Guns [John Hardin 01] (17 page)

They all walked into the executive lounge of the fixed base operation, or FBO, and the attendant took their order for fuel. The gun company had sent a limousine to pick them up. Cowboy was prepared to wait at the FBO. Davis pointed a thick finger at him and said, “While we’re gone, take a courtesy car and stock up the mini-bar in the plane.”

After a moment’s thought, Strake said, “No, he’ll come with us.”

Davis looked at Strake quizzically, glared briefly at Cowboy, then shrugged.

At the plant the accountant was left with the company comptroller and two members of the office staff while the CEO and his fawning assistant conducted a detailed plant tour for the rest of the visitors through the offices—the five-person engineering room, the machining and assembly areas, tool and die, inspections, the parts warehouse and shipping, the cafeteria, and the small test firing range.

The tour consumed the remainder of the working day because Strake stopped to ask many pointed and perceptive questions along the way and was not satisfied until he received exhaustive answers, sometimes to the obvious irritation of the gray-haired CEO. Montgomery Davis followed along like a temporarily tame bear several steps behind the group, occasionally aiming a dark look at Cowboy. Because time had run out they were invited to return the following day to hear several planned presentations, and Strake agreed.

They were all prepared with overnight bags. A secretary arranged rooms for them at the Atlanta Hilton and by eight that night they were enjoying a leisurely meal in the Russian four-star restaurant on the Hilton’s top floor, the lights of Atlanta spreading away in an endless glittering carpet below. Cowboy ordered lobster in a wine sauce and found it to be easily the best he’d ever tasted. Twice he caught Davis eyeing him malevolently, but dismissed it. Traveling in this kind of style, he thought over brandy and excellent coffee, was a heady experience and could soon become addictive. Strake did not discuss his views on the company.

They took off late the following afternoon and when they were at cruising altitude Strake came up to take the right-hand seat. He said, “What did you think of the company?”

He was surprised by the question but tried not to show it. He thought for a minute and then said, “I think a lot of their machinery looked old and worn. I got the impression they were at the top of the industry once but time and technology have begun to pass them by and they’re still trading on their old reputation. Too slow to update their machinery and systems. Increasing overhead. They seem to be top-heavy with executives, probably all promoted up from the ranks over the years. I think they still put out good quality and have a good name, but I’d bet their profits have fallen off from what they used to be. But I’m certainly no businessman.”

Strake nodded and said, “It’s entirely a family-owned business. The owner is the third-generation son and he rarely darkens the door of the place. It’s a fairly common story. The old man who started the business came up out of the Depression and that made him tough. He put everything into building the business. His son saw what it took, at least, and carried on, though not with the same toughness and probably milking away too much of the profits. His son, in turn, the current owner who couldn’t even be bothered to meet me, grew up expecting the best of everything as his natural right and has bled off most of the profits to get it all for himself and to maintain it, so updates in machinery and systems had to be put off. Couple that with the rising salaries and general overhead, and too many executives, and the business has begun to skid down a long slide. The owner most likely does not understand the reasons why it’s happening, but he’s feeling it begin to crimp his lifestyle.

“I can buy it, cull out the deadwood, upgrade some of the machinery, streamline the whole office system, use contacts I already have to market the products, and begin to make a good profit within three years. I’ll wait three weeks and then make a low half-hearted non-negotiable offer directly to the owner through my lawyer, reminding the owner of the declining profits, the increasing overhead, the constant threat posed by competition, and other general headaches associated with business ownership.

“My offer will be structured so the owner is tempted by a good immediate lump sum, perhaps to take care of a new Mercedes and a few other daydreams, and in such a way that he can see the possibility of a secure income ahead for at least fifteen years that’s equivalent to, or perhaps even slightly more than his last year’s take, with no apparent headaches whatsoever. We’ll do that by offering monthly payments with generous fixed interest, but there will in fact be a small rather obscure clause in the agreement that will effectively let me pay off the balance in full at any time. What do you think he will do?”

The promised interest would inflate the total deal price by three hundred percent, probably, but the interest would evaporate, of course, when Strake paid the deal off early in full. “I’d say he’ll add up the fifteen years worth of principal and interest payments and the lump sum and then jump on it,” he said with a genuinely appreciative smile.

