Debris Line (Gibson Vaughn) Page 6

  No one spoke. Jenn didn’t like the direction this was heading but held her tongue. Baltasar was manipulating them, and George was wise enough to play out the string without angering their host. At least not while still a guest in his house. Baltasar, recognizing he’d put his friend in a difficult position, switched modes and became reasonable and accommodating.

  “Let Luisa take you to Olhão and show you the shipment. See what you see. After that, we can discuss further.”

  “Show us? I thought you said the shipment was stolen.”

  “No, I said it has been hijacked.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Go and see.”

  Reluctantly, George began to acquiesce, but before he could speak, Gibson interrupted.

  “A shipment of what, exactly?”

  Every set of eyes in the room turned to Gibson, surprised, as if he’d teleported there in a puff of smoke. Baltasar gazed at him levelly, for the first time acknowledging anyone but George.

  “Gibson, please,” Jenn said.

  “It’s fine. The boy has questions,” Baltasar said without taking his eyes from Gibson. “I am in business with a Mexican concern to assist in the importation of their product.”

  Gibson blinked in disbelief. “Jesus fucking Christ. Are you trying to tell us you’re a drug dealer for a Mexican cartel?”

  “It’s complicated,” Baltasar said.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  As they left Lagos and drove east across the Algarve, the land turned increasingly arid. The sun, still climbing in the morning sky, beat down on their convoy of vehicles. Even through the heavily tinted windows of the SUV, Jenn could feel its power. Pockets of green scrub brush dotted the landscape, but the dominant hue was a dehydrated brown the color of stale bread. A solitary horse standing near a tree watched the convoy pass. It made Jenn sad. Why didn’t the horse stand in the shade?

  George hadn’t spoken more than two words since leaving Baltasar Alves’s home. In the old days, he had preferred to meditate before offering his thoughts. When he finally broke his silence, he’d usually have a solution to whatever problem they faced. Jenn had always found that comforting. It pained her to admit that she didn’t hold out any such hope now.

  Dan caught her eye and inclined his head toward Gibson, who had said even less than George. Unlike George, Gibson didn’t practice silence. Ever. Usually when Gibson had something on his mind, Jenn couldn’t shut him up. She leaned forward and put a hand on his shoulder.

  “You all right?”

  “No,” he replied, staring straight ahead.

  “Let’s have it, then.”

  Gibson turned in his seat to look Jenn in the eye, searching for something there. Mind made up, he leaned forward and asked Baltasar’s men how much farther.

  They looked at each other, and then back at Gibson. “O quê?” the driver asked.

  Smiling, Gibson described their mothers in crude, degrading terms that reminded Jenn that he’d been raised by the Marine Corps. The driver shook his head apologetically. Satisfied that they couldn’t understand English, Gibson turned back to Jenn.

  “What’s bothering you?” she asked.

  “Besides consulting for the local crime lord on his hijacked shipment of Mexican narcotics? Because other than that, I’m pretty fucking swell.”

  “We’re just going to take a look,” Jenn said.

  “So ‘just the tip’?”

  Jenn ignored the crude comparison.

  “And then?” Gibson asked.

  “Then we’re done.”

  “And you actually believe that?”

  Jenn didn’t have an answer—not one that she believed. “It’s complicated.”

  “You’re just going to roll over, aren’t you?”

  “What other option do we have?”

  “We get gone. Before we get mixed up in whatever this is.”

  “And go where?”

  “It doesn’t matter where. Not here.”

  “You’re not thinking this through. It takes money to stay hidden. We’re low on funds. Where can we go that we’ll be safe?”

  “What about this situation strikes you as safe?” Gibson asked.

  “It’s not ideal. I know that. But playing ball is our best move. At least for now.”

  “So . . . what? We’re just going to live in Portugal now and work for a drug dealer? Is that what we are now? Mercenaries?”

  It was the strangest argument Jenn had ever had. They were both smiling and talking in friendly tones for the benefit of Baltasar’s men. It made the whole thing feel surreal.

