The Covert Element (21 page)

Bing got a green flag, as he always did. But as he passed slowly
by the ICE docks, a uniformed black guard called out to him.

"Where y’at, Cap’n Bing?"

Okay. Time to turn on the old Claremont charm.

"A’right on this vessel, my man. Why don’ cha hop on and take
a pleasure cruise?"

"Y’all tell me where ya stay at. I be on yer stoop next day."

The officer laughed.

"Next time, my man. I got to keep the ladies safe from ya’ll."
Bing smiled, gesturing at the bikini babes seated aft of the bridge.

"Y’all got dat raht." He gave Bing a "get on outta here" wave
and turned to the next vessel.

It was to procure just this sort of casual treatment by local
Customs officials that
Los Cinco
had been willing to invest so much
money in the mansion, the yacht, and the self-inflated brat.
Today
,
Santos thought,
it has been worth every penny.

The port of debarkation for Santos and wife was a small village
fifty kilometers up the Mississippi from New Orleans proper. As
their yacht approached the visitors’ docking facilities, two pickups
and a blue Lincoln sedan pulled up in the lot. Before long, the two
passengers and their personal luggage had been loaded into the
sedan and were on the way to St. Louis. The men in the trucks
offloaded the remaining cargo and disappeared in an entirely
different direction.

It had been a long day at the office for Bing. He was glad to
have the business passengers and gear off his boat. On some level,
he knew his passengers and their dealings might one day bring his
dream job to an end. But he sure as hell wasn’t going to think about
it.

Bing made a quick stop at the aft wet bar before climbing up to
the bridge. It would be several hours before he and the unwilling
bikini babes were back at the Yacht Club. He needed a drink.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

As Señor and Señora Santos were checking in at the Hyatt
Regency in downtown St. Louis, a female servant, hired especially
to attend to Señora Santos, was busily unpacking, steaming, and
hanging the Señora’s extensive travel wardrobe. Of course, the
Santos’ penthouse held the best possible views of downtown, the
river front, and the famous St. Louis Arch.

As soon as they arrived at the room, Elena rushed to the
window, looking out over St. Louis.

"Raphael. Come here and look."

He obliged.

"This city is a sewer," she said. "The river is more dirty even
than the Panuco. The buildings . . . sure, they are tall, but most are
old and shabby. And the famous Arch? Pffft. It is a nothing. A
useless loop of concrete."

She turned to her husband.

"Why do you bring me here to this . . . this armpit?"

Santos knew, of course, that Elena would not have been
satisfied with any city to which he might have brought her. He
would try to assuage her moaning as he always did – with flattery
and with money.

"My love, what city could stand in beauty next to you yourself?
It is not possible. But St. Louis has many places more lovely than
you see from these windows. Department stores. Jewelry shops.
Fine restaurants. These are what you had hoped for . . . yes?"

Before turning away from the windows, Elena considered her
reflection in the glass. She tossed her thick wavy hair, hoisted her
bust, and turned toward Raphael.

"Of course, you are right, Raphael. It is you and I who are
important. And the wonderful adventures you have planned for
me." She slipped her arms around his waist and cozied her breasts
against his chest.

"Renata," she said, not moving her eyes from his. "Finish with
the luggage later. We want privacy."

"
Si, Señora.
" With that, the servant departed.

* * *

 After the mandatory love making, Santos showered thoroughly
and dressed for an evening on the town. Elena offered a Marlene
Dietrich pose, while smoking a cigarette in bed.

"These
gringo
smokes . . . ," she said. "Acch!"

 His plan was to leave St. Louis tomorrow. He would be most
pleased to never see her face again.

Por fin me deshice de ti.
Good riddance.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The next morning, Santos slipped out early, leaving a note for
his wife.

Elena, my love,

I have departed for the dangerous parts of my mission. Await
my return to St. Louis in two weeks’ time.

Renata will attend to your personal needs. Carlos will
introduce himself to you later today. He will see to your security.

I am counting the days, my love.

Raphael

 She would be angry, he knew. But he would not be there to
hear her yelling.

Heading north on U.S. Highway 61 in a nondescript rental
sedan, Santos breathed a deep breath. He had suffered many years
at the cartel, committed unspeakable atrocities, compromised every
principle he had once stood for, cast aside every mission he had
dreamed for his life . . . every mission but one. To destroy the cartel.
Now he was at the cusp. Once both he and his materiel reached
Minnesota, he had confidence he would succeed.

The first strike he could handle on his own. For the final blow,
he would have to rely on help from another. But it was help he was
confident he would receive, by guile if necessary.

* * *

The drive to Ottawa County, Minnesota was a comfortable nine
hours. Along the way, Santos observed the speed limits . . . even ate
at a truck stop, enjoying a strong cup of
café Americano
.

