White Death (18 page)

Nassau, Bahamas, November 1969

No Names One and Three had come up dry in the Miami area regarding the Nassau rip-off earlier in the year. Sterling had given them permission to widen their investigation to Nassau. They had tortured and killed the pilot in Spain, and remained convinced he really didn’t know who bought the planeload of drugs. The only clues they had involved some Mexicans. Also involved was a middleman who dealt only in cash, but they did get a description. He had medium brown skin, about five-foot-nine-inches, a slight island accent, and wore Hawaiian shirts, a taboo in Nassau. One witness said he claimed to be from California.

The No Names worked the bars and night scene. Not surprisingly, they quickly became known and feared for their interrogation tactics. A nightclub bouncer readily recalled seeing such a person, as did a few waitresses and bartenders. Nobody could add any helpful information.

Number Three spoke up, “We’re fishing in the wrong pond. We should be breaking arms over at the airport. That’s where the plane landed. That’s where the pilot turned over the plane to this middleman. Somebody saw something. Something else too. We shouldn’t rule out that the middleman is actually the mastermind, or is at least wearing two hats.”

Number One needed more time to absorb this. “So, this middle man walks around in different clothes when he’s playing the middleman, and regular clothes, which ain’t much here, when he’s the mastermind.”

“Right,” said Number Three. “And suppose there isn’t any
middleman. Or the real mastermind is out of the country pulling the strings.”

“Yeah,” said Number One. “We should start at the airport.”

Walking up to one of the line boys, Number Three asked, “How long have you worked here?”

“Almost two years,” as the nineteen-year-old looked at two men who were not here on vacation.

“Do you know much about the different makes and models of airplanes?” asked Number Three.

“Sure. I need to be certain what kind of fuel they take. Some pilots are in a hurry and don’t tell me.”

“Good. Did a Piper Comanche land here late in the summer?”

“I recall seeing a new one. I fueled it, and he pulled into that hangar over at the end.”

Although a little vague, his description matched the dead pilot.

“Who knows all about these hangars? Like who owns or leases them?”

“The fixed base operator, Mark Hughs. His office is in the two-story building off to the side of the longest runway.”

As they walked away, Number One said, “We introduce ourselves to Mr. Hughs, jack him up until he talks, and leave.”

“No,” replied Number Three. “This is a big airport. The guy must have connections with the police and pols. We gotta be careful. You still got your fake Interpol ID?”

“Yeah.”

“We use the ID to appear legit and get his help. Let me talk.”

“You always talk anyway.”

Each airport with scheduled airline service also has a general aviation fixed base operator, the FBO, who serves the needs of everybody from corporate jets to vintage aircraft. As the men approached the FBO counter, they flashed their credentials, provided their seldom-used real names, and said they needed to speak with Mr. Hughs right away. Hughs came out presently and
asked how he could be helpful. He was a balding, white man with a distinct British accent.

Number Three explained that the Spanish government had requested a follow-up investigation into the disappearance of the Comanche last summer. He stated an eyewitness had seen the plane enter the hangar at the end of the row. The plane took off shortly and disappeared. The Spanish police later arrested the pilot with a large amount of stolen cash.

“Who owns that hangar, Mr. Hughs?” asked Number Three.

“I own the hangar, but I’ll check my records and ascertain to whom I leased it. Follow me.” They did as they were told. This Englishman made them uneasy for some reason.

“My accounts show a lease for the month of August to one Rafael Gonzalez of Sonora, Mexico. May I assume that you are interested in this month?”

“Yes,” said Number Three, almost too quickly.

“He paid in cash. I have never seen the plane, nor do I have further information for you. If you like, you may walk down and look around, be my guest. Good day, gentlemen,” and he turned and headed back to his office.

A lone Hispanic male was cleaning the hangar. Numbers One and Three exchanged looks. After establishing he had worked there for a couple of years, the questions began politely enough. However, they could see fear in his eyes. Finally, Number One couldn’t restrain himself and locked up an elbow.

