afternoon.”

  Jimmy left the meeting and drove back to his hotel. On the way, he called the Gulfstream flight crew and alerted them to the trip. Arriving in his room, he locked his door, took out his big suitcase, and opened a hidden compartment in the bottom.

  Taking out a slim cell phone, he turned it on, and then called a number from memory.

  “Three seven two four,” a female voice said, repeating the last four numbers of the number Jimmy had dialed.

  “I need to talk with Stephen, this is Jimmy.”

  “One minute, and I’ll page him.” Jimmy had a while to ruminate as he listened to scratchy mood music.

  “Jimmy, Stephen. I’ll be free in two hours. Usual place.” Click.

  Jimmy cleared the call from memory, turned off the cell phone, and replaced it in the hidden compartment. The calls in memory were to his “girlfriend
”. If the cartel ever discovered the hidden phone and called the numbers, a female DEA agent would answer, pretending to be Jimmy’s secret lover. This gave Jimmy a perfectly acceptable reason to be absent a few hours during the day each week. The secrecy of the hidden compartment was explained by the fact that Jimmy was a model husband and father, and needed to hide the affair from his wife. He carried two other cell phones on his belt. One began ringing. He picked it up and after listening a minute, made an offer on a another Falcon jet for the cartel.

  *****

  November 15, 1999

  1330

  Galleria Mall

  Houston, Texas

  Jimmy took the corner table at Starbucks in the Galleria Mall. His back pressed against the wall so he could see the entire restaurant. He sipped his black coffee, and placed the large cappuccino with four sugars across from him while he waited. Jimmy spent several minutes looking at each customer, trying to make out any who might be tailing him. Over the last year, he had gotten pretty good at spotting the watchers. Jimmy knew he always had a DEA man or woman keeping an eye on him, for all the good it would do if the cartel ever found out who he really worked for.c

  As always, Stephen Joiner ran late. Dressed in normal Texas garb, blue jeans, a red polo shirt, and New Balance running shoes, he looked more like an unemployed oil field worker than a DEA manager. But his paunch and the extra flesh around his neck came from being stuck at a desk, not from too much barbeque and beer after work. Stephen plopped down in the chair, offered belated thanks for the coffee, and took a sip.

  “Oh, that’s good… Whatcha, got, Jimmy?”

  “Our buddies are not happy about the withdrawal this morning.”

  “I’ll bet they’re not. We captured two million in their account in Latvia. Of course, you’ll get your commission in about sixty days.”

  “Right. Thanks. But now the cartel is pissed. Mick and Mo suggested buying another bank. But David stepped up a notch and talked about buying an entire government.”

  Stephen cursed quietly. “If they can do that, they can operate their banks with some high cover, and smuggle their money where they want. We can only get into bank records with a government’s approval. You’ve got to find out who the bastards are that are organizing this. If they can bring all that money to bear on a small government, they can really do some damage.”

  Jimmy had been trying for months to find out the names of the boss or bosses of the cartel, but David was a perfect cutout: Highly educated, fluent in three languages, and unbelievably discreet. The surveillance teams in Mexico could never keep up with him because David paid off the Mexican police. Jimmy also knew that David had an agent in a high place in the DEA that fed him regular intelligence. A familiar shaft of fear coursed through his testicles as he wondered how long it would take the cartel to find out about him.

  “Jimmy, can you get in on that? I need someone on the ground, close to what’s going on.”

  “Yeah, I think so. Whatever country they’re after, David will never travel like that. Much too open for him. I’m the only one he trusts enough to go and be his eyes and ears. I’ll let you know as soon as I can about anything that goes on.”

  “Jimmy, I don’t like you working overseas alone. You know that’s why we’ve never let you go to Mexico or Colombia.”

  “Yeah, and I don’t—“

  “Don’t interrupt.” Stephen looked hard at Jimmy. “I need you to go, and you want to go, but you need some back up. I want someone with you who can get word to us if you get in trouble. Remember that pilot, Pete Dolan, that I asked you to throw some work at? He’d be a good one to go.”

  “It would be good to have someone else,” Jimmy admitted. The thought of someone inside to help him sounded so reassuring. “If everything went bad, me and him, we could fly the jet out. How do you know this guy?”

  “Pete and I worked together long ago and far away. He was the chief pilot for an operation where I was the ground guy. Good man. I owe him. But he got tired of government work. Said he wanted to be a real person. Now, as you know, he’s been out of work for a few months.”

  “OK, I’ll feel him out.”

  *****

  November 16, 1999

  Holiday Inn

  Room 317

  A cell phone rang, and Jimmy was instantly awake. He glanced at the hotel clock radio. Five fifteen. Only David would call at this hour.

  “Hello?”

  “Jimmy, it’s on. My boss has a banker who can make it happen. But I want you to go and keep an eye on things.”

