Florida Firefight, page 12
“You do. But you have nothing to fear from me. I know that you’re shipping in drugs. You have an organization down there run by an aide of yours named Medelli.”
Slowly, ever so slowly, the smile returned to Guillermo’s face. “Drugs, is it?” he said, suddenly comfortable again. “And how did you come to that conclusion?”
“I had the same idea. I wanted to find the ideal place for maximum security trafficking. I don’t like risks. I’m a very careful man.” Hawker shrugged. “When I settled on Mahogany Key, there was only one problem—your people already controlled it. But then I started thinking. I realized it might actually be to our mutual advantage. Why not work together? I bought a fishing lodge down there under the name of James Hawker. I have a few ideas—good ideas—about the import business, and I was hoping to have a nice discussion with this Medelli character.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Guillermo said, smiling. “But it is an interesting tale. Please continue.”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about, Mr. Guillermo. Last night Medelli came to me with one of his goons. With a couple of my employees present, he tried to force me into selling my fishing lodge. The fool even pulled a gun on me. It was then I decided that I didn’t want to deal with anyone that stupid. I had already done some checking. I figured I would be better off making my offer directly to the head man.” Hawker’s eyes narrowed. “Here I am, Mr. Guillermo. Is the head man interested in talking?”
The older South American tapped his fingers on the redwood bench. Finally he said, “If I did know what you’re talking about, Mr. Thornton—and I’m not saying I do—why should I offer such a valuable concession to a complete stranger?” He smiled. “I am a diplomat, you see. One does not simply give valuable information away. One trades information. You come with the offer of ‘business.’ If, as you say, I have taken the risk of running a drug trafficking operation, then you must also assume I already have business. No? This little meeting has been interesting, but I’m afraid—”
“I have information,” Hawker inserted calmly. He had anticipated that Guillermo would demand just such an exchange. “I have information you badly need. Information that could save your career, not to mention keep you out of a federal prison.”
Guillermo raised his eyebrows. “By all means, tell me, Mr. Thornton. Give me this earthshaking information.”
“If you will give me your word that, provided the information is of sufficient worth—and it is—you will instruct Medelli to open business corridors to my fledgling operation.”
Guillermo nodded imperceptibly.
“Good,” said Hawker. He lowered his voice as if what he was about to say required secrecy. “You’ve been infiltrated,” he said. “You seem to know something of my own background, so you can understand that I still have friends in a position to … find out certain things. The informant is the local police chief, a man named Simps—”
“Simps!” snorted Guillermo. “He is just another cowardly, overweight American—”
“Wait until I finish. You’re right; Simps is a coward. But he got caught taking payoffs as a cop in Miami. My people—” Hawker let himself smile, as if his tongue had slipped. “I mean, the people I once worked for brought the charges up again, to use as leverage. They have Simps on a string. I don’t expect you to believe me, so I will offer you some proof. I know that Simps was recently ordered to plant listening and tracking devices either on Medelli’s boat or in the main house at Chatham Harbor.”
“Where?” hissed Guillermo.
Hawker shrugged. “I’m not sure. From my own experience, I know that bathrooms are a favorite place—because that’s often where people go to hold their most private talks. They think they’re safe there.”
Guillermo nodded and wiped the sweat from his face. He looked at his watch. “Mr. Thornton, you look as if you need a break from this Turkish torture. Why don’t you go for a nice swim, and I will meet you back here in, say, fifteen minutes?”
Hawker watched the doughy man leave, then found the pool. The water wasn’t as cold as he’d hoped it would be, and it stank of chlorine.
He swam a strong four hundred yards, working out the feeling of sloth that travel always produced in him, working out the tension of his careful lies to the South American diplomat.
Guillermo was already waiting when Hawker returned to the steam room.
“You checked?”
The South American nodded. “They found two of the devices. On the boat. One under the vanity and one in the main salon.”
“There should be more. I know how they operate.”