Unsmiling, Strake said, “My lawyer will even help him do that addition.”

18

T
HERE WAS A TWO-DAY TRIP TO DALLAS AND THEN THEY
went on a three-day excursion to Miami. On a rainy Friday while he was fifteen feet up on a tall stepladder in the Teterboro hangar inspecting and polishing the King Air’s T-tail his beeper went off and when he responded to the call Margaret told him, “Mr. Strake says for you to plan on leaving for Caracas, Venezuela, at any time within the next forty-eight hours.”

On the following day he took off at three in the morning with Strake, Davis, and two withdrawn unsmiling men who obviously worked for Davis and looked hardened. He flew down along the coast and landed just after dawn in Fort Lauderdale for fuel. He filed an international flight plan with the FAA Flight Service Station on the field and they were airborne again within an hour, climbing through scattered clouds on a southeasterly heading to skirt Cuba, the Bahamas strung out off to the left. They passed over Andros at 21,500 feet and farther on Great Inagua slid by underneath them.

Strake again came up to sit in the right seat and seemed to take some interest in the view, which was spectacular. They were in clear tropical air three miles above a widely-scattered layer of cumulus clouds that cast phantom island-like shadows onto the water. There were real islands in sight all of the time and the sea glowed with all the improbable luminescent colors of the Caribbean, abstract areas around the islands clearly revealing the sand, grass, and coral bottom, white fishing boats and yachts dotting the deeper, darker areas. They flew on over Puerto Rico.

Strake said, “When Davis ran a check on Kelly he found a brief history of probable drug flights.”

Cowboy said, “I mentioned that to you.”

“I know. You also said you had been approached to do the same kind of flying. Were you tempted?”

He thought a moment. “Yes. The money can be enough to tempt a preacher.”

“Then why didn’t you do it?”

“Mostly too much risk all around, I guess. But some part of it was that I don’t like what drugs do to people.”

“People start with drugs by choice, just as they choose to drink to excess and to take unreasonable chances for recreation and to eat like idiots.”

“And to fight each other.”

“Yes.”

After a few minutes Cowboy asked, “How much of the gun trade is black market?”

Strake stared at him intently, his black eyes bright. He said, “Why do you ask?”

“I’ve done some reading. I just wondered.”

After a moment Strake looked out at the view and said, “Nobody really knows, but black market trade is certainly significant. When an AK-47 can be bought readily for a bag of maize in southern Africa and sold for a thousand dollars in Israel, there is ample incentive. Again, our governments are largely responsible for fueling the trade.

“The CIA, for example, supplied the Mujahideen in Afghanistan for their war against the Russians, sending, ironically, 400,000 AK-47 rifles, thousands of land mines, 8,000 light machine guns, Stinger missiles, 100 million rounds of ammunition. When the war ended nobody made any attempt to collect the weapons so they’ve been circulating on the black market ever since. Afghanistan, Pakistan, Angola, they’re all open arms bazaars selling everything you can imagine.

“When the United States pulled out of Vietnam in that ridiculous mad scramble in 1975 they left behind a stupendous stock of weapons that had cost the American taxpayers over five billion dollars—800,000 M-16s, 600 M-48 tanks, 300 self-propelled 175-millimeter guns that had cost one million each, brand new F-5 fighters. It was probably the biggest war booty in history, and it’s still out there, still worth several fortunes even at bargain prices.

“The Pentagon has routinely given away small arms—M-16s, M-14s, pistols, machine guns, grenade launchers—to Bahrain, Bosnia, Chile, Egypt, Estonia, Greece, Israel of course, Latvia, Lithuania, Morocco, and the Philippines. But many officials in those governments seldom play by American rules. A weapon knows absolutely no allegiance, and who can say how many of those arms are being traded on the black market?”

They were following a westward track along the chain of the Lesser Antilles leading in a broad shallow crescent over the horizon all the way to the northern shores of South America. The plane sped along powerfully in smooth air, all systems working flawlessly.

“How long will we be staying in Caracas?” Cowboy asked.

“My business should take no more than four days. Among other things, the day after tomorrow I’ll be bidding on a large store of arms that includes a sizable private collection of antique weapons, part of the estate of a weapons manufacturer that specialized in military and sporting shotguns. I have it on good authority that my only serious competitor is a man named Charles Harrington from Liverpool. The man has been troublesome to me in recent months concerning two different African transactions.”

