“Who’s your contact at the Bureau?”
“Tom Burke, middle-level guy in the Intelligence Division. Pretty good man. He handled part of the Henderson case.”
“Okay, get this to him. Maybe the Bureau can figure a way to bag the bastard. Anything else?”
“No, sir.”
Ritter nodded and resumed his trip home. The watch officer returned to his own office on the fifth floor and made his call. He was in luck this night; Burke was still at his office. They couldn’t discuss the matter over the phone, of course. The CIA watch officer, Paul Hooker, drove over to the FBI Building at 10th and Pennsylvania.
Though CIA and FBI are sometimes rivals in the intelligence business, and always rivals for federal budget funds, at the operational level their employees get along well enough; the barbs they trade are good-natured ones.
“There’s a new tourist coming into D.C. in the next few days,” Hooker announced once the door was closed.
“Like who?” Burke inquired, gesturing to his coffee machine.
Hooker declined. “Félix Cortez.” The CIA officer handed over a Xerox of the telex. Portions of it had been blacked out, of course. Burke didn’t take offense at this. As a member of the Intelligence Division, charged with catching spies, he was accustomed to “need-to-know.”
“You’re assuming that it’s Cortez,” the FBI agent pointed out. Then he smiled. “But I wouldn’t bet against you. If we had a picture of this clown, we’d stand a fair chance of bagging him. As it is ...” A sigh. “I’ll put people at Dulles, National, and BWI. We’ll try, but you can guess what the odds are.” If the Agency had gotten a photo of this mutt while he was in the field—or while he was at the KGB Academy—it would make our job a hell of a lot easier.... “I’ll assume that he’s coming in over the next four days. We’ll check all flights directly in from down there, and all connecting flights.”
The problem was more one of mathematics than anything. The number of direct flights from Colombia, Venezuela, Panama, and other nearby countries directly into the D.C. area was quite modest and easy to cover. But if the subject made a connecting flight through Puerto Rico, the Bahamas, Mexico, or any number of other cities, including American ones, the number of possible connections increased by a factor of ten. If he made one more intermediary stop in the United States, the number of possible flights for the FBI to monitor took a sudden jump into the hundreds. Cortez was a KGB-trained pro, and he knew that fact as well as these two men did. The task wasn’t a hopeless one. Police play for breaks all the time, because even the most skilled adversaries get careless or unlucky. But that was the game here. Their only real hope was a lucky break.
Which they would not get. Cortez caught an Avianca flight to Mexico City, then an American Airlines flight to Dallas-Fort Worth, where he cleared customs and made yet another American connection to New York City. He checked into the St. Moritz Hotel on Central Park South. By this time it was three in the morning, and he needed some rest. He left a wakeup call for ten and asked the concierge to have him a first-class ticket for the eleven o’clock Metroliner into Union Station, Washington, D.C. The Metroliners, he knew, had their own phones. He’d be able to call ahead if something went wrong. Or maybe ... no, he decided, he didn’t want to call her at work; surely the FBI tapped its own phones. The last thing Cortez did before collapsing onto the bed was to shred his plane-ticket receipts and the baggage tags on his luggage.
The phone awoke him at 9:56. Almost seven hours’ sleep, he thought. It seemed like only a few seconds, but there was no time to dawdle. Half an hour later he appeared at the desk, tossed in his express check-out form, and collected his train ticket. The usual Manhattan midtown traffic nearly caused him to miss the train, but he made it, taking a seat in the last row of the three-across club-car smoking section. A smiling, red-vested attendant started him off with decaffeinated coffee and a copy of USA Today, followed by a breakfast that was no different—though a little warmer—from what he’d have gotten on an airliner. By the time the train stopped in Philadelphia, he was back asleep. Cortez figured that he’d need his rest. The attendant noted the smile on his sleeping face as he collected the breakfast tray and wondered what dreams passed through the passenger’s head.
At one o’clock, while Metroliner 111 approached Baltimore, the TV lights were switched on in the White House Press Room. The reporters had already been prepped with a “deep background, not for attribution” briefing that there would be a major announcement from the Attorney General, and that it would have something to do with drugs. The major networks did not interrupt their afternoon soap operas—it was no small thing to cut away from “The Young and the Restless”—but CNN, as usual, put up their “Special Report” graphic. This was noticed at once by the intelligence watch officers in the Pentagon’s National Military Command Center, each of whom had a TV on his desk tuned into CNN. That was perhaps the most eloquent comment possible on the ability of America’s intelligence agencies to keep its government informed, but one on which the major networks, for obvious reasons, had never commented.
The Attorney General strode haltingly toward the lectern. For all his experience as a lawyer, he was not an effective public speaker. You didn’t need to be if your practice was corporate law and political campaigning. He was, however, photogenic and a sharp dresser, and always good for a leak on a slow news day, which explained his popularity with the media.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, fumbling with his notes. “You will soon be getting handouts concerning Operation TARPON. This represents the most effective operation to date against the international drug cartel.” He looked up, trying to see the reporters’ faces past the glare of the lights.
