The Covert Element (10 page)

"Now pick up your scooters and push ‘em out here on the
dock."

The boys from Fishbein complied in silence. One of the cycles
had a bent wheel. Its rider pushed it along anyway – all the way to
the boat dock that led out into the main channel.

We all followed – the patio bikers, Bull, me, and even the
waitress.

When the parade reached the end of the dock, beer gut said,
"Okay. We’ll take ‘er from here."

With that, the rest of beer gut’s cycle crew tossed the Fishbein
Dukes into the muddy current of the Mississippi. Their motorcycles
followed close behind.

Once we had all made sure there weren’t any slimy Dukes
trying to slither back ashore, we returned to the parking lot.

Beer gut walked up to Bull and me.

"That was exciting," he said with a smile. "I wanna thank you
guys for sticking up for Melina. She’s a good friend. I owe you guys
one."

"Does that translate into Red Stripe currency?" I asked.

Beer gut laughed.

"You bet it does. Let’s all head back out on the deck and watch
the river go by."

Melina also came up to us.

"Thank you so much, sirs," she said with a thick Jamaican
accent. "Thank you."

"Are you okay, Melina?" I asked.

"I’m okay. Come drink some Red Stripes. We’ll celebrate."

"Those’ll be on the house," the bartender called from the
doorway.

CHAPTER TEN

One year ago, in Bellechester, Minnesota.

It was the second full year of operation for Bellechester
Organic, and Walter Marsden couldn’t have been more pleased with
the little enterprise. His business partner, Bellechester Investors,
had fulfilled its commitment to handle all hiring for the facility. As
long as they had taken care of that, Marsden had thought they
might as well handle all the bookkeeping, payroll, and accounting.
He received a report each week of the business cash flows,
expenses, and routine operational data. And he liked what he saw.

Bellechester Organic had enlisted 80% of the area’s farmers
into its organic production program. The dairy was producing not
only milk, but yogurt and some high quality young cheeses as well.
About 50% of the farmers engaged Bellechester Organic to handle
field application services – both organic and traditional. And hog,
poultry, and dairy services operations were drawing the attention of
an increasing number of farmers with each month that passed.

Best of all, Bellechester Organic was already turning a decent
profit. Loan payments to AgInvest were current. Salaries –
including his own – were generous. His organic brain child had
turned into a healthy lad with a promising future.

Then some unusual things started to happen. They weren’t bad
things,
per se
. Just unusual.

Despite a relatively stable national market price, profits on
sales of organic corn meal began to climb. Slowly at first. Then at a
more brisk pace. Furthermore, expenses for the farm services arm
of the business were rising rapidly. But there was no corresponding
increase in farm services revenue.

Marsden suspected some sort of a change in the manner in
which such things were being reported to him. He spoke first with
his onsite accountant. There hadn’t been any changes in accounting
reports of which he was aware. But Marsden should speak with the
IT folks to see if the data they were inputting had changed
somewhere along the line, or if the accounting programs might have
a glitch.

A check with the IT manager didn’t provide any greater
clarification. As far as he knew, the accounting programs were
operational, and there hadn’t been any changes on the data entry
front.

Perplexed, Marsden called his contact at Bellechester Investors
to find out what was really going on. The man on the other end of
the phone call was an attorney named Albert Dosdall. He was
located in Chicago, Marsden thought, though Marsden had never
visited Dosdall’s offices.

"Hello, Walter. How are things in sunny Minnesota? Going
well, I trust?"

"Oh, yeah. Things are looking good. Really good." Marsden’s
voice was higher than normal, and his breathing mildly panicky. He
always felt this way when he had to talk to Dosdall. He didn’t know
why. Dosdall was nice enough. He was just so . . . decisive. So . . .
intimidating.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this call, Walter? Are the
workers we hired not living up to expectations?"

"Ha. I suppose I’d hardly know if they weren’t. Your
management team seems to have everything well in hand. I barely
need to do anything around the place. Just collect my checks and
monitor reports."

"Yes, indeed. And that’s the way it should be, Walter. This
whole operation was your idea from the outset. You made your
contribution by providing the strategic vision, not to mention a
sizeable chunk of personal capital. Now you can just sit back and
enjoy the ride."

"Well . . . I suppose. Yes. That’s very kind. But . . ."

"But what, Walter? Spit it out, man. What’s on your mind?"

"Well . . . all the management reports are looking real good.
And we’re turning a nice profit for our first full year of operation."

"I’d say an outstanding profit. So what’s the problem?"

"I guess I’ve just got some questions about income and expense
changes I’ve noticed lately. The accountant and the IT manager
don’t seem to be able to explain them to my satisfaction. So I
thought maybe . . . ?"

