Capitol Reflections (42 page)

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Authors: Jonathan Javitt

Tags: #Thriller

BOOK: Capitol Reflections
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“Did you expect to find a quiet village with banditos sleeping in chairs tilted against the local cantina?”
“To be perfectly truthful, yes.”
“So did I,” confessed Peter, as Pedro followed signs that read Albergue de Pedregal—Pedregal Harbor.
“How do we know that Transpac is by a dock?” asked Mark.
“We don’t, but it’s the most logical place to look. I’d rather not stop and ask for directions. Might attract too much attention.”
“So will riding around town indefinitely. This place isn’t that big.”
“Point well taken. À la puerta,” said Peter.
The smell of saltwater was unmistakable now as the Jeep glided smoothly over a straight road that descended for several hundred yards to the Golfo de Chiriqui.
The harbor was small. Peter counted no more than eight warehouses bordering the dock. The fourth one, situated on the gently curving bay, had a large faded sign that read TRANSPACIFIC COFFEE IMPORTS. Pedro rounded the corner of the building, parking at the side of the warehouse.
That’s when they encountered three men wearing white shirts and dirty slacks. Each held an Uzi, the first pointed at Pedro, the second at Mark, the third at Peter.
“Jack? Jack Maulder?”
Jack opened his eyes to see a familiar-looking man attired in a dark blue suit and red bow tie standing above him. Jack had seen him on TV but couldn’t place his face.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” said the man. “I’m Dr. Edward Karn, though I’m not one of your physicians.”
Jack nodded and held out his right hand, which Karn shook lightly.
“First,” said Karn, “let me assure you that Gwen is doing fine. I’ve met with her recently, and while she would have liked to accompany me today, we didn’t think it safe.”
“Been worried like crazy … has something else happened?”
“The important thing for you to know at this point is that she’s fine—except that she misses you horribly. Things have heated up, but she’s not in harm’s way.”
Jack nodded that he understood.
“Gwen is with Jan Menefee and Congressman Rick Mecklenberg right now. She’s in good hands, although she impresses me as someone who can be pretty tough on her own when she has to be.”
Jack smiled faintly and cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said slowly. “She can be … head … strong.”
“I’ve come to ask a favor,” said Karn. “I’m aware of the recent investigations conducted by you and your wife. There have been some additional, um, complications. It’s possible that you could help us out. If you’re feeling up to it, that is.”
“Complications?”
Karn shook his head. Jack got the distinct impression that the man was glossing over the facts. “Not complications necessarily. It’s just that the area of interest has shifted from tobacco to coffee, and there’s someone in the coffee industry who may be implicated in a death that occurred in 1977.”
“A murder?”
“Possibly.”
“Cold case files,” said Jack slowly.
“Gwen thought of the same thing. She wondered if you had any contacts with the police department in Princeton, New Jersey.”
Jack thought for a moment. His concentration was more than a bit fuzzy. “Princeton? Don’t think so.”
“That’s too bad,” Karn said softly.
“But New Jersey State Police … yes. They can probably look into old records.”
Taking a notepad from the nightstand, Karn wrote several things down on a piece of paper.
“Here’s what we have,” said Karn, laying the paper on Jack’s top sheet. “It’s not much to go on, but if you can turn up anything, it might help.”
Jack blinked several times, trying to think of what words he wished to articulate. “Not about … tobacco?”
“No one really knows for sure at this point. All we know is that there’s a very real public health risk going unchecked. By the way, some agents from the Secret Service are guarding you, but you may not recognize them. They’re not on the company clock, and they’re unlikely to admit who they are. Apparently you guys never stop looking after your own.”
“Understood. I thought some of those ugly male nurses looked a little weird.”
Karn laughed and extended his hand once again. “Thanks, Jack. I’ll be back in a day or two to see if you’ve turned up anything.”
“Tell Gwen … I … love … her.”
“I most certainly will, Jack. You’re a lucky man. Take care.”
Karn left and Jack looked at the paper. The words didn’t make much sense to him right now. He’d look again in a little while after he got some more rest.
Gwen was okay. When he last saw her, they were in danger—or at least they might have been. Then she was gone. He didn’t know what to think.
Jack was so glad to hear she was okay. Even though he knew there was more to the story than what Karn told him.
58
 