  “Gibson,” George said. “These are special circumstances.”

  “They’re going to get a hell of a lot more special if we do this,” Gibson said. “You know it won’t ever end, right? We do this, and Baltasar Alves decides we’re useful, then he’ll own us. He’ll never let us go.”

  “He’s a friend,” George said.

  “He’s friendly. It’s not the same thing. You really trust him?” Gibson paused, but George wouldn’t go that far. “We shouldn’t have stayed here this long. We should have moved on.”

  “I’m not in the mood for I-told-you-sos,” Jenn said.

  “Hey, I stayed too. So, I got none for you. None of us wanted to think about this moment, but now it’s here. And I’m wondering what we’re going to do. And why we’re going to do it. I’ve done some messed-up things in my life. I’m not proud of all of it, but I’ve always tried to have a good reason.”

  “We’re just investigating the hijacking. Nothing more. Everything’s not as black and white as you always paint it,” Jenn said.

  “Helping a drug trafficker is as black and white as it gets. Hendricks, back me up.”

  In a previous life, Dan Hendricks had been a detective in Los Angeles for twenty-two years. He’d started in narcotics and finished in homicide. Didn’t talk about it much, but he would have been a star if he hadn’t proven so difficult to work with.

  “Hey, don’t look at me,” Hendricks said. “If it was up to me, I’d decriminalize the works.”

  “What does that mean? We should do this? Go to work for a criminal?”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” Hendricks said, meaning Calista Dauplaise.

  Jenn winced—Hendricks should know better than to go there. Calista had been George’s silent partner at Abe Consulting Group, and most of what had befallen them in the last few years could be traced back to her door. Not long after they’d arrived in Portugal, Jenn and George had sat up late into the night, talking. He’d wept over his guilt for involving them with Calista Dauplaise.

  “Yeah,” said Gibson, “but we didn’t know that at the time. And I like to think that maybe we learned our lesson.” He paused and looked squarely at George. “What do you think? Did you learn your lesson?”

  “Easy now,” Hendricks said softly.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Jenn said.

  Gibson said, “Don’t tell me that you aren’t pissed about that dog and pony show back there at the house. Or did you enjoy getting played like a pawn in George and Baltasar’s little chess match?”

  “There wasn’t time,” Jenn said without conviction. It had bothered her, but her protectiveness of George made it hard to admit.

  “That’s bullshit, Jenn.”

  They glared at each other over the seat back.

  “I want to apologize to all three of you,” George said. “I should have made time to brief you. It was an error in judgment.”

  Gibson didn’t look mollified. “Well, we have time to kill now. What else don’t we know? Help me understand why this is a good idea. So I know what we’re going to be about. Maybe start by telling us how you know Baltasar Alves. Really.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Yeah, so I’ve been hearing. But we’re pretty smart people, George. I think we can handle complicated.”

  Resigned, George nodded. “I met Baltasar in 2001. I counseled him through his consolidation of t
he Algarve.”

  “You worked for this drug dealer?” Gibson said.

  “As I said, it’s complicated. But, yes, in essence. Did you know that, prior to 2001, Portugal had one of the worst drug problems in Europe. More than one percent of the population was addicted to heroin. HIV-related deaths were at epidemic proportions.”

  “What happened in 2001?” Jenn asked.

  “The Portuguese government took Dan’s suggestion and decriminalized possession of all drugs intended for personal use. You can look up the statistics for yourself, but by every measure, it’s been a spectacular success.”

  “And what? You helped Baltasar take advantage of the new laws to cash in?”

  “Quite the contrary,” George said. “We went to the Mexicans and offered them a deal. For a fee, Baltasar would serve as middleman. Four times a year, he would oversee and facilitate the importation of Mexican product, repackage shipments, and send the narcotics on their way to markets throughout Europe, far from the Algarve.”

