The Grace Bay Agreement Page 2

  “And to answer your question, sanctions haven’t worked for North Korea, Iran, Cuba, or South Africa. Why should they work for this country? Sanctions just invite corruption. Businessmen seeking profit continue to do business in the country, but it turns them from traders into smugglers. Bad guys seek out a country like this as a haven.

  “Second. The druggies aren’t going to advertise which country they’ve bought. By the time we figure that out, their influence in that country could have caused a great deal of damage. If we don’t keep this group of organized criminals from taking over a government, it could hurt our entire civilization in the long run.

  “I’ve called this meeting to see if anyone here has a way to monitor what’s going on. Anyone here have any intel on a possible operation like this?”

  A hand eased up in the back of the room.

  “I have a man in the middle of this thing, but we thought it was just the Santa Marta cartel.” Stephen Joiner was the head of the Houston section. He handled operations in Eastern Mexico and Colombia. While not an intel guy in the strict sense, he was often invited to these meetings because of his experience and personal friendship with Tuffy.

  “Great. Stick around after the meeting.” Tuffy turned and pointed to Archie. “I want anything you can get me on money flows, strange visa apps, news of diplomats and/or leaders moving around. I’ll be asking all of you for your support and secrecy on this.” He glared again at Eileen. “I may be asking you for some strange things in the next few days or weeks. Bear with me.”

  Everyone stood, hearing the dismissal in Tuffy’s voice. Eileen stormed back into her office, furious that she could not get other agencies involved to help. This was a matter to be debated in Congress. International law enforcement agencies needed to know about this.

  Her secretary, Mary Warner, sat at her desk reading the new issue of “Money Laundering, A Preventative Guide for Small Businesses”. Mary was single, forty-one years old, and a few pounds overweight. Her hair was shoulder length and mousy brown. She wore a tight, dark blue dress that showed just a little too much cleavage.

  “Eileen, this is a really good publication put out by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Maybe we should ask Congress to get some money to publish something like this for a handout whenever a business opens a new bank account.”

  Eileen slammed her note pad onto Mary Warner’s desk.

  “You cannot believe the arrogance of that fool, Dupree. Forbidding me to do my job of interfacing with appropriate government agencies.” Eileen continued to fume as she walked past Mary’s desk and into her office. “This is big. We need to inform the INLEA (International Narcotics Law Enforcement Agency), NAS (Narcotics Affairs Section), and the NCIS (National Criminal Intelligence Service) at least, along with Congress.”

  Mary followed into the inner office and shut the door. “Now, tell me what happened,” she said using her most soothing voice.

  Eileen never noticed that Mary had become intensely interested in these executive meetings over the last two months. Eileen just wanted someone to understand her frustration at being unable to do her job as the information broker to all the other agencies. She went into great detail about that dinosaur, Tuffy Dupree, and how behind the times he was. But there was no way to go around him, and Eileen knew she couldn’t defy him without grave consequences.

  After comforting Eileen, Mary then went back to working at her desk, often checking the clock. When 11:45 finally came around, she got up and announced, “I’m off to lunch. Do you want me to bring you anything?”

  “No, I’m eating here with Johnny.” Johnny was Eileen’s newest boyfriend.

  That’s OK cutie, because I have a boyfriend of my own. A lover, really. The thought made Mary smile as she opened the door to her car. To think that she had ever been jealous of her young, skinny boss.

  Driving to the nearby library, Mary found a terminal that faced a wall. It would be impossible for anyone to stand behind her and see what she was typing. As she waited for the slow connection to boot up, Mary remembered the first time she met Jose Leal.

  She was sitting at her favorite bar, TGI Friday’s, sipping on a rum and coke, when this cute Latin guy came in and sat a few seats down from her. He was dressed in a tight black cotton dress shirt and white pleated pants. Mary felt a warm flush as he settled onto the bar stool a couple of seats down the bar. Just the way he moved belied his strength and grace.

