Chapter 12 Columbus

Jeremy was up early. The Waters Edge restaurant was only just open when he took a table looking out over the Atlantic Ocean to watch the sun rise.  The previous evening he had followed the instructions that Vanessa had relayed to him, rented a car and driven for two hours down US1, also called the Overseas Highway. On a small island called Duck Key, just half the way to Key West, he had checked into an attractive resort called Hawks Cay.

After a quick breakfast of fruit, toast and coffee he found the marina where he rented an eighteen foot boat, “ideal for fishing out at Bamboo Bank,” the man had said. The weather was good, not as windy as it could be in that early February, but he still was rather nervous as he set out through Tom’s Harbor Cut.

The chart he had purchased showed the shallows he had to navigate before passing Channel key and reaching a deeper area in Florida Bay, “thereafter steer 300 degrees for about 30 minutes,” his instructions had said. “We will find you.”

The boat rental guy had said, “look for sandy bottom” and Jeremy found a large patch in the grass bed.  Not knowing how long he would have to wait for a contact, he started fishing with a vengeance.  At first he hooked up a couple of small sharks, bonnet heads the book called them, but in a while caught some really nice gray snappers. He threw them all back till the two and a half pounder, which he could not resist. “That is a great supper” he said to himself.

While fishing he had been watching what little passing traffic there had been, a couple of lobster boats collecting up their traps as the season drew to a close, a sail boat heading off towards Cape Sable, and another fishing skiff that had long since left, presumably having limited out on their daily catch. Nothing looked like a contact. Then he noticed the lobster boat working a line of traps that passed very close to his spot. He was sure it had passed him earlier, about the time when the sail boat was nearby. Eventually the boat reached a trap about forty yards away, and as the mate wound the line around the winch to haul the wooden trap aboard, the boat swung around broadsides on to him. A man almost hidden by the pile of traps spoke, “You are Bonanza?”  It took a second for Jeremy to recognize the pseudonym Bill had used in his contacts with Columbia. “Well, actually Jeremy Baird, but I use Bonanza for security reasons.” Jeremy knew this was the critical moment, If Columbus had any idea who the real pseudo Bonanza was, this tactic would probably get him killed, but if not, it would be much more convincing to use his real name. Apparently all was well because the man did not flinch. “Good to meet you, I am Columbus. Come aboard.” Obviously Columbus was not about to reveal his own true identity.

Although the seas were relatively calm, it was still a delicate balancing act to clamber off his small boat onto the almost twice as large lobster boat, and the piles of traps did not help, but Jeremy managed with a hand up from the mate, and once in the pilot cabin he found it sparse but comfortable. Columbus did not waste time with pleasantries, “The two deals we have done have worked well. You have proved to me that you are both trustworthy and competent. I want to do more, and larger, is that OK?” It was posed as a question, but there was no inflection in his voice to allow for a negative response, and he did not wait for a reply. “We want to do a million at a shot, every month, OK?” Again no inflection, no pause. “The first installment is here.”

The bag he passed to Jeremy was a regular carry on size black suitcase with wheels and extension arm, and although it was heavier than he expected, Jeremy had no trouble carrying it over to his skiff.  “I hope we can be just as successful as we have been in the past,” he said as the boats drifted apart. The response may have been intended as a joke, but it sounded very ominous, “If you aren‘t, I’ll just have to kill you.”

The lobster boat headed off south west at a surprisingly good clip for a large vessel and soon disappeared from Jeremy’s view. The men on board could not have noticed a fisheries and wildlife vessel trailing them a mile astern. The officer on board used a secure channel as he spoke on the radio, “We have the subject in view, they appear to be a lobster vessel operating out of Summerland Key, three men on board. Please ask Phelps for further instructions.”  It took ten minutes for a response, “Watch and wait, make no contact until further orders. Don't lose them, confirm their home base.” The officers had no difficulty following their instructions, or their quarry. Their twenty five foot whaler was powered by twin two hundred and fifty horsepower outboards, and if necessary the boat could do eighty miles an hour. To break the monotony, the officers sped by the lobster boat and checked out some snorkelers under the Seven Mile bridge, before again fading into the distance. By late afternoon, they were positioned to the east of the Summerland Key Fish house as they watched the  lobster boat disappear into the gap in the mangroves which they knew led up to the dock. Mission accomplished for that day.

