Black Pomegranate Page 12

  Catarina was overjoyed. “We must go out to celebrate,” she said. “Tomorrow night. To Maurice’s. After we pick up the money.”

  “Let’s leave the cash in the bank until we’re ready to go to the airport,” I advised. “As it is, I’m going to be very nervous carrying around two million dollars.”

  “Then we’ll let Miguel carry it. Pablo and Pietro will be with him. They will make sure the money is safe. But I think we should not wait until the last minute to get the money. Something could go wrong.”

  “I suppose you’re right. But I’m still a little concerned about Miguel. Are you sure he can be trusted?”

  Catarina smiled secretively. “Do not worry, my love. Miguel is on the level. He is who he says he is. Of that I’m absolutely certain.

  “It is so nice to know I have a baby brother!” she exclaimed.

  “He’s not really a baby. He’s eighteen years old.” A disturbing thought crossed my mind. “What will your mother say when she finds out about Miguel?”

  Catarina shrugged. “Mother probably knows already. Most men in Granada Negra have mistresses, if they can afford them.” She looked at me sadly. “In time, you will, too.”

  “No, I won’t,” I told her adamantly. “You’re all the woman I’ll ever need, Catarina.”

  “We shall see, Alfredo. We shall see.”

  Eighteen

  Alphabet Soup

  DINNER BEGAN with a wild greens salad tossed with a light vinaigrette dressing. For the entree, Cat and I shared a rack of lamb with raspberry sauce, accompanied by wild rice and cauliflower au gratin. Dessert was tiramisu and coffee.

  Sadly, we realized it would be a long time before we’d be able to dine at Maurice’s again, if ever. Maurice’s was the site of our first real date, and even a casual mention of the restaurant always brought strong memories to the forefront.

  A mere two days remained before our trip to Mexico, where we were to meet up with Cat’s father. We’d withdrawn the two million from Timberline State Bank that afternoon, stashing the cash into a large black leather valise Cat purchased expressly for the purpose. Thomas Mack was a paradigm of unctuousness; the other eight million was still on deposit in his bank. Miguel took the locked valise for safekeeping.

  All of our travel arrangements had been finalized. Cat and I would be seated in first class, with Miguel, Pablo, and Pietro immediately behind us in the business class section. We’d take off from LAX and fly to Dallas, and continue on the second leg of the trip after a one-hour layover.

  I charged the dinner tab on my American Express card. Arm-in-arm, we meandered outside. It was a bit chilly. I was glad we’d dressed warmly. When the parking attendant brought Catarina’s car, I held the right front door open while she climbed in and sat down, then ran around to the other side and made my entry. Cat always preferred that I drive, whether we used her car or mine.

  As soon as I was inside—but before I’d had time to lock the doors—one of the Santos twins hurriedly popped open the rear door and hopped in. One ear was glued to his cell phone.

  “Go. Quickly. Now,” he instructed.

  “Which one are you?” I asked, pressing my foot to the accelerator pedal.

  “Pietro. Pablo is watching your apartment.”

  “To what do we owe the honor of this impromptu visit?” I questioned with mild sarcasm. Cat hadn’t said a word, but looked at me with alarm. She knew something must be very, very wrong for Pietro to break his cover.

  “When you get home, you must not say anything out loud. Your apartment has been bugged,” he warned.

  “That’s old news,” I guffawed. “I’ve known for weeks you had bugged our apartment. My car, too.”

  “No, Señor Alfredo. This time, someone else has planted the devices. Many someone elses.”

  Pietro wasn’t making much sense. “What do you mean, ‘many someone elses’?”

  “Two men picked the lock and entered your apartment as soon as you drove off for the restaurant. Pablo said they’d been sitting down the street in their car for hours—watching, waiting for you to go out. It took them about fifteen minutes to do their job and then they left.

  “Almost immediately thereafter, two others went inside. They stayed for about fifteen minutes, also. After that, four more groups of two men broke into your apartment, all just minutes apart. I’m surprised they didn’t run into each other. It was like—how do you say it?—Grand Central Station. Or, a French drawing-room comedy.