“We don’t have all day, asshole. After I break most of your joints, I’ll start removing body parts.” Number One was on top of his game. “Tell us everything about the plane? Who was here? Who paid the faggot pilot? Who took the drugs and where?”

“You’re hurting my arm so much I can’t think. Let me just stand and try to remember.”

Number Three nodded his assent.

“I was cleaning the next hangar over when the pilot pulled in. With my ear to the aluminum siding, I could hear some of what
they said. In addition to the Cuban pilot, who was counting money, were three bad men with heavy
Norteño
accents. The Mexicans debated whether to kill him and take both the plane and the money. They decided against murdering the Cuban because the airport was busy, and they feared being caught. One Mexican, who was also a pilot, kept saying, ‘Too heavy.’ Two had tickets to Mexico City. The Mexican pilot was going to fly the plane somewhere close, where they would unload and destroy it. Four or five small airports are less than an hour away. He fueled the plane recently, so that’s why they couldn’t kill him and all get in. I could hear only parts of the conversation.”

“Have you seen or know anything about a Negro man, who wore Hawaiian shirts and spoke with an island accent?” asked Number Three.

“I noticed him reading the paper once in the FBO lounge.”

“He was never in the hangar here when you were listening? No island accent?”

“No.”

“They pushed the Comanche out of the hangar and the Mexican pilot gets in alone or with the Cuban,” began Number Three. “Then two walk to the commercial side for a flight to Mexico City, while the others fly to some small island to off load drugs and destroy the plane. Is that right?”

“Yes sir.”

“Did you hear any names?”

“Only nicknames and common first names which I don’t recall.”

Number One shoved him hard up against the aluminum and shouted, “What else?”

The aluminum made a terrible racket and a voice from the next hangar demanded, “What’s going on in there?”

“Tell him you fell while cleaning.”

The young man did what he was told.
Number Three sat on the floor shaking his head. “After all this
time and work, we don’t have shit. We already knew that our Cuban pilot sold us out to a group of Mexican thugs. At least one is probably in south Florida waiting for another chance to rob us. This American Negro is a ghost. Sterling will love this.”

The Bad News

Sterling listened carefully to the report from his two investigators.

Then he instructed, “Forget the American, who probably is a Bahamian. I suspect his role was to arrange unloading the drugs and disposing of the plane at the destination airport. He worked for the Mexicans for a fixed fee or a percentage. We are most vulnerable at two points: the airstrip west of Barranquilla and Valkaria. From now on, one of you takes the commercial flight to Barranquilla, and at least one of you will arrive early to meet the incoming flight to Valkaria to do reconnaissance around the field prior to arrival. Carry extra clips; you may need them. I’ll make the assignments. Inform the other two. Everybody is full time from now on. Any questions?”

Both shook their heads.

“Dismissed.”

Walking out of the office, Number Three said, “He’s not mad at us?”

“That’s because we do good work,” replied Number One.

Miami, Florida, November 1969

Jamie was making meatloaf and something when the regular phone rang. Only Sterling would call during dinner.

“Hello…Yes, your office at 8:00 a.m. All of the pilots? I’ll be there.”

“Is this the first pilots-only meeting?” asked Jamie.

“Yes. He said a follow-up investigation of the Nassau incident indicates Mexicans may be planning another rip-off. More tomorrow.”

Sterling’s meeting went as expected. An explanation of what little we knew. Then came the instructions: Be vigilant. One of the No Names would ride, armed, all the way to the truck in Barranquilla, returning by a commercial flight. One or two No Names would meet each incoming flight at Valkaria. There, he believed, the threat was the greatest.

“James,” said Sterling at the end of the meeting. “Can you and Number Four ride to Barranquilla in the morning?”

“Sure,” I answered, without much enthusiasm.