“Mr. Simps will be killed, of course. They are looking for him now. It seems he left town. But he will be back, and when he returns he will spend a very long time dying. In the end he will beg them to allow him to die. Remember that, Mr. Thornton.” Guillermo’s eyes were like stones. “The ultimate goals of my organization need not concern you. You are a selfish man and probably would not care anyway—and I do not mean that as an insult. I already admire what little I know of you. Your record seems to indicate that you have perceived what those of us from other parts of the world have long known: America has grown as weak and lazy and stupid as its citizenry. When the final fall comes, there are those who are already prepared to take over.” He nodded as if in benediction. “But we will be the best prepared. And, more important, we will be first.” He smiled. “Does such a thing bother you?”
“I welcome the day,” Hawker said airily.
“Good. Then I think it is possible that we can do business, Mr. Thornton. But remember—many people have tried to take advantage of us. And many, many people have died. Do I make myself plain?”
“Spare me the threats, Mr. Guillermo. You’re right: I am a selfish man. I am so selfish that I always bargain fairly and always hold up my end of a deal—because I know that in this business you pay with your life if you don’t.” Hawker put just the right edge in his voice, returning the threat.
“Good,” said Guillermo with a laugh. “I would much prefer we remain friends, for I fear you would be a difficult adversary.” He rubbed his hands together as if about to eat. “You have come a long way, my new friend. Let us hear your business.”
“It’s probably small on your scale of operation. But, as I said, we are just getting started. I can promise the future will hold bigger and better things for both of us.”
“I quite understand. And what is it you offer?”
“Cocaine. Forty pounds of it, uncut, eighty to ninety percent pure. A friend of mine from the organization was an operative in South America, and we are setting up a coca plantation, using two bogus missionaries to front for us. I’ve spent years studying the cocaine trade, and I think I’ve finally found a way to transport it in complete safety from South America to this country.”
“And how is that?”
Hawker shook his head. “Perhaps I will tell you later—if our business dealings together are satisfactory. The forty pounds of cocaine was only an experimental shipment. We wanted to make sure my method would work. It did. Flawlessly.”
“But only for small amounts, I suppose. Really, forty pounds is hardly worth the danger—”
“We can move as much as half a ton at a time using my method.”
“Then why didn’t you, Mr. Thornton?”
Hawker smiled. “As I said, the operation was experimental. I’ve now proved that it works.” His smile broadened. “Plus we lacked working capital. We still do. That’s why I’ve come to you.”
“Again you intrigue me, Mr. Thornton. Of course, we have our own sources of cocaine. But if you will agree to share your method—”
“If our dealings are equitable, I will quite willingly sell it, Mr. Guillermo. No one with any brains deals in drugs for long. The odds catch up with you. I admire your very wise decision to stay safely on the outskirts. Personally, I plan to move out of this country within a year. But now I have forty pounds of cocaine for sale. Interested?”
“More in your technique than in the drug itself.”
Which was exactly why Hawker had invented his imaginary fail-safe technique.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” said Hawker. “Here’s my offer: The street value of cocaine, heavily cut, is about ninety thousand dollars a pound. Forty pounds is worth close to two million dollars.”
“Which, of course, no one in the business would ever pay.”
“Of course. The common wholesale price would be about eight hundred thousand. But since this is our first negotiation, as a sign of good faith, I would be willing to sell it to you for half that price.”
“Four hundred thousand? Very fair,” said Guillermo. “Too fair. What is the catch?”
“I want the money in foreign currency. Preferably in Venezuelan, since that is the most stable of your countries, but Colombian currency if need be. My reasons should be obvious. I can’t account for large sums of money in this country as easily as you. Also, I want to make the exchange tonight. At two A.M., off an island called White Horse Key. Your people will know of it. I will be with two other men. We will be in a forty-foot fishing boat, the Castaway. We’ll be anchored. Tell them not to attempt radio contact. Tell them to anchor Medelli’s boat off Panther Key. Do you have that? It’s important: Panther Key. Tell them to send one or two launches, without lights. They may send as many men as they want.”