  “None of the intruders seemed to be concerned about being spotted by your neighbors. The draperies were left open and the lights on. Pablo hid in the bushes and watched everything. And, because of my own bugs, he could listen to their conversations.”

  “Were they searching for the money? The two million dollars?” I asked.

  Pietro shook his head. “Apparently not. All they did was place the bugs. Each of them.”

  “Sangre de Cristo! Who could they be?” Catarina wondered frenetically.

  “We do not know, but Pablo wrote down their license plate numbers. Perhaps the Department of Motor Vehicles will be able to tell you who the cars are registered to?” Pietro suggested hopefully.

  “There isn’t time for that, Pietro. But I think I’ll be able to check their tags on my computer. At least, I’ll give it a try.”

  “Alfredo is a superb computer hacker,” Catarina announced proudly. “He will find out who is so interested in us.”

  “Take me back to the restaurant now,” Pietro instructed. “I’ll get my car and follow you home.”

  “Do you think it’s safe for us to go back to the apartment?” Cat questioned. “Perhaps we should stay in a motel tonight.”

  “Don’t worry, Catarina. Either Pablo or I will be outside, nearby, all night long. We will not let anyone harm you.”

  CATARINA STARTED A POT of Granada Negra coffee and then searched for the bugs while I worked at my computer. Rather than attempt to break into the DMV files directly, I entered through the back door—the California Highway Patrol’s Internet website. Within twenty minutes I’d hacked into the system and identified the owners of the vehicles. The FBI, the DEA, the ATF, the INS, and the IRS. The sixth was registered to a corporation headquartered in Los Angeles.

  Each time I wrote another set of initials on a memo pad, Cat ran over, looked, and gasped.

  “Grab a jacket. Let’s take a walk,” I told her, when I finished. “I need some exercise to work off the calories we took in at dinner.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Cat agreed. She knew the walk was a ruse; we couldn’t talk freely in our apartment.

  “Did you find the bugs?” I asked, once we were outside. There was a definite chill in the air, and our breath blew out like cigarette smoke.

  “Yes. Everywhere. More than two dozen of them.”

  “Big Brother is definitely listening. I suspect it may be because of the two million dollar cash withdrawal.”

  “Then you think the banker—Mr. Mack—has something to do with this?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t know. Maybe when I made the wire transfer I did something wrong and sent up a red flag that set everybody in motion.”

  Catarina’s brows wrinkled. “Why are so many government agencies snooping on us, Alfredo?”

  “Hard to tell. Probably for different reasons. The FBI might think I stole the money,” I supposed.

  “My father will tell them you transferred the money at his direction.”

  “Yes, but the transfer wasn’t done through proper channels. The FBI may be looking for evidence to bring me up on a felony charge.”

  “What about the others?”

  “The IRS might conclude that all the money I transferred is income and decide I have a big tax liability. I wouldn’t be surprised if they slap a lien on the CDs.”

  “But that isn’t true. It isn’t your money. You’re simply holding it for my papa,” she protested.

  I continued to speculate. “The Drug Enforcement Agen
cy might think the money’s going to be used to buy drugs. Or, perhaps they believe it’s the proceeds of a big drug deal that’s already gone down. The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms might suspect we’re going to be buying or selling a large cache of weapons. And the Immigration and Naturalization Service might be looking for a reason to deport you.”

  “And the corporation? Why would a private corporation be interested in us?”

  “I don’t think it’s really a legitimate corporation. I think it’s a cover for the CIA. The CIA might be involved because the money came from outside the United States.

  “They must think we’re either getting set to pull a big caper of some kind or already did. They’re probably preparing to pop in and arrest us at the first sign of a false move. I’m not so sure we’re going to be allowed to leave the country. Not without answering a lot of questions.”

