Reflexive Fire - 01 (18 page)

Fourteen

   Adam brushed passed the bouncer and into Klub X-Rated.

   Douk-Saga hip hop music from Cote D'Ivoire blasted over a boom box in the corner of the club while the lithe forms of African girls hid in the shadows of the club, dancing for foreign men in country on business from South America.  Adam snorted. 

   The entire place stunk of cheap perfume and shame.

   He appeared to move in slow motion as the strobe light blasted on and off as he approached one of the men huddled with a local girl.  When the girl looked up at him with wide brown eyes, the mercenary motioned her away.  Having spent more than a day or two in the shady establishment, she knew it was time to leave, quickly gathering her things and moving to the opposite side of the club.

   “Hey,” the man said in accented English.  “Get your own girl, I already paid for her.”

   “You got a date with me tonight,” Adam said, pushing the man back down onto his seat.

   “Shit,” the Colombian said with recognition.  “You didn't tell me you were coming.”

   “I'll be sure to call ahead next time.”

   Eduardo was in the drug business, and at the moment business was good, Colombian Special Forces having eliminated his competition several months ago, taking credit for
El Jefe
himself in the process. 

The small sub-Saharan nation of Guinea-Bissau had perhaps the lowest per capita income in the entire world and a government that was easily bought and sold.

   Combined with the island archipelago off the coast, it was an ideal stop on the underground drug railroad leading to Europe.  Eduardo was a facilitator, making sure that the air drops and midnight landings off the coast went off without a hitch.

   “We need to talk,” Adam stated.  It wasn't the first time they'd had words or exchanged information.  A bag man was more like a freelance import/export agent than a loyal minion to a drug lord back in southwest Colombia.

   “What do you have for me?” the cartel member said, smiling.

   “A waiver.  Help me out, and I won't have to put you out of business.”

   “Bullshit-” the Colombian jumped to his feet.  “You come here to threaten me?  I own this country, what the fuck do you do?”

   “Take a seat, Edward,” Adam ordered, glancing back at the bouncers.  “This isn't a good time to be a drug lord, if you hadn't noticed.”

   “What the hell are you talking about?”

   “I'm talking about Ramirez.  I'm talking about Khalis.  I'm talking about running product through Croatia instead of Greece and pocketing the difference.”

   Eduardo’s eyes went wild, his face getting redder.

   “I just want information.”

   “What kind of information?” the bag man said, taking his seat, attempting to calm himself down.

   “You know the term
cui bono
?”

   “Get to the point.”

   “Why was Ramirez killed?”

   “Doing business with the wrong people.”

   “There are not a lot of
right
people in your line of work.”

   “Some are more wrong then others.  Some believe that competition is a sin.”

   The Colombian wore a lightweight tropical suit, with a gaudy florescent tie hanging loosely around his neck.  The slicked back hair and sunglasses perched on his head even after sundown completed the image, carefully cultivated to let everyone know exactly who and what he represented.  Reaching into his jacket pocket, he palmed a pack of cigarettes.

   “What does that mean?”

   “Ramirez was an idiot,” he said, shaking loose a cigarette from the pack.  “There is a system, an order to things, but he was too stubborn too see that.  He invested his money in real estate and businesses; the rest he kept hidden around the countryside.  Millions of dollars.  Billions.  By the caseload.  If you want to stay in this line of work, you have to be smart.”

   Eduardo flicked his lighter and inhaled on the cigarette.  “Smart like me.”

   “What do you do different?”

   “I keep my money in banks.  The right banks,” he replied, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

   “You give the bankers a cut for laundering your cartel's money.”

   “Of course, this is how it has always worked.  Haven't you ever wondered why some cartels in Mexico get a free pass while others have the entire Mexican army deployed against them?  Unlike in the US, the border is tightly controlled on the Mexican side to protect the corridors.  It is much the same for us.  If you know your place, you will be allowed to operate.  This is the price of doing business.”

   It was a long shot, but with the information Deckard had given him and what he had uncovered on his own, Adam intended to follow the money. 

   “What are the
right
banks?”

   “The
gringo
kind,” Eduardo laughed.

   Frank climbed down the fold-out stairs and moved to the side of the Learjet, standing watch as the heat mirage rippled up from the asphalt airstrip.

   As his principal stepped off the aircraft and walked toward the small terminal, he followed one step behind while the two other members of the Personal Security Detachment covered both flanks, keeping a sharp lookout as they approached immigration.

   “Welcome to Nauru,” the clerk manning the desk said smiling.

   The American stepped forward, handing over all four passports to the customs official.  It was a slow day for him as the plane from Brisbane to the island nation only flew twice a week.  Being in the employ of United Bamboo and having access to one of their private jets certainly cut down on time spent waiting for flights to remote airfields.