Guillermo nodded. “It is all very clear. But we would be willing to pay you twice as much money in U.S. currency.”
“Absolutely not. I’m selfish, remember? I have no interest in being traced.”
“In Colombian currency, then. But I must make myself plain on this point: Your revolutionary method of transporting cocaine had better be revolutionary. Without the promise of that, I would never have made this deal.”
“I understand exactly what you mean,” Hawker said, enjoying, for the moment, his private joke.
Hawker stood and opened the door. “One more thing, Mr. Guillermo. Your people on Mahogany Key have been riding roughshod over the villagers, who are sick of it. In fact, they’re planning to raid your stronghold. Tonight.”
Guillermo looked interested. “Is this a bit of free information, Mr. Thornton?”
“I think you know better. Nothing will bring the feds in faster than a mass killing on some remote Florida island. Tell your men not to use firearms. Fight them, sure. But if Medelli’s people use guns, we’re both in trouble.”
Guillermo shook his head. “I quite agree, Mr. Thornton. Oddly enough, I expressed that very same feeling to Mr. Medelli only recently. The time will come when we will kill a great many of your silly race. But for now, killing only brings trouble.”
Hawker forced himself to remain expressionless. “One more thing, Mr. Guillermo,” he said evenly. “Did you have two men following me in a black Chevy?”
“Following you? Certainly not.”
Hawker wondered if he was lying. “Good,” he said. “It saved you some bail money.”
Two hours later Hawker was on a plane, headed for Florida.
eighteen
It was nearly six P.M. before he drove across the bridge onto Mahogany Key.
It was a silver winter dusk, and a balmy wind blew from Florida Bay over the Everglades.
The place was like a ghost town. The streetlights were on, like little yellow moons, and houses were dark. Hawker guessed they must have sent the women and children out of town. It was a good idea. Hawker hadn’t thought of it. Boggs McKay obviously had.
The parking lot at the Tarpon Inn was jammed with cars and pickup trucks. Lights blazed in the windows, and he could see that the dining room was full. Hawker took the back entrance to his cottage. He didn’t want the men to see him. Not yet. He didn’t want there to be any doubt about who was leading the assault on the Colombians.
The men of Mahogany Key wouldn’t be men again until they drove the invaders out—by themselves.
Hawker tossed his duffel on his bed, stripped off his jacket and tie and went to work at the computer. It took him half an hour with RUSTLED to get the biography of James H. Thornton out of the Washington, D.C., data banks.
That done, he walked down to the docks to make sure the marina’s old forty-foot fishing boat, Castaway, had been readied.
The boat smelled of diesel fuel and fresh paint. The tanks had been topped off, as Hawker had instructed, and one of the crates from his cottage had been loaded. The little yellow Bonefisher, with the 140-horsepower Johnson, had been tethered behind.
Hawker was just finishing his inspection when Logan came walking across the dock, surprisingly quiet for a man his size.
He held a revolver in his hand. “Hey!”
Hawker jumped. When Logan saw who it was, he lowered the weapon and grinned. “Christ, I thought we were being sabotaged. It’s about time you got back. McKay’s just about ready to lead the guys to Chatham Harbor, so you’d better hurry.”
“I’m not going. Not with the men, anyway. I’m going to take one of the skiffs and watch from the mangroves. I want to keep an eye on things.”
“What about later?” Logan asked. “I got the boat rigged just like you told me. The masks and fins and stuff are in the forward locker. And last night after the meeting, I spent about an hour with Graeme, showing him how to operate that hand-held missile launcher, the Stinger. Holy shit, you brought enough stuff with you to outfit an army. Where’d you get it?”
Hawker stepped onto the dock and patted Logan on the back. “Never mind where I got it. I just want to be sure you know what you’re getting into tonight. It’s going to be rough. And bloody. Some people are going to die—maybe us.”