  We walked around the block and returned to the apartment. Not wanting Catarina to become more worried than she already was, I didn’t tell her that on our stroll I saw every license plate I’d checked on the CHP website. Each was on a vehicle parked within sight of our apartment. The FBI plate was on a white Ford van. The DEA plate was attached to a silver Mercedes, probably a car confiscated from a drug dealer. The IRS tag was on a blue Honda Civic. The ATF vehicle was a red Chevrolet Suburban. The INS car was a beige Toyota. And the car registered to the corporation was a black Lexus.

  I couldn’t see anyone inside the vehicles, but suspected each was occupied by two men scrunched down in the seats to keep us from spotting them as we passed by. Big Brother was not only listening, he was watching.

  Nineteen

  The Twelve Apostles

  DURING THE LATE 1960s, the Mexican government conducted a study of their entire country to determine where best to locate a new megaresort. An enormous cache of raw data was fed into an IBM mainframe computer. Lights flashed, tape reels turned, and a dot-matrix printer spat out its objective analysis. The computer selected a deserted stretch of coastline on the northeast shoulder of the Yucatan Peninsula in what was then the Territory of Quintana Roo, near a sleepy fishing village named Cancun.

  Cancun—which in the Mayan language means snake nest—is situated at 21.09N latitude, 86.45W longitude, between miles of flat green jungle and the turquoise crystalline waters of the Caribbean. Adjoining is Cancun Island, a quarter- to half-mile-wide sandbar shaped like the number 7. A vast lagoon—Laguna Nichupté—separates the island from the mainland. On the east and north, the Caribbean Sea washes against fourteen miles of magnificent powder-white sugar-sand beaches.

  Virtually uninhabited, Cancun Island was covered with tangled jungle growth and dotted with a few ancient Mayan ruins. In 1970, the Mexican government tourism commission, FONATUR, financed development of the area, starting with the basic infrastructure—roads, electricity, water and sewage systems, a modern airport, and other amenities essential to the comfort and convenience of tourists. FONATUR also built the first nine hotels, as private investors had not yet been convinced of the viability of the ambitious project.

  Today Kukulcan Boulevard, a four-lane divided highway named after the feathered-serpent god of the Mayan, runs the entire length of Cancun Island, which is now usually referred to as the Hotel Zone. A rather undistinguished bridge at each end of the island connects it to the mainland.

  The jungle has been supplanted by luxurious hotels and timeshare condominiums and private villas set amidst wide, emerald-green lawns and acres of tropical flora, with the rear of each property abutting a pristine beach and the crystal-clear Caribbean. The island now boasts a plethora of gourmet restaurants, night clubs, and gift shops; glittering marble-floored shopping malls; a convention center; championship golf courses; and marinas.

  Cancun has become one of the world’s most popular vacation destinations. Each year some three million visitors from all walks of life—kings and movie stars to blue-collar workers—visit to bask and play in the sun, swim, sail, fish, don scuba or snorkel gear to explore black coral reefs abounding with colorful fish, tour ruins of Mayan temples and other remnants of the once-extensive Mayan civilization, shop for local handicrafts, and participate in the plenteous night life.

  This newly-created tropical paradise was our immediate destination.

  Cat and I planned to stay at the Royal Mayan and pose as tourists. Pablo, Pietro, and Miguel were to travel with us as far as Cancun, then continue on to where President Perez was in seclusion and deliver the two million dollars in cash he’d requested. If it appeared to be safe to do so, we would visit him in his place of exile. I was anxious to meet the father of the woman I loved.

  We’d all agreed that on the flight Cat and I would make no contact with the others in our party, although they were seated just a few rows behind us. We were therefore much surprised when Pablo climbed into the van that was to transport us to the resort and sat next to me.

  Pablo pretended to be another tourist, gregariously engaging in small talk with everyone in the van, mostly about the weather, which was hot and humid. Cat and I caught on immediately and didn’t say anything that might cause anyone to suspect we knew him, that he was other than a total stranger to us.

  The rest of the passengers got off at the Club Med, leaving only the three of us remaining in the van, except for the driver. Apparently, Pablo felt it was safe to talk in front of him. Or, perhaps, he believed the man could not hear our guarded conversation; we were sitting in the back seat.

  “They were all on the plane.”