  “Why did Silva, Peres, and Ferro agree to that? That must have slashed their profits in half,” Jenn said.

  “It did. However, after Baltasar struck his deal with the cartel, we went to the GNR. Once the authorities understood that Baltasar meant to keep drugs out of the hands of Portuguese children, they agreed to turn a blind eye to his other less destructive criminal activities.”

  Hendricks said, “Lower profits but less risk.”

  “Precisely. It took time to convince the syndicates that it was in their long-term interests, but eventually they all came on board.”

  “So you’re telling me there are no drugs in the Algarve?” Gibson said.

  “No, of course not. But it’s tightly controlled and mostly recreational drugs aimed at tourists. Nothing schedule-one. I don’t claim that it’s a perfect solution, but Baltasar Alves brought stability and calm to a region wracked by drug use and violence. The region has enjoyed peace for over fifteen years.”

  “And then this morning happened,” Hendricks said.

  “Precisely. How do you think the Mexicans will react to the loss of one of their shipments?” George asked. “Even if Baltasar does get this shipment back, he will be under the gun to repackage it and get it on the road to its destination on schedule. What do you think will happen to the peace then?”

  Baltasar’s men interrupted to announce their arrival. It halted their discussion, but the issue was far from settled. Jenn knew that stubborn look on Gibson’s face. Her real problem was that, in principle, she didn’t disagree with him. They really shouldn’t be doing this. However, when principle collided with the real world, taking a stand could get you killed. Gibson had always had a hard time accepting that.

  They drove into the town of Olhão along the Avenue 5 de Outubro, which commemorated the establishment of Portugal’s first republic on October 5, 1910. It ran parallel to a long, natural harbor formed by a series of barrier islands that shielded Olhão from the Atlantic. Sailboats and other pleasure craft bobbed sleepily at the docks, but this was a less touristy part of the Algarve.

  Passing the old fish market on their right, they followed the natural bend of the road and came to a second, human-made harbor. Here the boats were all commercial vessels, mostly small fishing boats and a few larger coastal-control ships. The surrounding buildings were more industrial—warehouses and a shipyard with all manner of boats in dry dock.

  At the far side of the harbor, a pair of low buildings rose up behind a chain-link fence. Large chemical tanks joined by convoluted piping flanked the main building. The smaller structure looked like a vehicle depot. There wasn’t a soul in sight. Small eddies of dust danced across the empty parking lot. A dirty sign read: “Fresco Mar Internacional”—it was a sardine cannery. Jenn didn’t know what to make of that. As the convoy pulled to a stop at the red-and-white traffic barrier, she picked up movement all across the compound as men stepped out of the shadows. All were armed.

  “Must be some expensive goddamn fish,” Hendricks observed.

  Up ahead in the lead car, Anibal Ferro rolled down his window and barked at his men to raise the gate. Since Olhão was part of his territory, he’d been dispatched by Baltasar to assist the Americans.

  The convoy circled around to the far side of the property and parked at the loading docks. Three men stood guard at a metal roll-up door. Anibal followed Luisa up the ramp; Marco Zava had been sent on a separate mission. As they disappeared inside the building, Tomas and the other men stood beside the SUV to make sure their American guests didn’t wander off. The driver killed the engine, and they sat there for fifteen minutes in the baking sun.

  “This is how dogs get brain damage,” Hendricks said, loosening his tie.

  “Suit doesn’t seem like such a bright idea now, does it?” Jenn said.

  “At least I’m already dressed for my funeral.”

  Anibal returned to collect their unwanted charges. Hendricks mopped his brow. Jenn took off her jacket. Gibson was a puddle, but he was still in his running clothes and didn’t care. Only George seemed unaffected by the heat. Not for the first time, Jenn wondered if her old boss even had sweat glands.

  Luisa, from the top of the loading dock, looked down at them pityingly. “As my uncle requested, we’re going to show you inside the cannery. Please touch nothing.”