“Do you know how he’ll be coming into the country?”

“He’ll be coming in on a commercial flight tomorrow afternoon. The stock of weapons will only be made available for inspection the following morning. The bidding deadline is noon.”

Cowboy thought for a moment as he scanned for traffic. “How well is this Harrington known in Venezuela?”

“I don’t think he has ever traded there before. His dealings have mostly been in Africa. Why?”

“I did some reading on the country yesterday. There’s a recent history of serious trouble along the border, with Colombian guerrillas. If the customs people at the airport were to get an anonymous call claiming this Harrington is coming into the country with forged papers to buy guns that will be diverted to a Colombian guerrilla group, I would guess they’d detain the man for a while to check it out. If they should hold him overnight that might leave a clear field for your bid. It’s just a thought.”

Strake appraised him, his dark eyes hard. Then he nodded once. He said, “You will have considerable free time while we’re there. Caracas is one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Take some time to see it, but I warn you it’s like New York in many respects. There are areas you do not want to explore after dark, areas where even the police do not venture.” He got up and went back to take a seat in the cabin.

Just over four hours out of Miami as they drew close to the verdant, wildly-rugged coast of Venezuela, he called approach control at Simon Bolivar airport—actually located in the coastal suburb of Maiquetia—and they gave him traffic advisories, altitudes, and vectors in only slightly accented English, the universal language for air traffic control.

He landed at the large modern airport and taxied directly to customs, where they were all cleared after a perfunctory look at their passports, visas, and luggage, and no inspection of the plane whatsoever. Two of the officials seemed to know Strake well and were smilingly accommodating. They re-boarded and taxied to an FBO where attendants tied the King Air down and chocked the wheels. A limousine met them by the plane to take on their luggage and then drove them for just over half an hour along a palm-lined freeway to the modern high-rise 780-room Caracas Hilton complex downtown in the center of the financial district, with the offices of companies such as GTE, 3M, and Fluor Daniel within walking distance.

After checking in, Davis called Cowboy’s room and said, “Mr. Strake wants you to have a drink in the Orinoco Lounge for about an hour. Says he’ll call you there if he needs you. After that you’re on your own. You might want to watch where you go after dark. Some places you could get cut and rolled in a heartbeat. Be a real shame.” And he hung up.

Cowboy showered and dressed in white jeans with a silver-studded belt, black boots, and a gaudy-flowered silk shirt he’d bought in Miami a year before. He went down to the lounge and took a seat at the bar. At this hour the only other customers were a young man and a woman engaged in low amorous conversation in a booth. Salsa music surged softly through the speakers. The bartender was a portly man with a ready smile and excellent, though thickly accented, English. He asked the usual get-acquainted questions as he polished glasses and slid them into racks above the high-gloss padded bar, and offered advice about what to see and do in the city.

After forty-five minutes a young woman in a white summery dress put a beaded straw purse on the bar and took a stool three down from Cowboy, smiling at him politely as he nodded to her and smiled, the bartender hustling to take her order.

“I think I want something that will make me just a little bit dizzy,” she said playfully. “A big, big frozen margarita.” Her skin was deeply bronzed and her black hair was pulled tightly back into a neat bun pinned with a single white flower. She wore large looping earrings made of delicate braided gold chain. Peach lipstick set off her white-toothed smile, and she had used eye makeup to good effect. Cowboy estimated she was in her middle twenties.

“Sir, you have the pallor of an American tourist,” she said with a mischievous grin and a raised eyebrow. “Are you here with a group of overweight gringos covered with cameras?”

“No. Actually, I’m working.”

“Oh, I
see.
And what kind of company employs you to sit and drink in the Orinoco Lounge? I would like to apply for such a position, I think. Do they have any openings?”

“I’m just a pilot for a gringo from New York. What brings you here?”

“An advertising convention. I am from Maracaibo. I arrived one day early to renew my romance with Caracas. I grew up here and I love my city.”

“What little I’ve seen of it is impressive. Maybe you’ll let me buy you that margarita and in exchange you could tell me what I should see and do this afternoon.”