I had seen Number Four, but we had never spoken. We simply exchanged nods at the airport and boarded the same plane. I entertained myself with a novel during the flight. After passing through Customs, I saw Juan with his Sixkiller sign but no other assistant. Juan did not seem himself with a drawn face, nervous body movements, and sweating more than normal for the heat.

I stopped and looked around for Number Four. Two men, with a pistol thrust into his ribs, were escorting him away. I ran in the opposite direction, but three armed goons quickly
surrounded me, removed my pistol and shoved their own in my back. I had the intruding thought that switching to an ankle holster would be more comfortable. Dealing with being kidnapped could wait a moment longer.

While the goons focused on me and Number Four, they lost track of Juan who fled to blend in with a crowd around an outside concession stand. Juan knew what fate awaited me. That night, he locked himself into a stall in the men’s room. The next day he took the first flight to Miami and called Sterling as soon as he arrived.

Room of Horror

The goons said nothing to me except, “Do not resist,” in heavily accented English. After walking to a blacked-out van, they pushed me roughly into a rear seat. One put a hood over my head and cuffed me behind the back. The fear meter went off the scale. I sat at the mercy of unknown thugs for an unknown reason. They said nothing.
Maybe I’ve been made
, was the only possibility I could imagine. In that case, a swift execution was my best prospect. But why here? Number Four is loyal, and he will not return to Miami on the next plane. Nothing made sense.

After about a twenty-minute drive, the van stopped. I heard the doors open; somebody grabbed me by the shoulder and pushed me from behind, first in one direction then another until I fell. Next they tied a noose around my neck, and led me inside what seemed like a large building, based on the noises and talking I heard that seemed to come from all levels. I flashed briefly to the constant din within the expanse of Coleman. Conversations were in Spanish; isolation compounded my fear.

A door opened, someone rammed me into a seat, and then removed the hood. In front of me was a Colombian man dressed in loud clothes, toying with his mustache. Behind his expensive
leather chair lay a beautiful view of the Magdalena River.

“So,” he began his rage barely under control. “This is the famous Sixkiller. The man who would dare humiliate me in front of my business colleagues. They think they are better than me, and don’t hesitate to show their supremacy. I hired Mexicans to rip our own load in Nassau, and they still don’t know what happened. For many months, I fucked them in their asses for hundreds of thousands of dollars, and they never knew it. Not until this college-educated Indian decided to do their dirty work. That’s what’s wrong with your ignorant country. Why do they let some aboriginal go to college? You should be doing manual labor for white people.” Screaming now, his face flushed, pounding on his desk, “How dare you humiliate me, especially to that nigger in Washington?”

“What do you want from me?” I asked in a quaking voice.

“First, never speak to me unless I ask you. Second, always address me as
El Patron
. Third, I don’t want anything except to hear the sound of your screams in the torture chamber next to my office. The screams help me relax and focus on work.”

“Get him out of here. Follow the instructions.”

“Si, El Patron.”

My knees buckled briefly entering the room, littered with various instruments of torture: dental tools; truncheons; electric cattle-prods; and a large bucket with wires running to a rheostat connected to a wall outlet. Overhead was a steel I-beam with a chain looped over it, and a sturdy rope tied to the end.

Two goons stripped me and knocked me down. They tied the rope around both ankles with excruciating force and hoisted me up until my head hung about a foot off the floor. With fists and the truncheons, they began to beat my sides and stomach. After my core muscles failed, I started gasping for air. I couldn’t get enough.

They brought over a bucket, and all pissed into it. They told me to do the same. A little blood flowed out with the urine,
causing a quick conference among them off to the side. Perhaps
El Patron
had imposed limits. More likely, they had been warned to prolong my agony until death. This thought relieved me of the glimmer of any hope. They added water to the bucket and lowered my head into it. I had trouble holding my breath, and soon inhaled some of the foul liquid, producing convulsions in my body. They quickly pulled me out to cough, spit, and gasp for air. They shocked my testicles with a cattle prod and then put it in my mouth. My body jerked and convulsed, but I was unable to scream until they took it out. I was sobbing, with saliva running out of my mouth and out my nose. They shoved needles under my fingers and toes, and I screamed some more until blackness settled over me.