  The “please” surprised Jenn. Luisa had been different since Baltasar chastised her. Muted. Still digesting that she, too, was under suspicion. It had clearly rattled her. Jenn didn’t much care for Luisa but couldn’t find it in herself to take any pleasure in it. She couldn’t imagine how she’d react if George questioned her loyalty. The danger of looking up to someone was that their words could come whistling down.

  “And whatever you do, stay outside the circle.”

  “What circle?” Hendricks asked.

  “The yellow one,” Luisa said curtly. “If by some miracle something significant should occur to one of you, tell me and no one else. If you need anything, tell me and no one else.”

  Hendricks raised his hand.

  “Yes?”

  “Who do I tell if I gotta take a leak?” Hendricks asked, lighting a cigarette. “Would that be you too?”

  Luisa nodded, a tight grimace on her lips. “Anibal’s men are on edge and are not as forgiving as I am. Come, we have much to do.” Luisa strode up the ramp, followed by Anibal and Tomas.

  Jenn came up alongside Hendricks. “Remind me why it is you never made sergeant?”

  Everyone gathered at the top of the loading dock while the roll-up door rumbled open. Without waiting, Luisa ducked under and in. A welcome blast of cold air greeted them along with the overpowering smell of salted fish. Behind them, the door hiccupped and began to close again.

  Jenn fell in beside George to keep one eye on him in case he needed her help. He did his best to mask his limp, but she saw the strain on his face. The doctors had done a good job of breaking and resetting his bones, and George had worked diligently at his physical therapy, but this was still a long way for him to walk. And he was too proud to use his cane. Jenn offered him her arm, but he declined with an appreciative squeeze of her elbow.

  Luisa led them down a wide hall that opened into an enormous refrigerated warehouse. Thick concrete pillars spanned its length, and lazy, unfocused fluorescent lights hung in wide rows. Around one of the center columns stood a mountain of coffin-size blocks wrapped in plastic. Other than that and a hastily assembled security station, the warehouse was empty.

  “What’s that?” Jenn asked, meaning the mountain.

  “That,” Luisa said, “is the shipment.”

  “The hijacked shipment?” George asked. “I don’t understand.”

  “Hate to brag,” said Hendricks, “but I think we solved the case. Who’s buying the first round?”

  “If only it were that simple,” Luisa said.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The hijackers had painted a thick line of canary-yellow paint around the shipment. The p
ainters had done a sloppy job. Fat droplets of yellow lay splattered everywhere. A roller on a pole, a paint tray, and several empty paint cans lay discarded at the circle’s beginning and end. A yellow brick road leading nowhere.

  Staying outside it meant that no one could get within fifty feet of the shipment. Heroin, unless Jenn missed her guess. Maybe cocaine. The Mexican cartels had a hand in both.

  Gibson peeled off from the group and walked to the edge of the circle for a closer look. Since the argument in the SUV, he had lingered on the periphery, which Jenn found encouraging. She went over and stood beside him.

  “What do you see?” Jenn asked.

  “Paint.”

  “Don’t be difficult.”

  “Yellow paint,” Gibson said and walked away.

  This was why she didn’t believe in olive branches. People had a habit of sharpening them to points and using them as weapons.

  “Gibson.”

  He stopped and turned back slowly, arms folded across his chest. When she was a child, Jenn had always wanted a sibling. A little brother or sister. Someone to share the loneliness of growing up with a grandmother who had treated her more like a burden than a family member. Gibson made her grateful to be an only child. Caring about people was exhausting.

  “Are you with us?” she asked.

  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “But do I have to worry about you?”

  He considered the question. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll play ball if you promise that when this is over we decide what our next move should be. Start making plans. Can you do that?”

  “I can do that.”

  “I mean it, Jenn. No more putting it off.”

  “I said yes, goddamn it.”

  “All right, then,” Gibson said and walked back to the group.

  Jenn took a deep breath and counted to ten. It didn’t help. Why, if they’d reached an agreement, did it still feel like they were arguing?