Although he obeyed the laws, he did not fear American law
enforcement. His papers would withstand their closest scrutiny.
And the
gringo
police were not corrupt, at least not in the way he
was used to.

This country, so close to Mexico, and yet so different in every
way, breathed new air into Santos’ purpose. He wanted for his
fellow Mexicans the kind of peace he felt in this place . . . the peace
that every human soul deserved. Freedom from tyranny and
oppression. Freedom from fear. Freedom to live a life free of cartel
death squads.

It was early evening, and still light outside when Santos
checked into the Parkway Inn in Lake City. "The Birthplace of
Water Skiing" a sign had proclaimed as he entered the small town.
How absurd
, he thought.
And yet, how marvelous!

Santos would sleep here tonight. He would stay in his room to
minimize his presence in this predominantly Anglo environment.
Tomorrow night, his business with
Proyecto de Minnesota
would
begin.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

After an uneventful night at the Parkway Motel, Santos
endured a Burger King drive-thru breakfast – some kind of meat
covered with a substance that was supposed to be cheese on a
"croissant." He laughed to himself at how good the food tasted
when he didn’t have to share his breakfast time with Elena. Even
this
food.

It was a twenty minute drive along the Mississippi north to Red
Wing, where he would pick up his gear.

Santos had arranged for his cargo of equipment and explosives
to be present in a storage garage at the UStoreIt facility off Red
Wing’s Tile Drive. There were several such self-storage facilities
along this street. He had selected one with an owner who lived
across the Mississippi river in Wisconsin. He had hoped that this
one-horse operation would be wholly unattended when he arrived
over the lunch hour.

He drove past the metal shed that passed for an office, but
didn’t see an "Out to Lunch" sign.

No matter. Americans come and go to such places at all hours,
bringing vehicles, boats or boxes for storage, or removing the same.
His garage unit was at the far end of the facility from the office, in a
corner of the building that fronted on a remote alley.

He parked the car in the alley.

After checking his mirrors and scanning for cameras, he exited
the vehicle and made straight for his locker. The key turned
smoothly in the garage door handle. He lifted the white metal door
to reveal a late model, dark green, Jeep Grand Cherokee. Using the
fob he found in an envelope taped to the garage wall, he opened the
tailgate and inspected the Jeep’s contents.

The cases of
Dos Equis
were there. As were the other boxes he
had expected.

With as little ado as possible, Santos pulled the Jeep out of the
locker and parked the rental car in its place. With gear in hand, and
a decent vehicle for off-road travel if necessary, he locked up the
garage and exited the storage facility.

He hadn’t seen a soul while he was there. Not that he was doing
anything suspicious . . . but less attention is always preferable to
more when conducting clandestine ops.

Now
there
was a term that hadn’t come to his mind in years.

"Clandestine ops." The Americans, from whom he had learned
to fight, used that term. The fact that it came to mind now was a
sign, he hoped, that his warfare skills would return to him as he
needed them. It had been many years since he had fought
"clandestine wars." But it felt good abandoning the open deceit, at
least.

Turning onto Tile Drive, he made his way back to Highway 61
and through Red Wing’s downtown. His destination lay outside the
city to the south. Formerly a deserted farmstead, it was about to be
christened a
Los Cinco
methamphetamine lab.

* * *

Awaiting Santos’ arrival at the remote end of the dirt drive
were the twenty-three Mexican men
Los Cinco
had smuggled across
the border and into Minnesota to operate this lab. They had
received training for this mission before departing Mexico. The lab
they would operate here was laid out exactly like the training lab
back home. The utensils and cookery were identical. Even the
ventilation systems had been retrofitted to match those used in the
Mexican facility. The venting of harmful fumes was, after all, crucial
to the survival of the cookers and their factory.

The workers had been operating the lab for just over a week.
No one had arrived or departed the farmstead during that time.
Today, however, was to be a celebration . . . a celebration of the
opening of this meth production facility. Their handlers had left
them party supplies –
cerveza
and burritos. The workers had also
been told that an important representative from the cartel would be
joining them in their celebration. No name was given. But his
authority came from the highest levels of
Los Cinco
and was not to
be questioned.

At about 2:00 o’clock in the afternoon, Santos turned the
Cherokee into the driveway leading to the farm where the workers
awaited his arrival. He was at once exhilarated and hesitant. What
he was about to do was no different in character than he had done
countless times before. Yet the cold-bloodedness of this act would
haunt him, he knew. Just as the others had invaded his dreams and
tortured his conscience.
Did he even have a conscience anymore?
He wondered this as he approached the sheep he would lead to the
slaughter.