Minutes later, they threw a bucket of cold water at my face. The process began again.

The room had no windows, just a row of flood lights aimed at me. They were never turned off. Time had little meaning as I drifted in and out of consciousness.

Revenge

“Hello, Alvaro. I understand Sixkiller is your guest.”

“Fuck you, Marcus.”

“Listen you scum-sucking psycho, you steal from us, then kidnap and torture my best pilot, and you think you haven’t crossed the line? This is what you’re going to do…”

“I do what I please in Barranquilla.”

“Not anymore. If you don’t follow these instructions exactly, I’m going to kill you, tie your bullet-ridden body with a rope in front of your house to ensure everybody sees it floating in the river, and replace you with a new manager. So listen carefully.”

“Why should I pay attention to any of your Miami crap.”

“In case you think I’m bluffing, two-hundred of my best troops are getting their gear together as we speak. The following
demands are non-negotiable. Get a pencil out because you’re too stupid to remember everything:

Is there anything you don’t understand?”

“If I do this, everything is fine between us? Business as usual?”

“Sure, Alvaro. We realize why you’re upset. Don’t worry. Just do what I said.”

“Okay. Okay. You and Tyrone take things too seriously.”

“Goodbye, Alvaro. I will personally be at the airport to greet Sixkiller. Don’t fuck it up.” Click.

Tyrone had planned past Alvaro. Two hundred soldiers, dressed in civilian clothes and heavily armed, were already boarding a charter plane. He had paid the bribes necessary to ensure no problems at the Barranquilla airport. Marcus and Tyrone agreed upon a professional manager to ride with the soldiers to keep product moving until a permanent replacement could be found. A few soldiers would stay in the plant to exterminate any militants loyal to Gonzalez. All of his security forces were marked for death. Alvaro failed to comprehend that he was a dead man walking.

Juan’s account of the abduction, plus what he had overheard, clinched the implementation of the plan against the ever-cautious Tyrone. Juan also gave the soldiers a good description of the building, its entrances, deployment of security forces.

So, while the security forces were flying to Mexico, a second plane would be airborne in opposite direction flying to Miami.

I remember the bucket of cold water hitting my face. The torture would begin once again; I prayed for death. My body remained attached to the chain over the I-beam. The water ran down from my shoulders and chin, into my eyes, and dripped off my eyelids. Upside down had become normal. This time, however, they lowered the chain and cut the rope from my ankles. Unable to move, I lay motionless in my own waste. They pulled the needles from my fingers and toes.

“Stand up,” ordered one. I moved a little, but could not get up. A brief conversation produced a garden hose. Terror replaced momentary relief, a new form of torture. The goons hosed me down heavily where I lay. A minute later, one pulled me to a slightly different area, and they hosed me again.

“You stink, gringo,” laughed one. “A doctor will visit you, and he doesn’t like gringo shit.” All I focused on was the word
doctor
.

The two men got under my shoulders and half-carried me into an adjoining room with a sofa. I had lost sensation in my feet, and they couldn’t support the bodyweight. I was dizzy and disoriented. They laid me down on the sofa, naked. I couldn’t talk because my tongue was swollen from the electric cattle prod; my testicles felt on fire and were horribly inflamed; my ankles had second or third degree rope burns; and my entire body hurt like no other pain I’ve ever known.

In walked a doctor in a white smock. His entrance produced a startled response, my body shaking involuntarily.

“I am a real doctor,” he said in good English. “I’m here to treat you.”

“Why?” I tried to say.

“I will explain later. Did they hit you hard in the head with anything?”

“No. Need water.”

“I’ll have some brought in,” he said to me, and then he said something to a person outside of the door.

“Follow my finger with your eyes. Good. Where are you?
What is the month and year?”

I answered his questions as well as I could with a tongue that seemed to fill my mouth.