 

Meanwhile Jeremy waited a while before he pulled anchor and headed back to Hawks Cay. En route he passed the same fishing skiff he had seen earlier, but thought little of it. He might have been more wary if he had noticed that, as soon as he was well past them, the skiff weighed anchor and followed him in. His mind was full of questions. He was aware of the Microline deal, but Columbus had mentioned two deals. What was the other, and exactly what was going down? This did not look like a simple insider trading scam, suitcases full of cash money were not the normal method of settlement for stock purchases.

Back in his room Jeremy called the number he had been given by Vanessa, identified himself to the gruff voice that answered, and was immediately patched through to Phelps. “You have made this a busy day for law enforcement in this country said Phelps.  “Columbus is now under surveillance, we will have warrants ready in the morning. I suggest you get out of there pronto, there is nothing more that you can do. In Michigan, Hargrove found the body of a man shot through the heart, and a red Bronco with distinct evidence of a collision with a man. Forensics will show if the man was Bill Fernstine, but we are all pretty sure. Seems you are off the hook on that one, at least for now. Here in new York, we are certain that at least four of the names you gave us have trading patterns consistent with the kind of activity you believe Brad Layton was performing, but proof is going to be difficult. We are up against a wall of silence, but we certainly ruffled a few feathers. One of the individuals on your list was particularly agitated, a Jeff Rosenberg. We will want to watch him. Yes, quite a busy day. Now you take off and get some rest, and let us get some too. With what is likely to go down tomorrow I think it may be prudent for you to get lost again, as we had the impression you were being followed.”

 

Although he had planned to spend the night here, Jeremy decided this last advice was good. He surreptitiously carried his bags to the car and locked them in the trunk before he walking down to the front desk, and loudly asking for advice on a restaurant that would cook his fish. He purchased a styrene cooler and some ice, and without checking out, set off back towards Miami. He found the place the concierge had recommended, a delightful place called Bentleys in Islamorada. He parked his car in full view of the restaurant, and chose to sit where he could get a clear view. He asked the chef to grill just the one fillet, and kept the other well chilled, hoping that he would have another opportunity to eat it soon.

While waiting for his meal he carefully observed the parking area and as much of the street as he could. He was not sure, but it seemed that a small truck that parked in front of the next-door liquor store had arrived soon after him, and showed no signs of leaving.  He would watch this vehicle as he left.

The meal was delicious, his fish cooked just sufficiently so that it had not lost its moistness. The accompanying salad complimented the light flavor of the fish, and was nearly as fresh. He had no wine as he was heading directly to Miami after the meal, and he missed it. A nice Oregon gewürztraminer would have been perfect.

Once he had paid his check, he made a trip to the rest rooms to provide a cover for a quick call to Miami on the pay phone and sauntered out to the car, watching for a reaction from the truck. Sure enough, as he began to move, he could see a figure straighten up from its concealment and take its place behind the wheel. So Phelps was right, he was being watched, and it seemed that Columbus did not trust him quite as much as he had tried to imply. There was no point in trying to outrun the truck, there was only one road out to Miami, and if he showed that he was trying to throw off his tail, there would be plenty of opportunity to pick him up again. All he would achieve would be to alert the occupants of the truck to the fact that he knew they were following him, and the next meeting might be with some force.

He meandered up the highway towards Miami, stopping a few times to play tourist, and was pleased to note that the truck kept its distance, and the occupants remained the same. He was intent on making them totally comfortable that he was not aware of their presence. By the time he got to Florida City he knew that the men in the truck could not still be fooled by his little deception about dinner, if they ever were, and he picked up the pace, heading down the Florida Turnpike towards Orlando. His plan was to take the Dolphin Expressway down to Miami, and on to Miami Beach. At the several tollbooths along the route he could easily pick out the truck always a careful couple of vehicles back.

Once he had crossed the MacArthur Causeway he sought out the The Palms Beach Hotel, parked his car in a visible location, and checked in to the hotel. A half hour later, he emerged in beach gear and set out down to the water, carefully edging just a few hundred yards northward from the hotel. Although it was well after sunset, it was not dark thanks to the lights from the myriad beach front hotels, restaurants and bars. It was also quite mild if not exactly warm, and he was not alone on the beach, although perhaps all of them were also visitors from the frozen north.

