The Covert Element (20 page)

As it happened, one day while he was preparing to take the
family yacht, fully laden with scantily clad young women, out for a
spin, a middle-aged man approached his craft. The man carried a
black suitcase and wore a black suit with Italian shoes that fairly
radiated class and power. He asked if he might speak with Bing
about a business opportunity.

Business was the last thing on Bing’s mind at the time. But the
man insisted Bing would be intrigued by the offer contained in the
leather briefcase.

What could a few minutes away from his companions possibly
hurt? Bing made sure their drinks were filled and made his
apologies for a brief indulgence in "a matter of utmost importance."

He allowed the man aboard and they met on the yacht’s bridge.
That meeting changed Bing’s life forever.

When the man departed, he left the case filled with bearer
bonds for Bing’s consideration. This was just the sort of "business
opportunity" Bing had been hoping for. All play and no work.
Money before effort. And finally, the ability to step from beneath his
father’s shadow and make his own mark on the world.

* * *

Now thirty-two years of age, Bing lived in an estate house in
the uptown/university district of New Orleans, Louisiana. Over the
past eight years at his new position, circumstances had confirmed
what he had always suspected to be true – it was not necessary to
work in order to be wealthy, popular, and indulged.

His job, if one could call it that, was to be the master of this
plantation home in a prestigious area of New Orleans, to mingle
with the city’s social elite, and to pilot the company yacht – a multi-million dollar work of sleek craftsmanship – up and down the
Mississippi and into the Gulf of Mexico. He must become familiar
with the harbor personnel and be friendly with them, at least in
passing. And he must project the persona of a rich and spoiled
playboy.

For these services, Bing earned not only the right to occupy the
elegant real estate and the spectacular yacht, but a cash salary of
$250,000 per year. Most would agree it is no small wonder that he
loved his work.

But who in the world would pay a wealthy brat for such utterly
unproductive activities? A person of lesser entitlement might ask
such a question. Bing not only did not inquire . . . he absolutely did
not want to know. His gift horse had arrived and he was not about
to check its teeth.

Bing’s willingness to exist in utter ignorance was an attribute
his employer valued highly. Bing Claremont was a recklessly
ignorant employee of the
Los Cinco
drug cartel.

* * *

Santos had hired Bing Claremont eight years ago for the sole,
but extremely important, purpose of providing transportation of
cartel emissaries into and out of the U.S.

Several times a year, Calderon would have the need to send one
or another of his lieutenants into America to conduct face-to-face
discussions with the
gringo
product distributors. They were a
volatile group of thugs, gang-bangers, and "made men." In short,
they were high maintenance.

Leadership changes occurred often, usually owing to
assassination or arrest. New leaders always wanted better deals.
They were in constant need of persuasion that they were the pawns
in this operation – easily replaced. And that in lieu of mere
replacement, the cartel might choose to project its military might to
eradicate the distributor organization entirely. Fewer loose ends
would be preferable, after all.

These discussions always ended with concessions by the
distributorships. But in-person contact was the only way that
seemed to penetrate the thick skulls of the American bullies.

On this occasion, Santos would make the trip into the U.S.
himself. It was time to make his move on
Proyecto de Minnesota
.
As a servant packed Señor Santos’ luggage in the master bedroom,
Raphael and Elena spoke on the balcony.

"I want to come with you, Raphael, to America. Uncle never
permitted for me to go. I want to shop in the American department
stores, to experience its fine restaurants, to meet the people who
have made us wealthy beyond our dreams."

Raphael marveled anew at his wife’s self-centeredness and
greed – not to mention the myopic stupidity those qualities
engendered within her.

He held her gently by the shoulders, gazing into her eyes as he
had done countless times before.

"My love. There is nothing in an American department store
which you cannot have brought to your door. Do I not send for
whatever clothing and jewelry you desire? And there is no American
restaurant that can compare with the feasts we are served every
night in our own villa.

"As far as the Americans who have made us rich . . . trust me,
my love, you do not want to know them. They are not people of our
status. They are filthy, greedy pigs. They use our products to
suppress the worthlessness and misery of their existence."

"But Raphael . . . I
must
accompany you. What if the American
women try to steal you from me? You are a most handsome man, a
man possessing great
machismo
. If you are deprived of my
company, you may be entrapped by these women’s shameless
advances."

Raphael felt both insulted that she would think him enough of
an idiot to fall victim to her false praise, and hopeful that, at some
point in his journey, he would be able to enjoy the company of a
lovely and decent woman. Even a brief sexual encounter with a
stranger would be a respite from making love to this revolting bitch.

"My lovely Elena . . . this will be a dangerous journey, not an
adventure in a shopping mall. I cannot in good conscience bring you
with me. What if I were to lose you? How barren life would be
without you. It cannot be so."

Elena continued to beg . . . Raphael to dissuade.

In the end, Elena insisted that it was her birthright to attend
his journey to America. If he would not bring her with him, she
would make her own arrangements and follow anyway.