  After ordering a drink, he looked down the bar and caught Mary’s eye. He lifted his drink to her and turned to survey the rest of the restaurant. A few minutes later, he came over and stood beside Mary. As he walked over, she studied his wide shoulders, dancer’s physique, and huge brown eyes.

  “Is this seat taken?” he asked with a slight Spanish accent.

  “No, please sit down.”

  “This bar is pretty dead, isn’t it?”

  “Well, it picks up later in the evening, when the football game starts.”

  “I don’t know a thing about American football. I am from Costa Rica, and we play soccer, as you call it.”

  “I can teach you about football,” Mary said a little too quickly.

  “No, I know everything I need to know about American football. It is complicated, with so many rules. It has so many specialized players and so much special equipment. And it is so violent. The game is a perfect parallel to American society.”

  “I’ve never thought about it like that. Every American man worships football.”

  He gazed into her eyes then tilted his head.

  “Do you dance? Why watch football when one can dance with a beautiful woman. My name is Jose. What is yours?”

  “Mary. Mary Warner.”

  They went out salsa dancing that night, and every night for the next week. She fell in love with Jose Leal, and he would come to visit her a few days every month when he was in town. After the first week, he stayed at her house, and she cooked for him and washed his clothes.

  After a couple of months, Mary realized Jose was in the drug business, but their love overcame all boundaries. Not only was the sex spectacular, she knew Jose truly loved her. He had a wife in Costa Rica, but he had her as his lover here in Texas.

  One month later, Jose asked Mary to send him a little bit of news about what was happening at her office, just to make his life a little easier. She started by sending harmless bits of information such as the name of her boss. Then Jose asked for more. Mary realized at one point that she was helping the cartels, but now she was deeply in love, and didn’t care about anything except Jose.

  The connection came up and Mary logged onto www.mylesbianlover.com. Selecting email, she wrote to Jose’s address. Jose said that the NSA rarely looked at sites like these, and if anyone was ever checking on what Mary was doing, she would have a cover for why she didn’t use her work or home computer.

  The message was simple.

  Lucy and Cher discussed in the meeting. Both trying to make a large purchase. Joiner knows, but thought it was only Lucy. Can’t wait to have you in my bed again.

  Mary

  Lucy and Cher were the code names for the Santa Marta and Mexican cartels. She closed the website, and went to Yahoo.com. Then she erased the history and cleared the temporary files as Jose had showed her. Now, where should she go to lunch?

  November 16, 1999

  1230

  La Mansion Apartments

  Houston, Texas

  Pete Dolan looked at his ringing desk phone hoping it was Belgium calling about the generator set he had for sale. He was medium height, had sandy blonde hair, and rugged features. His big blue eyes squinted hard at the phone. He kept his body lean with long walks and calisthenics from his Army days.

  Since losing his flying job six months ago, he spent half his day trying to sell all types of surplus equipment in partnership with another unemployed pilot buddy. But, at heart, Pete was still a pilot, so he spent the other half of the day looking for a flying job.

  The phone rang
again. Please be about the generator. I need that money. They were so near to closing on a big unit designed to power a cruise ship. The Belgian corporation worked diamond mines in the Congo and needed a new genset to open another mine.

  His exclusive contract to sell the huge diesel generator would run out the first of December, in fifteen more days. If they could only get the Belgians to release the money. Their consultant had already traveled to Holland to inspect the unit where it had been removed from a cruise ship undergoing refit. If we close on the day after Thanksgiving, I’ll get $7,500 in commissions. Please, please be the Belgians.

  The phone rang the third time.

  “This is Pete,” he answered in the habitual greeting he’d used since working for the US Government.

  “Pete, do you have any experience in a Sabre 60?” He recognized the voice of Jimmy Rooker. Not the Belgians, but he was happy because this call would mean some part time pilot work. At least enough to cover the check he’d written for groceries.

  The Sabre 60 was an older generation jet, fast, but a real gas burner. It was one of the types of cheap older jets that Jimmy Rooker bought and sold.