From Jeremy’s hotel room a figure watched, and when she saw the two men get out of their truck to take a position on the beach front from where they could watch Jeremy and wait for his return, she picked up his two bags and walked briskly to her car. The men idly watched this tall blonde beauty, drive off in the same direction as Jeremy had ambled a few minutes before. They were less relaxed when Jeremy scampered up the beach and into the passenger seat of the tall blondes car, which sped away before they could react and follow.

Three hours later, relaxing at last in a room in a Residence Inn just off highway I75 outside of Naples, Vanessa said, “So that's what a million dollars in cash looks like. I’ve always secretly wondered. OK tell me everything.”

 

The call from the clerk at the county court in Marathon came in to the encampment on Summerland key at ten that night, “Judge Briscoe has issued a search warrant. They will be there at first light” The tip off was received by Jose, alias Columbus, and his reaction was immediate. “So Mr. Baird was a plant. Pity, I thought I would like him. Get him, and get my money back.”  Although these words were not addressed to anyone in particular, each of the ears that heard them knew that this was an order for all of them, and it was a task at which they must not fail, else the fate planned for Baird might just be theirs as well.

Plans for an event such as this search had been made long ago. All “product” ready for shipment left within the hour. Everything else was wrapped in plastic just like cling-wrap, packed into lobster traps and taken in small boats via a secret tortuous route through the mangroves hidden from any prying eyes and dropped out into the bay. It would be easy to locate it later, and any of the authorities would not expect that direction when the ocean side seemed so much more obvious. The whole warehouse area was washed down with gallons of sea water, till it was perfectly clean. Even the fishing boats that were cleaned meticulously every evening were washed down again. At three a.m. the two go fasts pulled out very quietly and without lights until they were half a mile out to sea. When they opened up to full throttle heading due south, they were already far enough away from land for their roar to be muffled by the wind. No one noticed them leave. By just after four am, when the first police and FDA vehicles began to assemble a mile from the gate, the boats had tied up on a private dock in north eastern Cuba, with Jose and some twenty others on board. All the personnel who remained on Summerland Key were legitimate fishing crews who were regularly seen plying their trade on the waters around the Keys and would raise no suspicion.

 

The search of the warehouse was thorough, and they found only a few  lobster (it was the end of the season after all), lots of dolphin, all of yesterdays catch of yellow tail, and perhaps twenty nice grouper,  all carefully laid out on beds of ice ready for the packers to arrive in a few hours. If the few fish swimming around near the dock looking a little glassy eyed could have been used as evidence, that would be about the only cocaine, or other criminal activity that was there to be found. They were out of their by noon, and no arrests were made. As Phelps listened to the reports coming in he mused, “The reason we can never beat these criminals is that we operate inside the law, but they do not!”

 

Jose had also been listening to reports transmitted via the local fishing boat’s radios. With only a seventy mile channel separating Cuba and the Keys, no-one, not even Castro could stop these communications. The reports of the raid out of Summerland Key made him mildly amused, but the information relayed from Chicago and Miami made him sad and furious, not necessarily in that order. From Chicago he heard that the body of Alex had been discovered in a remote cottage in Michigan. In his last communication with Jose, Alex had talked of seeking a tall beautiful blonde who had apparently recognized him as he was leaving the scene of his most recent “activity”, and now this friend, colleague, and comrade in arms for so many years was dead. The girl had to be the cause. From Miami came the news that Baird, who was from Chicago and had a million dollars of his money, had given his tails the slip, and had done so quite deliberately with the help of a tall beautiful blonde. It was a stretch, but could it be the same blonde who caused the death of Alex. It may be a stretch, but it was enough for him. He gave the order, and the blonde, whoever she was, was as good as dead.

 

At six thirty the same night Mr. and Mrs. Gus Delatorres arrived in Miami on a flight from Port-O-Prince, Haiti. Yes thanks, they had enjoyed their trip, but would be pleased to get home to Marathon.

They stepped out of the terminal building onto the street where Juan was waiting with his SUV to transport then back to the Keys. As they drove the two hours south they joked about how easy it was to cover up the nature of their business. “Still we wont be able to use Summerland for a few months. I see the old fish house on Conch Key is up for sale. It is not as perfect as Summerland, but it will have to do. Shouldn’t cost too much, no one can make money out of lobster fishing these days!”