Santos could not have his wife making separate travel
arrangements. What if her actions undermined him within the
cartel? After all, she
was
the blood connection. And he knew she
could not be allowed to follow him all the way to Minnesota. He
wouldn’t be able to operate with her in tow.

A compromise was reached. Raphael would bring Elena along
as far as St. Louis. He would arrange for someone to attend to her
needs in the finest hotel in the city. She could shop and explore to
her heart’s desire. He would even stay there with her for a time. But
she could not come to Minnesota, where the bugs were bad and
there was no social interaction worthy of her stature.

It was not a desirable arrangement for Santos. But it was the
best he could conceive under the circumstances.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Bing Claremont’s most onerous job responsibility was to take
the company yacht out into the Gulf of Mexico several times a week
– every week. He’d been doing just that for nearly eight years now.

Each Monday morning, Bing would receive directions from his
employer to sail to various locations on certain days during the
upcoming week. Usually, after reaching the designated coordinates,
all he needed to do was drift for an hour or two or three . . . and
then motor back to port. With advance notice and a killer boat, Bing
seldom had difficulties finding women to accompany him on these
excursions. In fact, some days it seemed as though women were
actually stalking him at the Yacht Club, lying in wait just to beg a
pleasure cruise.

What a life!

On a few occasions, his cruises into the Gulf had led him to
meetings with other "company" yachts. In those cases, businessmen
bound for the U.S. had accompanied him on his return trips to the
U.S.

Bing didn’t inquire about immigration status, or appropriate
documentation. He suspected those questions might lead to a loss
of his job. He cheerfully entertained any "business guests" he
picked up. They’d go below deck as he approached the New Orleans
harbor. After clearing any security checkpoints, he would bring
them up the Mississippi River to a port of their choosing. When he
dropped the men off, there was always someone to meet them. After
they debarked
his
yacht, he would return to his daily routine.

During Bing’s first few years on the job, his yacht had been
boarded and inspected several times on its return to New Orleans.
Never had there been the slightest irregularity . . . merely bikini-clad women and lots of alcohol. Eventually, the immigration and
drug authorities ignored the rich boy and his toy yacht.

When setting off into the Gulf on this particular day, Bing had
no idea whether he would be meeting "business clients" or not.
When he arrived at the Yacht Club, there were half a dozen
beautiful women hoping to come aboard. He was more than happy
to accommodate. Although he didn’t realize it, the young women
accompanying him on the yacht this day were also in the employ of
Los Cinco
.

As the yacht exited the New Orleans Harbor on a course
toward the southwest, Bing placed the craft on auto-pilot so he
could attend to his female guests. If anyone at either the Harbor
Master’s office or at the U.S. Coast Guard had bothered to note
Bing’s departure, they would not have regarded it as anything but
routine. The course to the southwest was common for this vessel.

While the luxury boat sliced through the calm seas, Bing
focused all his charms toward the bronzed young ladies on his aft
deck. They smiled politely, but seemed to have more interest in
tanning than in his suave advances. After several attempts at
making a romantic connection, and an equal number of failures,
Bing returned to the bridge.

As he approached the designated coordinates, he could see that
business visitors would be joining him today. That was just fine
with him. He wasn’t having much luck with the ladies right now
anyway.

As the Santos’ yacht approached the designated location in the
Gulf of Mexico, its captain radioed below that the other yacht was
on station.

Santos had to laugh. Bing Claremont had performed every duty
required of him with punctuality and zeal. He clearly wanted to
retain his job.

When the two yachts met, the crew of the Santos’ yacht lashed
the vessels together and deployed a portable aluminum gangway,
complete with railing, by which personnel and cargo could be
transferred between the boats.

First off was a great deal of luggage and cargo. Most of the
luggage belonged to Elena. The cargo consisted of dozens of
cardboard cases of
Dos Equis
beer. At least it appeared to be beer.
The dark brown bottles and sealed cases prevented all but the most
inquisitive from detecting that the bottles were filled with plastic
explosives.

Other boxes were less familiar to Bing. These contained
weapons, ammunition, and related materiel that Santos might
require to carry out his assault on
Proyecto de Minnesota
. Of
course, Bing didn’t know that . . . and wouldn’t have wanted to
know it either.

Once all the cargo had been stowed, Santos appeared from
below with Elena in tow. She was not accustomed to ocean travel
and had been sick for most of the ride. Santos guided her across the
gangway and onto Bing’s boat. Santos immediately inquired where
his wife might lie down. Bing showed both of them to the master
state room and told them where their private head could be found.

* * *

A few hours later, Bing slowed the yacht to an idle. He was
approaching the customs and immigration pleasure boat facility in
New Orleans Harbor.

As your vessel approached the docks, ICE (Immigration and
Customs Enforcement) officials would signal with either a red flag
(which meant you needed to pull your boat into their harborside
inspection area) or a green flag (which meant you could proceed
into the interior harbor without stopping).