  Often, corporate pilots fly for just a day or two for a company and they charge a daily rate. These “day jobs” had been trickling in from Jimmy since Pete got laid off of his job flying for an auto parts manufacturer. Always before, Jimmy had work for Pete flying King Air and Navajo prop planes. These jobs always seemed to come at just the right time. Most of the jobs were in and out of Mexico or a day flight from Houston to Indian reservations in Oklahoma and Kansas. Pete averaged eight or ten flying days each month. Two or three thousand dollars a month kept his head above water.

  “Nope. Never been in a Sabre.”

  “No matter. I need a right seater for a pop-up trip tomorrow leaving Montgomery County and ferry over to Ellison. You’ll be flying with an experienced captain. Same pay.” Jim was a real fast talker.

  Wow, three hundred bucks plus expenses for a fifteen minute flight.

  “Yeah, I’ll take it,” he said, writing down the particulars as Jimmy gave them out. After he hung up, Pete looked around his apartment. Boxes still cluttered the living room, his skis and fishing poles stood in the corner, and books lined the walls waiting for shelves. Dirty dished piled up in the sink, and he needed to take out the garbage.

  I need a maid, he thought.

  He remembered the day, two years ago, when he came home after a ten day trip and his wife served him divorce papers and asked him to leave the house. Just after paying the deposit on this cheap apartment and moving in, she drained their joint accounts and put the money in her name. He didn’t really care, since he still had a good paying job. But then his corporate pilot slot disappeared due to a merger just forty days after his wife filed for divorce. That is when he found out there was another man.

  He expected his life to get better, but it seemed that each day he went down a notch.

  Now, he had a jet job coming up. A big hurdle in getting another job was his lack of jet time. Well, now he would be getting some jet experience. Legally, Pete knew that a pilot is supposed to have some ground school and three take offs and landings before he is legal to act as first officer on a turbojet powered aircraft. But thoughts of acquiring some Sabre flight hours in his log book and getting some cash in his empty checking account buried any qualms Pete Dolan had about flying a jet for which he was not qualified.

  November 17, 1999

  1000

  Lone Star Executive Airport

  Conroe, Texas

  At ten o’clock sharp, Pete stood in the pilot lounge of White Aviation, Lone Star Executive Airport, about twenty five miles north of Houston. On nearly every airport, there are businesses that cater to private and corporate aircraft needing fuel, maintenance, terminal facilities, and parking for the aircraft and the passengers’ cars. These businesses still went by the old name of Fixed Base Operators. The saying came from the barnstormer days when a business wanted the town to know that they would not be moving with the next air show. Over the years pilots just shortened the name to FBO.

  Pete was ready. He had already gotten his charts out and figured the route of flight he should take across Houston to land at Ellison Airport, an old Air Force Base converted to civilian use.

  Jimmy Rooker strode through the front entrance of the FBO greeting all the counter girls by name. He wore a salmon-colored silk shirt, blue jeans and four hundred dollar loafers.

  “Pete…. good you could come, buddy,” Jimmy said as he pumped Pete’s hand.

  “Hi, Jim. Where’s the captain?” Pete had always been suspicious of Jimmy. He was a little too slick, a little too happy. Pete’s friends warned him that Jimmy was into some shady dealings and selling cheap jets to known druggies. Later, those same aircraft would get popped flying in a load of cocaine. But, Pete needed money desperately. His ex was calling everyday for late child support, and Jimmy seemed to be the only one with any work.

  “Oh, he’ll be along. Look, I need to talk with you a minute. Can you come with me for a cup of coffee?”

  “Sure. Want to take my truck?”

  “No, we’ll take mine.” They strolled to Jimmy’s brand new Suburban while Jimmy asked about Pete’s kid and his job prospects. Jimmy remembered everything about Pete. Where he had worked before, what aircraft he was qualified to fly, even the name of his daughter. A born salesman.