Logan shook his head comically. “If I can survive three tours in Nam, this will be like going on a picnic. Honest to god, Hawk, sometimes the shit came down so heavy over there I used to wonder why they didn’t issue us umbrellas.”
“You’re sure?”
“Damn right.”
“Logan, I’ve had my suspicions that you might be a federal agent: FBI or—”
“Just a cook,” said Logan. “I’m just a cook.”
“I keep forgetting.” Hawker held out his hand. “Anyway, I appreciate it. Good luck. And I’ll see you at midnight.”
Logan grinned. “Hope you enjoy the show. That Boggs McKay is something. One hell of a leader. I think the boys are going to kick some ass for a change.” Logan had started down the dock but stopped suddenly, snapping his fingers. “Oh,” he said. “I have a message for you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Graeme took it. From some guy named … Schmidt. Said he was calling from Washington. Said it was important.”
“What was the message?”
“All he said was, ‘It’s fake.’ That was the whole message: ‘It’s fake.’ Kind of strange, huh?”
Hawker’s hands slowly became fists. “No,” he said. “It’s not strange. It’s exactly what I expected.”
Hawker returned to his cottage.
He pulled on camouflaged army duck commando pants and a black oiled wool sweater. He covered his red hair with a black wool watch cap. He used a charcoal stick on his face and hands.
Now he had some tough weaponry choices to make. He strapped on the Jensen quick-draw side holster and added his custom .45-caliber Commander. He had planted his Gerber Mark II knife on the Colombian, but he still had his best knife: a handmade Randall Attack/Survival, a masterpiece of steel.
He had three choices of field weaponry: the Remington 700, the Ingram submachine gun or a Colt Commando automatic rifle. Hawker decided on the Commando, which was really a shorter version of the M16. He knew most of the fighting would be in close, and the Colt’s telescoping stock would be ideal. Also, the Star-Tron night vision scope could be mounted on it.
Hawker filled a half dozen of the twenty-round detachable box clips and shoved another into the weapon itself. Once the Star-Tron was fixed, he was ready.
Just before he left, he tried to call Winnie Tiger. He knew how stubborn she was, and he suspected she probably hadn’t left town with the other women.
There was no answer.
Hawker was glad. As tough as the Indian beauty was, even she wouldn’t want to be around tonight.
Hawker climbed into the little rowboat and pulled himself across the dark bay.
Night herons squawked from the mangrove shadows, and stars glimmered above.
There was a light wind out of the northwest, and the occasional flare of distant lightning illuminated sea clouds on the horizon. A storm was rolling toward them from the Gulf of Mexico, and Hawker was glad. The cover and noise of a rough sea would help.
At the edge of Chatham Harbor, Hawker steered the skiff into the mangroves and tied it against the tidal stream. Lights were on in the dozen houses at the edge of the harbor, but no music blared, and no men drank beer on the porches. A nervous silence seemed to hang over the settlement.
The warehouse was about fifty yards away, off to the right. The same two guards stood in the white lights of the dock. They didn’t look bored now. They were alert, smoking nervously. They kept their rifles close. Hawker knew that Guillermo had warned them. He studied them through the Star-Tron scope, seeing their faces clearly. The Colt Commando had an effective range of two hundred meters. It was more than enough.
If they didn’t follow orders, if they opened fire on the men of Mahogany Key, Hawker would kill them. There would be no waiting for orders from stupid little politicians on this night.
The Demonio Del Mar, Medelli’s hundred-foot yacht, was gone. Hawker was surprised. He had gotten the impression that Guillermo would have them keep the yacht safely at dockside until it was near the 2 A.M. rendezvous time. It worried him. What if Medelli had decided to double-cross Guillermo and strike out on his own? What if Hawker’s warning to Guillermo was leading the local fishermen into an ambush?
Hawker tightened his grip on the Colt Commando and waited.