She appraised him as she ran a long-nailed clear-glossed finger around the rim of her glass, making it sing. “Do you know I am feeling just a little bit adventurous today? My name is Maria Elena Ortiz.”

“They call this one the Cowboy,” the bartender said affably.

“Aren’t all American men cowboys at heart? Well, Cowboy, if you can take some time off of the busy schedule of your sitting-there-and-drinking job, and if you will promise to buy me a most huge dinner, I will be your tour guide for this afternoon and show you some of the very best things in Caracas. What do you say to that?”

“That sounds great. I can always come back here later and put in some make-up time.”

They began by walking across the street to the Teresa Carreno Cultural Complex. Landscaped buildings in the area included the Museo de Bellas Artes, which was actually two museums in one, the National Art Gallery featuring the works of Venezuelan artists such as Alejandro Otero, and the Fine Arts Museum where there were Goya etchings and a surprising variety of Egyptian pieces. She took him on a whirlwind tour and as soon as she got him interested in one painting she would pull him by the hand along to another that caught her fancy. She was like a happy schoolgirl.

Outside, they walked a ways in Los Caobos Park. “It means mahogany trees park,” she said. “Isn’t it beautiful here?” She flung her arms wide and pirouetted, her straw purse swinging on its shoulder strap, swirling her skirt out to display lean bronze thighs. There were profusions of scarlet bougainvillea and richly-scented orchids amid the tall trees and palms. The vegetation was sheened with the vivid healthy greens of the tropics. “This place is a refuge for joggers and for old people walking. And for lovers,” she said with a contrived shy smile.

“Do you know any Spanish?” she said, switching streams of thought abruptly.

“Not really.”

“Oh, but you should. It’s such a pretty language. I will give you a lesson. Repeat after me. Hola means hello.”

He repeated it dutifully as they held hands and walked in the cooling shade. “Please is
por favor.
Thank you is
gracias.
You are welcome is
de nada.
Sorry is
disculpe.
Excuse me is
con permiso
or
perdon. Buenos tardes
is good afternoon. Repeat after me, please, and pay attention to the subtleties of accent. That’s it. Very good, sir. Do you begin to feel the beauty of it? One of my most favorite words is
estralita.
Roll the R on the tip of your tongue and try to say it as I do. Yes. That is close. When I have a stunning daughter I will name her
Estralita.
My perfectly beautiful little star.”

She tugged him out to the Avenida Colon to wave down a taxi. “You should get one with a fixed sign on its roof,” she explained. “The others with stick-on signs are
piratas.”
When an incredibly battered light blue cab stopped for them she held him back from getting in and she dickered with the gesticulating driver in rapid Spanish through the open window, finally nodding that they could climb into the shabby backseat. “You must set the price before you get in,” she said in a low voice. “This one’s meter is conveniently broken right now. The driver will put the money into his own pocket this time.”

The ride was wild, the driver palming the horn frequently, swerving violently from lane to lane, narrowly missing other horn-blowing vehicles and driving much too fast the whole way. Somehow they were deposited unscathed at the Plaza Morelos, where the air was redolent of grilling meats and there were many stalls loaded with bright clothes, garish trinkets, and costume jewelry that glittered in the hot sunshine. From a grinning wrinkled old woman he bought Maria a delicate silver bracelet and she was inordinately delighted with it. She made him buy a felt
vaquero’s
hat with a red feather stuck rakishly in the beaded band for himself. “With those mysterious gray eyes you are a dashing mountain
bandito
leader,” she said as she appraised him with her head cocked and her hands on her hips, a mix of happy
Caraquenos
and tourists milling around them.

She took him to Plaza Bolivar to show him the magnificent 1674
Catedral Metropolitan de Caracas
with its graceful scroll designs on the exterior and the baroque altar inside gilded with 300 pounds of gold leaf, and to the
Panteon Nacional
with its ornate domed towers, enshrining the remains of Simon Bolivar, who in the early 1800s led ragged armies in a fourteen-year campaign to free Venezuela, Colombia, Ecuador, Peru, and Bolivia from Spain’s colonial stranglehold, only to watch much of the freed territory dissolve into years of bloody internal conflict. But the memory of him was still vibrant and revered throughout the countries where he and his men had fought.