“Seven years ago. And the man was as reliable as a Swiss watch until now.”
“Hmm. He was indeed. I do not hold it against you. He was honest, until he wasn’t. And he paid the ultimate price for his treachery,” Aranas said.
Mareli showed no emotion, but internally he was relieved. One never knew how the cartel chiefs would react, although Aranas was one of the most stable of the bunch.
“So how can I help you today? How can I be of service?” Mareli asked, wondering what the drug lord wanted. He suspected he knew, but didn’t want to presume.
“Our arrangement is still working well — once the drugs hit the border, we’ve had minimal problems, which is good for everyone. I’m grateful for the protection, as always, even if I do think it comes at a steep price,” Aranas observed. The fifteen percent of the profit he paid Mareli’s group for safe passage into the U.S. and assistance with distribution always came up, but there was no negotiation. And in truth, it was worth it. In the old days, they could expect at least ten percent losses due to law enforcement and sometimes more. It netted out to be roughly the same, but there was peace of mind with Mareli. “I only wish our Mexican officials were as honest as you are. You do a deal with them, and then they stab you in the back as you’re getting up from the negotiating table. A pity, and unforeseeable, but it is what it is.”
“Our arrangement has survived the test of time,” Mareli agreed.
“Carlos’ untimely demise has put me in an uncomfortable situation. I need you to find me someone to replace him. Someone you can vouch for, who will be dependable. I think this year and next will be banner years in the arms trade for Mexico, and my demand is strong. I’m asking you to help me with this. I don’t like dealing with the freelancers that come and go. Yet another headache I can do without.”
Finally. The real reason for the summons. Aranas needed another conduit for weapons. Not unexpected, considering the conflict he was involved in, or the abrupt termination of his last vendor.
“I will ask for a recommendation. There might be an existing entity, or someone who wants to get into the business. We can take care of the supply issue on our end, but he’s largely on his own with the Mexican side. Let me talk to my people and see what we can come up with,” Mareli assured him. “Is this an urgent matter?”
“No, but I don’t want to wind up in a situation where I have to go into the open market when I’m having other difficulties. As you know, word travels fast, and if rumors of my group being unable to secure necessary arms were to circulate, it would embolden my enemies.”
“I see. I’ll make this a priority. You have nothing to worry about,” Mareli said, returning to his coffee.
They discussed the economics of the trade, and the shifting product mix — heroin was down with the worldwide glut since the U.S. had invaded Afghanistan and production was booming. Cocaine demand was down five percent, but methamphetamines were up fifteen. It was a volatile market, but one they understood innately.
Mareli provided more than simple protection. He was also instrumental in cementing the banking relations that allowed Aranas to launder his funds. He’d set up several companies in Panama to handle cash deposits moved through their casino operations and had interests in numerous banks in the region, as well as in Texas and Miami. It was a seamless mechanism, where the cash that didn’t hit Mexico would get deposited in his banks in the States, and the Mexican money moved to Panama. From there, it was scrubbed and could be converted into legitimate funds — for a ten percent fee, of course.
An hour after he arrived, their meeting was over, and Mareli sank into the soft leather of his Mercedes limousine’s rear seat with satisfaction. Once they were underway, he made a series of calls, arranging for his jet to be ready to take him to the U.S. that afternoon. He’d stop at his hotel for his passport and to close out the bill, and then be on his way.
The final call was to a U.S. number, using a different phone — with a state-of-the-art attachment that would scramble it with military-level encryption, rendering it indecipherable to eavesdroppers. The odds of a call being intercepted were remote, however it was protocol and, as such, not to be ignored.
The odd ring of the secure line in Virginia sounded, and after switching through a series of relays, a familiar voice answered.
“How did it go?” Kent Fredericks asked, sounding like he was two feet away.
“Good, good. It was as expected. He needs another gun runner.”
“Maybe he shouldn’t have put a bullet through the head of the last one,” Kent observed. His division in the CIA had gotten a report on the killing almost in real time.
“Apparently, our boy was playing both sides of the field. The man found out and took action.”
“I thought he was selling to everyone? What’s the big deal?” Kent asked.
“He double-crossed the wrong guy, is what happened. Now we need another reliable source. I’m hopping on the plane and will be there in time for dinner. You free?”
“For you? I’m always free. Pick you up at the airport?”
“You bet. I’ll fill you in on the rest when I get in.”
“10-4.”
Chapter 26
Ramirez stood with his hands on his hips, his dirty coveralls stained with mystery fluids, a cigarette twitching between his lips as he stared at a bank of red clay planters and debated his options with his assistant, Paolo.
“How the hell would I know what happened? Sometimes the damned things die. That’s how nature works. You live, you die,” he exclaimed, drawing a lung full of smoke.
“It looks like something killed them. Maybe pollution?” Paolo speculated.
“I doubt it was the smog. They’re Mexican plants. They were raised on this stuff,” Ramirez rasped, before succumbing to a phlegmy coughing fit for thirty seconds. When he was done, he dabbed his eyes and resumed smoking, with a wary glance at the offending cigarette.
“So what do we do?”
“We call someone, and they bring new ones. These have had it.”
Ramirez glared at the dead shrubs as though they’d committed suicide for the sole purpose of complicating his life. This couldn’t have happened at a worse time. They were only two days away from the president’s speech, and the plants on either side of the east doors to the legislative meeting hall, at the top of the massive stairs leading up to the distinctive facade, with its huge mural depicting an eagle clutching a snake, had chosen this moment to give up the ghost. It wouldn’t do to have dead vegetation marring the entrance of the Mexican congress and spoiling the photo opportunity. Wouldn’t do at all.
That evening, workers appeared with hand trucks and dutifully hauled away the planters that housed the palms, replacing them with healthy new examples. One of the employees, in particular, seemed especially enthusiastic about the duty — no doubt because he was new and somewhat of a dimwit. The others griped about having to work late with no overtime pay, but he just smiled his idiotic grin and adjusted the flat-brimmed company baseball hat he’d been issued as he whistled, rolling the heavy planters up the ramp on the side of the stairs.
The workers’ supervisor approached once the crew chief had made a call, and the small group of laborers stood by the delivery truck as the boss inspected their work.
“This one is crooked,” he said, pointing to a planter on the right side of the door. The crew chief waved for the men, and two of them trotted up. “Straighten it out,” he ordered.
A few minutes later, the supervisor nodded, and the task was completed.
The men piled into the back of the truck, happy to finally be going home after another hard day of earning their living with their backs and their hands.
Cruz got the call the next morning as he was settling in behind his desk at headquarters.
“They found a bomb,” Briones announced.
“Where are you? Who found a bomb, and where?”
“I’ll be right in. Give me two minutes,” Briones said and hung up.