  “Great! Where are you now?”

  “Mexico City. We’re about to go to the airport. I’ll meet you for breakfast at the Crown Plaza Airport. Say about ten o’clock.”

  “Sounds good. See you there.”

  For the thousandth time, Jimmy wondered who was behind the Santa Marta Cartel. One of the biggest drug operations in the world and no one could locate the leader! From what they knew, the head guy never traveled, didn’t own flashy airplanes or yachts, and never made a deal face-to-face. He only dealt through intermediaries. Maybe this banker was their key to finding the Mystery Man.

  Jimmy fell back asleep. He didn’t have to worry about telling Stephen about the meeting. The DEA monitored all of his cell phone calls.

  November 16,1999

  1000

  Basement

  DEA Intelligence Office

  Alliance Airport

  Ft. Worth, Texas

  Tuffy Dupree looked over his notes, and once again shivered at the prospect of an alliance between the Santa Marta Cartel and the Mexican Cartels. Natural enemies uniting to purchase a government. The concept still rocked his mind. Tuffy, a DEA agent for over forty years, oversaw the DEA Intelligence Service. First recruited out of the Army Security Agency in 1960’s, he shepherded the small office up to the point of being a world-class organization capable of peering into the inner workings of druggies all over the world.

  He had also seen the growth of his girth as he settled into the life of an analyst. What an irony. I’ve ended up as the very thing I despised when I was an agent in Thailand and Colombia, a fat office puke.

  As the first of the attendees walked in, Tuffy remembered the days when everyone was frisked for cell phones. But now, in their new facility, the thick concrete walls lined with wire mesh stopped any signal before it could escape this meeting room. Everyone here had clearances and a long history of dependability, but one never knew when an accident might happen, or a cell phone be modified by a bad guy to transmit all the time.

  In less than a minute, all nine of the executive committee, plus one visitor, were seated, some carrying a banned cup of coffee. (No Food or Drinks in This Room, the sign over the door screamed out.) The Director of Forensic Accounting, the Director of HUMINT (Human Intelligence), the Director of Operations, along with senior staffers made up the committee. Tuffy could see that the feelings of the room were mixed. Curiosity was the most prevalent. But there were also signs of worry and the ever present boredom.

  Tuffy moved his large body toward the front of the room, ran his hand through his crew cut, and started. There was no Power Point presentation and no hand outs. Only a few written notes Tuffy would store in his private safe after the meeting.

  “We have a flash report from Rodney. The Santa Marta Cartel has been having a series of meetings with the Mexican Cartels to set up an alliance. The purpose of the alliance is to gather enough money to purchase a government.”

  Rodney was a paid informant in the Tijuana Mexican cocaine cartel. Only Tuffy knew his real identity, and he kept it a close secret. The DEA, and this office, leaked information like an old sewer line. He knew if he whispered the real name, the agent known as Rodney would be tortured and killed, his body never found.

  “We know the reason for this alliance is to facilitate money laundering for all the cartels involved. However, this alliance could mean several bad developments for us in the War on Drugs, and bad things for our countr
y.”

  “What’s the big deal about bribing some officials to launder money? That’s been going on for sixty years,” a particularly bored young man said with some distain. Archie Bergman was a tall handsome twenty-five year old whiz kid who mined cyberspace for intelligence, and he was Tuffy’s right hand man. Tuffy hated him. He envied the youngster’s computer ability, the way all the women in the office looked at him, but most of all, Tuffy hated him because Archie was thirty-five years younger. But Archie was good, and he was a workaholic.

  “Well, young man, a noted philosopher once said ‘Money is power,’” Tuffy said. “Power without money will soon draw money to itself. The corollary is that money without political power will soon acquire political power. What we’re seeing is perhaps the first move of the drug cartels to take political power.

  “As most of you can imagine, if the cartels can completely control a government, they can use their vast wealth to project power by granting asylum, issuing passports, and purchasing weapons, besides the normal money laundering activities. The drug lords morph into war lords.”

  “Can’t we control their county through sanctions? You know, stop trade, forbid airlines to land there, etc.” Eileen Greenberg was the designated member of the committee that interfaced with the State Department, Congress, and international law enforcement agencies such as INTERPOL and the Financial Action Task Force on Money Laundering.

  Tuffy considered this tall young blonde to be his biggest danger of a leak. Her naïve belief in the power of the government for good and the value of keeping other agencies “fully informed” meant that anything said in this meeting would immediately be in the email inboxes of ten Senate staffers, five diplomats, and twenty-five “allies in the War on Drugs”.

  “First of all, Eileen, this is ‘close hold’ information. None of it may leave this room or be transmitted electronically. You got that?” Tuffy locked eyes with her until she looked down and nodded slowly.