"Say no more, Walter. You know I’m not the accounting guy for
the investor group. But I sure as hell know their top accounting guy.
I haven’t been up there to Minnesota in quite a while. Why don’t I
grab the bean counter and pay you a visit? Maybe next week? Can it
wait that long?"

"Oh . . . of course. But maybe I could just get it resolved on the
phone if I could speak with the right person?"

"Nonsense, Walter. You want answers and you’ll get them right
from the horse’s mouth. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’ll
coordinate our schedules and we’ll see you sometime next week.
Okay?"

Walter didn’t know how he could refuse.

"Okay . . ."

"All right then, my secretary will give you a jingle when we’ve
got the details all set up. Sit tight, Walter. We’ll have all your
questions answered before you know it. Guaranteed.

"Be seeing you soon."

"Goodbye, Mr. Dosdall."

Marsden hung up the phone. He always felt like a child at the
principal’s office when he spoke to Dosdall. He couldn’t quite put
his finger on it – but something about the guy just made him
nervous.

In any case, there was no stopping Dosdall’s visit now. And the
accounting questions could certainly wait until he arrived next
week.

Maybe he’d call it an early day and go to Coonie’s for a burger
and a beer.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Years earlier, outside Tampico.

The sun had set and Raphael Santos was in position beneath
the mountainside villa belonging to Enrique Calderon, godfather of
the
Los Cinco
cartel, by far the most powerful and feared crime
syndicate in all of eastern Mexico.

From prior surveillance, Santos knew a mine field guarded this
approach to the villa. The terrain was steep and covered with sandy
rubble from the mountain slate. There would be a security guard on
the back balcony from time to time. But other than the intermittent
guard and the mine field, this avenue to the villa was largely
unprotected.

Armed only with his World War II vintage dagger, he began his
approach. Crawling on elbows and knees, being careful not to
dislodge a landslide of rubble, he probed in his path for the buried
mines. He knew that the mines in this field were old-style claymore
land mines – the kind used by the Americans in Korea and
Vietnam. They were fully capable of killing a standing man . . . let
alone one crawling with his face practically on top of them.

Inserting the dagger slowly and methodically, always at a
shallow angle to the crusty surface, Santos probed for mines in his
path. When he reached a mine, as he did with every few feet of
progress toward the villa, he would carefully remove the rubble
covering it, dig it out with the dagger, and then disarm it in the
manner he had learned in military action years ago. Once they had
been disarmed, he placed the claymores in his backpack for later
use.

The work was tedious. It required complete focus to locate and
disarm the mines in the darkness, while still avoiding the telltale
giveaway of dislodged rubble. Twice the security guard appeared on
the balcony. He did not see Santos lying motionless on the shale.

Eventually, Santos reached the place on the upper side of the
mine field where a wire fence and metal signs warned those outside
of its presence. He had made it through the field in less time than
he had feared. And his pack now contained more claymores than he
had hoped for. It was time for stage two of his assault on the villa.

The guard’s presence on the balcony, together with the
laughter and music emanating from the villa, made it clear that the
master was entertaining guests. The noise inside would make it
easier for Santos to spring his surprise assault, so long as the guard
didn’t make an untimely appearance.

With his dagger back in its sheath, Santos climbed the support
pillar on the most remote corner of the balcony – the one farthest
from the sliding doors that led to the revelry. Reaching the level of
the balcony floor, he grasped the iron railing and swung over and
onto the balcony. From there it was mere seconds before he had
climbed the water spout and edged across the tile roof to a dark,
second floor window.

He lifted the unlocked sash. The occupants of this home did
not anticipate entry from this direction. If he had a minefield for a
back yard, he probably wouldn’t either. He placed his pack of mines
inside first, then stepped over the sill. Once inside, he knew he
would have to move quickly.

He opened the pack and removed one of the claymores. Rather
than re-arming it, he attached a small chunk of C4 explosive and a
remote detonator cap to its side. Then he replaced it in the pack
with the rest of the mines.

Finally, he stepped out onto the tile roof once again, and flung
the pack of mines as far down the mountain as he could manage.
Rubble skidded. And the pack clanked and rolled several meters to
its resting place, about 25 meters from the house. He listened to see
if anyone had taken notice. He heard nothing out of the ordinary.

Re-entering the room and exiting into the well-lit hallway,
Santos knew the danger of his operation was at its peak. If he was
seen now, he’d be caught with nothing but a dagger to defend
himself against the automatic weapons he knew bristled in the arms
of security guards downstairs.

As he approached the top of the steps to the main level, the
laughter and revelry grew louder. Descending first one step and
then another – slowly . . . purposefully – the main room gradually
came into view.

As Santos had already anticipated from prior reconnaissance,
Enrique Calderon, master of this villa and leader of
Los Cinco
, sat in
a wingback chair directly beneath the steps on which Santos stood.
Cigar smoke streamed upward to the ceiling from his long, stout
Cubano
.