“Investigation by the Department of Justice, led by the FBI, has identified a number of bank accounts both in the United States and elsewhere which were being used for money-laundering on an unprecedented scale. These accounts range over twenty-nine banks from Liechtenstein to California, and their deposits exceed, at our current estimates, over six hundred fifty million dollars.” He looked up again as he heard a Goddamn! from the assembled multitude. That elicited a smile. It was never easy to impress the White House press corps. The autowind cameras were really churning away now.
“In cooperation with six foreign governments, we have initiated the necessary steps to seize all of those funds, and also to seize eight real-estate joint-venture investments here in the United States which were the primary agency in the actual laundering operation. This is being done under the RICO—the Racketeer-Influenced and Corrupt Organization—statute. I should emphasize on that point that the real-estate ventures involve the holdings of many innocent investors; their holdings will not—I repeat not—be affected in any way by the government’s action. They were used as dupes by the Cartel, and they will not be harmed by these seizures.”
“Excuse me,” Associated Press interrupted. “You did say six hundred fifty million dollars?”
“That is correct, more than half a billion dollars.” The AG described generally how the information had been found, but not the way in which the first lead had been obtained, nor the precise mechanisms used to track the money. “As you know, we have treaties with several foreign governments to cover cases such as this. Those funds identified as drug-related and deposited in foreign banks will be confiscated by the governments in question. In Swiss accounts, for example, are approximately ... ” He checked his notes again. “It looks like two hundred thirty-seven million dollars, all of which now belongs to the Swiss government.”
“What’s our take?” The Washington Post asked.
“We don’t know yet. It’s difficult to describe the complexity of this operation—just the accounting is going to keep us busy for weeks.”
“What about cooperation from the foreign governments?” another reporter wanted to know.
You gotta be kidding, the journalist next to him thought.
“The cooperation we’ve received on this case is simply
outstanding.” The Attorney General beamed. “Our friends overseas have moved with dispatch and professionalism.”
Not every day you can steal this much money and call it something for the Public Good, the quiet journalist told herself.
CNN is a worldwide service. The broadcast was monitored in Colombia by two men whose job it was to keep track of the American news media. They were journalists themselves, in fact, who worked for the Colombian TV network, Inravision. One of them excused himself from the control room and made a telephone call before returning.
Tony and his partner had just come back on duty in the van, and there was a telex clipped to the wall, telling them to expect some activity on the cellular-phone circuits at about 1800 Zulu time. They weren’t disappointed.
“Can we talk to Director Jacobs about this?” a reporter asked.
“Director Jacobs is taking a personal interest in the case, but is not available for comment,” the AG answered. “You’ll be able to talk to him next week, but at the moment he and his team are all pretty busy.” That didn’t break any rules. It gave the impression that Emil was in town, and the reporters, recognizing exactly what the Attorney General had said and how he had said it, collectively decided to let it slide. It fact, Emil had taken off from Andrews Air Force Base twenty-five minutes earlier.
“Madre de Dios!” Escobedo observed. The meeting had barely gotten past the usual social pleasantries so necessary for a conference of cutthroats. All the members of the Cartel were in the same room, which happened rarely enough. Even though the building was surrounded with a literal wall of security people, they were nervous about their safety. The building had a satellite dish on the roof, and this was immediately tuned in to CNN. What was supposed to have been a discussion of unexpected happenings in their smuggling operations was suddenly side-tracked onto something far more troubling. It was especially troubling for Escobedo, moreover, since he’d been one of the three Cartel members who had urged this money-laundering scheme on his colleagues. Though all had complimented him on the efficiency of the arrangement over the last two years, the looks he was getting now were somewhat less supportive.
“There is nothing we can do?” one asked.
“It is too early to tell,” replied the Cartel’s equivalent of a chief financial officer. “I remind you that the money we have already taken completely through the arrangements nearly equals what our normal returns would be. So you can say that we have lost very little other than the gain we expected to reap from our investments.” That sounded lame even to him.
“I think we have tolerated enough interference,” Escobedo said forcefully. “The Director of the American federales will be here in Bogotá later today.”
“Oh? And how did you discover this?”
“Cortez. I told you that hiring him would be to our benefit. I called this meeting to give you the information that he has gotten for us.”
“This is too much to accept,” another member agreed. “We should take action. It must be forceful.”
There was general agreement. The Cartel had not yet learned that important decisions ought never to be taken in anger, but there was no one to counsel moderation. These men were not known for that quality in any case.
Train 111, Metroliner Service from New York, arrived a minute early at 1:48 P.M. Cortez walked off, carrying his two bags, and walked at once to the taxi stand at the front of the station. The cabdriver was delighted to have a fare to Dulles. The trip took just over thirty minutes, earning the cabbie what for Cortez was a decent tip: $2.00. He entered the upper level, walked to his left, took the escalator down, where he found the Hertz counter. Here he rented another large Chevy and took the spare time to load his bags. By the time he returned inside, it was nearly three. Moira was right on time. They hugged. She wasn’t one to kiss in so public a place.
“Where did you park?”
“In the long-term lot. I left my bags in the car.”
“Then we will go and get them.”
“Where are we going?”