  After getting under way toward his second home, Starbucks, Jimmy turned off the small talk and smile like a gardener turns off a faucet.

  “Do you have your cell phone?”

  “Sure,” Pete replied.

  “Turn it off for a minute.”

  Odd request, Pete thought, but he took the cell phone out and turned it off in front of Jimmy.

  “Now take out the battery.” Pete fumbled with the back and slid the battery off and into his hand.

  Pulling off of the road into an empty parking lot, Jimmy kept both hands on the wheel and looked straight ahead. He seemed to be deciding something.

  “Pete, I’ve been watching you for a long time. You’re a straight shooter. We know you’ve been having some financial problems, and we want to give you a job.”

  “Great! When do I start?”

  “Don’t be so quick to answer. You used to work for the Agency and the State Department, so I know that you know how to keep your mouth shut about some things.”

  “Jimmy, I don’t like the way this conversation’s going. That was a long time ago. I’m just a pilot now.” Pete was a little concerned that Jimmy had found out about his years working for the USG.

  Jimmy let the silence hang for a few minutes.

  “Pete, we’re offering you six hundred per day, double your usual rate, to help us.”

  “Who’s this “we” and “us” you keep talking about?”

  “We’re the good guys, Pete. We’re in the middle of a long term investigation of the Santa Marta drug cartel.”

  “I’ve never heard of the Santa Marta drug cartel,” Pete said, with obvious disbelief in his voice.

  “You won’t ever hear about them if they have their way. After the Colombian cartels in Cali and Medellín started making waves, and then got pounded by the US and Colombian governments, a new group of businessmen took over their distribution routes. They’re bigger than anything before, and coke is flowing into the country even faster now. But they keep everything secret. We’re trying to get to these guys. But they’re good.”

  Dolan looked across the front seat at Jimmy, and tried to imagine this guy as a law enforcement type. Not possible.

  After a long silence, Jimmy looked at Pete and said, “Look, just take the trip this morning to Ellison. I’ll get you your money this afternoon, and then I’ll have my boss talk with you. Don’t mention any of our conversation to Bob. He’ll be the captain, but he’s only the driver.”

  “OK. Lord knows I need the money.” Pete felt like a small black cloud was moving over him. Was this going to t
urn out badly?

  Jimmy smiled, reached across, slapped his shoulder, and drove to Starbucks. He morphed back into his old self, telling Dolan of the jets he had for sale and women he was trying to seduce.

  Back at the airport, they met the captain, Bob Ferrara. Bob, like Pete, was currently unemployed, but he had recently flown a Sabre 60 on a freight contract.

  Typical freight pilot. Medium height, sixty years old, over two hundred fifty pounds, and looked as if he had not seen any exercise in the last fifteen years. They shook hands and started talking.

  Jimmy pointed Bob and Pete toward an old Sabre Jet parked in the hangar. They walked around the aircraft and Pete could barely keep his mouth shut.

  Two words could sum up this jet: tired and worn. The white paint was chalky, the red stripes faded almost to pink, but it had fuel, hydraulic oil, and the battery was up. In less than a half hour they were in the air, with Jimmy lounging in the back enjoying a magazine he had stolen from the FBO. Sun and scattered clouds reigned over Houston and they received a direct vector over George Bush Intercontinental Airport to Ellison. The airplane was fast, much faster than the propeller aircraft Pete was used to. Bob possessed a smooth touch and the ability to think far ahead of the heavy old bird. He squeaked the landing, and they taxied in.

  As the three men exited the aircraft, an older man with white hair strode across the ramp toward the trio. He was six feet tall and weighed a hundred and eighty pounds. Dressed in white tennis shorts and a white polo shirt, it was obvious to Pete that this man was in great physical condition. Even in the hot Texas sun, he had the cool air of a man completely in control.

  “Wilson, this is your new jet!” Jimmy called out with a wide sweep of his left arm toward the old girl. The man grasped the hand rail, and bounded up the steps.