  “Who?”

  “The twelve apostles who visited your apartment.”

  “Traveling together?”

  “No. They boarded the airplane in groups of two. Like the animals on Noah’s ark, except these creatures are all of one species and gender. I don’t think any pair is aware you’re being trailed by the others.”

  “It’s hard to believe no one’s caught on yet that we’re being stalked by a small army. I feel like I’m a character in a slapstick spy movie.”

  Nervously, Cat asked, “Do you think they’re going to be staying where we are?”

  Pablo both shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, as if he were uncertain, but doubtful. “The Royal Mayan is a private club, not a hotel. As you know, I purchased a timeshare membership for you last week in anticipation of this trip. Your pursuers will not be able to obtain accommodations or eat in any of the restaurants unless they also buy timeshares.”

  “For all twelve, that could cost the government a pretty penny,” I laughed, then sobered as I realized it was my tax money helping to finance their adventure.

  “Still,” Pablo cautioned, “some of the men may find a way to plant bugs in your villa. Perhaps they will bribe a housekeeper or maintenance worker to do their dirty work. Be very careful what you say whenever you’re indoors.”

  “I wish I knew why so many people are keeping such a close eye on us,” Cat mused thoughtfully.

  Pablo shrugged. “Who knows? Probably each is watching you for an entirely different reason—or why would none of the men know about the others? The political situation in Granada Negra. Suspicion that you’ve obtained the money illegally. Concern about what you might be planning to do with the money.”

  “What should we do until you contact us?” Cat asked.

  “Take scuba lessons,” Pablo suggested.

  “Scuba lessons? Where can we take scuba lessons?” I asked.

  “At the Royal Mayan. An instructor gives free scuba lessons every morning in the swimming pool.”

  “Are you absolutely certain?” Cat questioned.

  “Yes. I’m absolutely certain,” Pablo replied determinately. His face wore a secretive smile.

  “I don’t want to spend all of my time here in Cancun with an air tank strapped to my back,” I groused. “Isn’t there something else we can do to pass the time?”

  “Of course. Sunbathe. Swim. Tour the city. Enjoy yourselves. Behave like any other tourists on vacation. But, don’t act s
uspicious and don’t let on you know you’re being followed. As soon as we’re sure it’s safe, Pietro and I will make arrangements to take you to Presidente Perez.”

  “Can you describe the men who’re following us?”

  “It’s probably better you don’t know who they are. That way, you won’t be tempted to stare them down.” An enormous grin exploded over Pablo’s face. “But I don’t think you’ll have any trouble spotting them.”

  The driver brought the van to a stop beneath the porte-cochere of the Royal Mayan. He hopped out, slid open the side door so Cat and I could make our exit, then helped a bellman unload our suitcases. Pablo remained in the van.

  “Have a pleasant vacation, Señor and Señorita,” he called out to us, as the van pulled away.

  “Thank you. You, too,” I responded, for the benefit of anyone who might be listening.

  We walked up a dozen marble steps. As I reached the entrance portal, I turned around and looked back in time to see two vans and a taxi pull up in the driveway. All the passengers were male, which seemed an unlikely circumstance in a resort area, unless our arrival had coincided with a gay-rights convention. I didn’t want to make it obvious I was scrutinizing the men, but did manage to catch a quick glimpse of each.

  It was cool inside the lobby, a pleasant respite from the heat and humidity outside. Cat and I were still dressed in the heavy woolens we’d needed for comfort in Timberline Village in December. In the hour since we’d deplaned, passed through immigration and customs, and rode the eleven miles from Cancun International airport to the Royal Mayan, our clothes had become saturated with sweat. I couldn’t wait to change into a swimsuit and head for the beach or pool. I had no idea what was coming next, but while we were in Cancun I was determined to make the most of the occasion.

  I was relieved Catarina had abandoned her cockamamie idea of pretending to be a man. There was no way she could pull off the deception in a bathing suit, if at all. She regretted cutting and dying her hair, but I enjoyed her new look. The short cut was certainly more practical for swimming and other outdoor activities.