“Are you allergic to any medicine?”

I shook my head.

“You don’t appear to have a concussion. I’m going to give you morphine to ease the pain, but not as much as you probably need. We have a plane to catch to Miami in about one hour.”

“To Miami?” I said in a distorted voice. I felt a prick in the shoulder and saw a syringe. He must have seen my eyes widen. It was all a cruel trick. Alvaro would never bring a doctor to treat me. He was entertained by the torture, and now it was time to poison me.

“It is morphine, and I’m taking you to Miami. Put this cold compress on your testicles and another for your lips while I try to find you some clothes.”

“My boots…”

“You want your boots?”

I nodded my head, and he left.

The trip to the airport was hell with a driver so determined to be on time. I never realized the roads had so many potholes. I sat in back with the doctor. If I couldn’t walk, one or both would get me to the departure gate. The doctor told me several times I had been “in a bad car wreck,” and he needed the medical facilities in Miami. A wheelchair waited at the gate. After the stewardess seated us, the doctor gave me more morphine, and I felt sleepy. Morphine, named after the Greek god of dreams, Morpheus, was…

“It’s time to wake up now,” said a distant voice. “James! We are in Miami. We need to get off the plane now.”

“Okay.”

Keeping erect and focusing my vision required so much effort. The doctor was under one shoulder, but I felt my feet
touch the ground. Maybe I’ll walk again someday.

I heard Jamie squealing, “James, oh James.”

I picked up my head and saw Jamie, Marcus, Ortiz, and another doctor. The two doctors walked off to the side and talked in animated voices. It was surreal. Marcus, who I wanted to put in prison, had just saved my life. He was the only one who could make Alvaro do this. I hated this job. I sat on a chair while the two doctors talked. Jamie wiggled and blew me kisses; and Marcus knelt next to me.

Marcus apologized, “I had no idea he would do something this crazy. We are taking care of the problem. He will never touch my pilots again.” Tears rolled down my cheeks. This was so fucked
up
, I
thought
. He’s a killer. A goddamn gangster. I needed to dehumanize him, but all I wanted to do was embrace him.

“A private ambulance is waiting outside to carry you to Mercy Hospital, the finest in the city. They can do a complete evaluation there and give you the best treatment. I think your sister wants in.” Marcus motioned her to come. She rushed over, looked intently at me, took my hands, and kissed me on the forehead.

“Hey, Sixkiller, you’re the best Indian pilot I’ve ever known. Of course, you’re the only one I’ve ever known.” I tried to smile at his feeble attempt at humor, but my mouth still didn’t work well, and the morphine affected my thinking. With Jamie looking at me I said, “Karen?” Jamie shot me a stern look, and Marcus half-turned, then went back to talking in Spanish with Ortiz. After arriving at the hospital, I had a hard time answering the questions from doctors as Jamie held my hand. A technician drew blood; another sent me for a full-body CAT scan. While examining my entire body, doctors asked more questions about what hurt and where.

Later, Dr. Wilson entered my private room. His aura of calmness and authority made it clear he was actually in charge of what seemed like chaos around me.

“Apparently, your tormentors were instructed to avoid
egregious damage and obvious scaring. You are still urinating a little bit of blood from heavy blows to one of the kidneys, and you continue to be dehydrated. The kidney damage will clear up without treatment, but you will require antibiotics prophylactically for the blisters and devitalized tissue on top of the burned areas, including your ankles. Keep putting cold compresses on your testicles and lips until the swelling subsides. The nurses will give you ice chips to suck on for your tongue, but not much else. Two ribs are fractured, but not broken. They will feel much better in about two or three weeks. No signs of a concussion or spinal trauma exist. The only bad news is I have asked a surgeon to cut away the areas irreparably damaged by the rope burns on your ankles tomorrow. We will numb you up and give you an IV morphine drip. Because you are dehydrated, nurses will continue changing bags above you to help rebuild body fluids. Any questions?”