   As the three Taiwanese and one American stood sweating on the tarmac, the official quickly stamped the four passports before handing them back to Frank.  He knew the deal.  VIP's don't get dicked around with.

   The protection detail moved in formation around Kao, heading toward the waiting Mazda van.  Kao was a big name in United Bamboo, the largest of the Triads.  Chen and Kenny were both made men in the organization that was as well known for counterfeiting and copyright infringement as drug trafficking and kidnapping.

   Frank was just along for the ride, working out a deal with a fellow contractor to call in sick at the last minute and recommend him for the job.  A perfect cover needed to infiltrate the world's smallest country.

   Taking the key from the attendant, Kenny slipped behind the wheel while Frank held the door open for Kao.  After Chen followed him in, he shut the sliding door and rode shotgun next to the Taiwanese bodyguard.

   Pulling onto the lone road that ringed around the six kilometer circumference of the island, they passed a Chinese restaurant, which led to an exchange between the Taiwanese in their native language.  Feeling like a fifth wheel, Frank could only guess what the conversation was about.  Chinese immigrants operated restaurants all over the world, many of them a front for the Triads.  Others were a front for Chinese intelligence.  Many of them probably acted as a proxy for both.

   Speeding by the turquoise waters, Frank was comforted by the pistol riding in a shoulder holster under his jacket.  Despite the tranquil setting he had a feeling he would need it.

   After Western powers had raped Nauru of what little mineral resources it had, the islanders were left to fend for themselves with little if anything to bargain with.  They found one avenue to quick cash in recognizing the sovereignty of small breakaway republics and semi-autonomous zones on the international stage, such as Nagorno-Karabakh, in exchange for cash payments.  They were also one of the first to join the “coalition of the willing” in support of the US invasion of Iraq. 

   The other method devised by the crafty island government was to set itself up as a tax haven.  Foreign investors could deposit money tax free, even open their own banks on the island.  No questions asked.  The new policy had made the island republic the host of a constantly revolving cast of shadowy figures from dozens of countries.

   This shady character's presence seemed almost preordained.  The son of a city councilman in Taipei, he had been photographed soliciting a prostitute.  The picture was splashed all over the hot sheets the following morning, so the Nauru job was just what Kao needed until the heat died down back home.

   Passing a dilapidated-looking concrete bunker built by the Japanese during the Second World War, they spun in front of the main doors of the island's only hotel.  Several other vehicles sat idling, tough guys in dark suits and shades smoking cigarettes as they waited for their own benefactors to arrive.  

   Doors swung open as the delegation climbed out of the van and strutted into the lobby.  When the uniformed woman behind the desk saw the Taiwanese, she tried to hand Kao the key to his room.

   Snatching it from her hand, Chen walked off to scout out the room and conduct his security checks while the crime boss signaled to Frank that he wanted a drink.

   “The boss likes Johnny Walker Black,” he told the receptionist.    

   Nodding, the woman quickly disappeared into the back room.

   Frank looked back at his temporary boss.

   The islanders must have had run-ins with United Bamboo in the past.  They were the largest crime syndicate in Asia, next to Yamaguchi-gumi of Japan, operating through ancient and complex business schemes that the average man or woman in the Orient knew better than to cross.

   When the woman reappeared, Frank held his breath.  She was holding a glass of Scotch on the Rocks.  He couldn't remember if Kenny had told him if Kao liked ice or not.  Breathing a sigh of relief, Frank watched the crime boss smile at the receptionist as he took a sip from the glass.

   Kenny shouted from around the corner, giving them the all clear.  Chen began following Kao up to his room, pointing Frank back to the van.

   “Bags.”

   Frank mumbled something while walking back to the third-hand Mazda van.

   At the moment he was part of a growing fad, or a victim of one, as it were.  Any Asian businessman of stature was hiring men with Western features as subordinates to fill their staff requirements in the rapidly expanding Chinese economy.  Not to be outdone, the Taiwanese seized upon the status symbol as well.  This included Triad mob bosses occasionally hiring round-eye bodyguards, especially when conducting business with foreigners.

   The disgruntled employee lifted the bags from the van, hoping that the embarrassment was worth it and glad that none of his pals were around to witness it.

   Looking up from his computer screen, Deckard held his phone to his ear while distracted by a knock at the door.

   “Come in.”

   Pallets of ammunition were beginning to flood in on a weekly and then daily basis.  The mercenary soldiers had been firing even more ammunition than he had forecast, which was well in excess of what an infantry battalion would consume.  As commander he had no complaints about the current levels of expenditure, but now he had to dispatch a detail back to the capital to facilitate another pickup.