Op One landed his Lear 31A at Concepcion’s small airport. The Gulfstream flown by Tippett had eluded him over the Gulf of Mexico, but it wasn’t very difficult to figure out where the troublesome security analyst was headed. The agent’s orders regarding the pilot were explicit: make sure he didn’t return. As for Mark Stern, One’s orders were equally firm: make sure he was apprehended and brought back to the States. The leader of Tabula Rasa was eager to have the reporter taken down several notches sitting on the hot seat in front of Henry Broome’s Senate committee. Imprisoning Stern would be infinitely preferable to simply killing him in Panama.
The agent got into a waiting Lincoln Navigator and started driving to Transpac headquarters in Pedregal. For Tippett to send a file to Central America was one thing. For him to snoop around the many sensitive areas on actual Transpac premises was another.
The drive would take no more than ninety minutes. After that, Op One would eliminate Tippett and make sure that the Englishman spent eternity at the bottom of Golfo de Chiriqui.
“
Adonde vas?
” asked one of the armed guards holding an Uzi. (Where are you going?)
Pedro tilted his head toward the warehouse. “
Comercio
,” Pedro said. (Business.)
The two guards frowned.
“
Comercio
,” Pedro repeated in a frustrated voice as he pulled folded papers from his shirt pocket and handed them to the guard. They were copies of the bills of lading given to Karn.
“
Pasele
,” said the guards after examining the document. Pass.
Pedro led Mark and Peter into the warehouse through a metal door. The group was ignored by the dozens of workers driving forklifts or handling burlap sacks containing coffee. Mark was struck by the contrast between this warehouse and the one at Pequod’s. Everything at the Seattle operation was conducted with military precision. Here, the Panamanian workers were clearly busy, but they laughed and joked and sang as they performed their various tasks. There were no lines painted on the concrete floor, no orderly procession of forklifts from one location to another.
“Follow me,” Peter ordered. “I’m going to ask the man by the receiving door to show me his receipts.”
“Isn’t that a little bold?” asked Mark. “Why should he show bills of lading to a stranger?”
“Because we’re federales. Down here, not much happens without the government’s approval. And nothing—and I do mean nothing—transpires without some palms being greased along the way. The Spanish word for such bribery is
mordida
. You can bet that this operation, especially if it’s in the least bit tainted, operates thanks to generous—how shall I put it—‘donations’ to the Panamanian government.”
They walked to the receiving bay, Peter now taking the lead. In short, clipped phrases, he asked to see the bills of lading. The man before them, short and dark-complexioned, held a clipboard with papers on which he appeared to be tallying the number of palettes that forklifts brought into the facility. He looked at Peter and then at Mark for several seconds, after which he began to ask Peter numerous questions. Mark put his hands on his hips, trying to look the part of a tough soldier. The irony of the situation was not lost on the former hippie and antiwar activist. Peter’s conversation with the receiving clerk seemed to last an eternity, but at last the short man handed Peter several papers, prompting Peter to utter a brief “Gracias.”
“What was that all about?” asked Mark as they walked away. “I thought we were busted.”
“Our friend Carlos back there was curious as to why he had never seen us before. Just as I suspected, it’s apparently not unusual for the government to show up here, but he said that the same men have been coming here for years. He wanted to know where they were.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I said the others had gotten drunk and been in a wreck in Concepcion. I told him we’d much rather be shaking down the local whores, but that we had our orders.”
“What if he calls up to verify your story?”
“Then I’d say we’re in for a spot of trouble. Meanwhile, I told him we were going to look around. He didn’t seem fazed. I guess the local feds can do what they want as long as it doesn’t interfere in warehouse activities without sufficient reason. Pedro’s presence didn’t hurt either. Let’s take in the sights, but try to appear nonchalant. You still look uptight.”
“It’s hard with these leather boots. I can hardly walk straight.”
“Relax. You’ll do fine.”
The impostors moved leisurely through the warehouse, their berets and aviator sunglasses in place.
“Look,” said Mark. “Over there.”
“I see it,” said Peter. “They’re transferring coffee beans from sacks with ‘Transpac’ stenciled on them to ones that say ‘Pequod’s’”
“Transpacific Coffee is a legitimate company,” Mark pointed out.
“There’s no reason to transfer the beans unless any tie between Pequod’s and Transpac is supposed to remain completely off the radar screen.”
“A company has the right to secrecy, and I don’t know that any laws are being broken by such a maneuver,” retorted Peter, “but it’s certainly not the usual modus operandi for a corporate entity. The cost of this little deception must be absolutely enormous. Shipping the beans from Hawaii to Seattle without this detour would save millions. Roberta Chang obviously knew this was more than just a bizarre move to keep the location of the coffee plantations secret.”
“Amen,” said Mark. “Pequod’s may be a lucrative enterprise, but having worked for the
Wall Street Journal
, I can guarantee that companies don’t piss away millions of dollars on stunts like this.”
“The point of origin on the bills of lading could be altered after the fact with a little ingenuity,” added Peter. “The transfer doesn’t make sense.”
“True,” said Mark. “Besides, in Seattle, no one can get anywhere near the sacks. No one could read whether they come from Transpacific or Timbuktu. But speaking of the sacks, there are two kinds, both for Transpac and Pequod’s. One has blue stenciling on the burlap, the other black.”
“Two kinds of beans?” theorized Peter.
“Perhaps, but according to Billy Hamlin, there’s only one kind of cherry that makes it to Pequod’s facility. What next?”

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