“There is a place on Skyline Drive where General Motors occasionally holds important conferences. There are no phones in the rooms, no televisions, no newspapers.”
“I know it! How did you ever get a reservation at this late notice?”
“I’ve been reserving a suite for every weekend since we were last together,” Cortez explained truthfully. He stopped dead in his tracks. “That sounds ... that sounds improper?” He had the halting embarrassment down pat by this time.
Moira grabbed his arm. “Not to me.”
“I can tell that this will be a long weekend.” Within minutes they were on Interstate 66, heading west toward the Blue Ridge Mountains.
Four embassy security officers dressed in airline coveralls gave the area a final look, then one of them pulled out a sophisticated satellite-radio phone and gave the final clearance.
The VC-20A, the military version of the G-III executive jet, flew in with a commercial setting on its radar transponder, landing at 5:39 in the afternoon at El Dorado International Airport, about eight miles outside of Bogotá. Unlike most of the VC- 20As belonging to the 89th Military Airlift Wing at Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland, this one was specially modified to fly into high-threat areas and carried jamming gear originally invented by the Israelis to counter surface-to-air missiles in the hands of terrorists ... or businessmen. The aircraft flared out and made a perfect landing into gentle westerly winds, then taxied to a distant corner of the cargo terminal, the one the cars and jeeps were heading for. The aircraft’s identity was no longer a secret to anyone who’d bothered to look, of course. It had barely stopped when the first jeeps formed up on its left side. Armed soldiers dismounted and spread out, their automatic weapons pointed at threats that might have been imaginary, or might not. The aircraft’s door dropped down. There were stairs built into it, but the first man off the plane didn’t bother with them. He jumped, with one hand hidden in the right side of a topcoat. He was soon joined by another security guard. Each man was a special agent of the FBI, and the job of each was the physical safety of their boss, Director Emil Jacobs. They stood within the ring of Colombian soldiers, each of whom was a member of an elite counterinsurgency unit. Every man there was nervous. There was nothing routine about security in this country. Too many had died proving otherwise.
Jacobs came out next, accompanied by his own special assistant, and Harry Jefferson, Administrator of the Drug Enforcement Administration. The last of the three stepped down just as the ambassador’s limousine pulled up. It didn’t stop for long. The ambassador did step out to greet his guests, but all of them were inside the car a minute later. Then the soldiers remounted their jeeps, which moved off to escort the ambassador. The aircraft’s crew chief closed the Gulfstream’s door, and the VC- 20A, whose engines had never stopped turning, immediately taxied to take off again. Its destination was the airfield at Grenada, thoughtfully built for the Americans by the Cubans only a few years before. It would be easier to guard it there.
“How was the flight, Emil?” the ambassador asked.
“Just over five hours. Not bad,” the Director allowed. He leaned back on the velvet seat of the stretch limo, which was filled to capacity. In front were the ambassador’s driver and bodyguard. That made a total of four machine guns in the car, and he was sure Harry Jefferson carried his service automatic. Jacobs had never carried a gun in his life, didn’t wish to bother with the things. And besides, if his two bodyguards and his assistant—another crack shot—didn’t suffice to protect him, what would? It wasn’t that Jacobs was an especially courageous man, just that after nearly forty years of dealing with criminals of all sorts—the Chicago mob had once threatened him quite seriously—he was tired of it all. He’d grown as comfortable as any man can be with such a thing: it was part of the scenery now, and like a pattern in the wallpaper or the color of a room’s paint, he no longer noticed it.
He did notice the altitude. The city of Bogotá sits at an elevat
ion of nearly 8,700 feet, on a plain among towering mountains. There was no air to breathe here and he wondered how the ambassador tolerated it. Jacobs was more comfortable with the biting winter winds off Lake Michigan. Even the humid pall that visited Washington every summer was better than this, he thought.
“Tomorrow at nine, right?” Jacobs asked.
“Yep.” The ambassador nodded. “I think they’ll go along with nearly anything we want.” The ambassador, of course, didn’t know what the meeting was about, which did not please him. He’d worked as charge d’affaires at Moscow, and the security there wasn’t as tight as it was here.
“That’s not the problem,” Jefferson observed. “I know they mean well—they’ve lost enough cops and judges proving that. Question is, will they play ball?”
“Would we, under similar circumstances?” Jacobs mused, then steered the conversation in a safer direction. “You know, we’ve never been especially good neighbors, have we?”
“How do you mean?” the ambassador asked.
“I mean, when it suited us to have these countries run by thugs, we let it happen. When democracy finally started to take root, we often as not stood at the sidelines and bitched if their ideas didn’t agree fully with ours. And now that the druggies threaten their governments because of what our own citizens want to buy—we blame them.”
“Democracy comes hard down here,” the ambassador pointed out. “The Spanish weren’t real big on—”
“If we’d done our job a hundred years ago—or even fifty years ago—we wouldn’t have half the problems we have now. Well, we didn’t do it then. We sure as hell have to do it now.”
“If you have any suggestions, Emil—”
Jacobs laughed. “Hell, Andy, I’m a cop—well, a lawyer—not a diplomat. That’s your problem. How’s Kay?”