Baudelio would be a supportive member of the bereaved family, Miguel a close family friend.
Elaborate documentation corroborated the cover story—fake death certificates from Pennsylvania where the fatal accident supposedly occurred, graphic photos of a turnpike traffic disaster scene, and even press clippings purportedly from the Philadelphia Inquirer, but in fact printed on a private press. The documents had included new passports for Miguel, Rafael, Socorro and Baudelio and two spare death certificates, one of which had since been used for Angus. The document “package” had been obtained through another of Miguel’s Little Colombia contacts and cost more than twenty thousand dollars.
Included in the cover story and false news reports was a critical feature: All three bodies were so badly mangled and burned that they were unrecognizable. Miguel counted on that to deter any opening of the caskets during their removal from the United States.
The hearse and truck now had their engines running and behind them was the Plymouth Reliant, with Carlos in the driver’s seat. He would follow the other vehicles at a distance, though ready to intervene in case of trouble. With the exception of Baudelio, they were all armed.
The immediate plan was to proceed directly to the airport, which should take about ten minutes, fifteen at the most.
In the courtyard of the Hackensack house, Miguel checked his watch. 7:35 P.M. He instructed the others, “Everyone aboard.”
Alone he made a final inspection of the house and outbuildings, satisfying himself that no significant traces of their occupancy remained. Only one thing troubled him. The ground where the hole had been dug to bury the cellular phones and other equipment was uneven compared with the area surrounding it. Julio and Luís had done their best to level the earth and spread leaves, but signs of disturbance remained. Miguel supposed it didn’t matter greatly and at this point nothing could be done.
Returning to the hearse, he climbed into the front seat and told Julio tersely, “Go!”
Dusk had settled in, with the last traces of sunset on their right as they headed for Teterboro.
Luís was first to see the flashing police lights ahead. He swore softly as he braked. From the passenger side of the hearse, Miguel saw the lights too, then craned to survey their own position in relation to other traffic. Socorro was in the middle, seated between the two men.
They were on State Highway 17 headed south, with the elevated Passaic Expressway a mile behind. Traffic both ways on 17 was heavy. Between themselves and the flashing lights there was no turnoff to the right, and central dividers made a U-turn out of the question. Miguel, beginning to sweat, tightened his hold on himself and instructed Luís, “Keep going.” He checked to make sure the “Serene Funeral Homes” truck was immediately behind.
Carlos in the Plymouth would be farther back, though it was impossible to see him.
Now they could see that the traffic ahead was being funneled into two right-hand lanes by several state troopers. Between the lanes was some kind of portable structure like a toll-booth and additional troopers appeared to be speaking with drivers as they stopped. Off to the right were more state police vehicles and flashing lights.
Miguel told the other two, “Stay cool. Leave any talking to me.”
They inched forward for another ten minutes before gaining a better view of the head of the line. Even then it was not clear exactly what was happening; by now it was dark, the many lights confusing. It appeared, though, that after exchanges between the police and each vehicle’s occupants, some cars and trucks were being directed to the side for closer examination, others waved on.
Miguel checked his watch. Almost 8 P.M. There was no way they could make the Learjet rendezvous on time.
Despite warning the others to stay cool, Miguel’s own tension was mounting. After their remarkable success so far, was this to be the end of the line, resulting in capture or death in a shoot-out with police? Of the two, Miguel knew he would prefer death. The chances of bluffing their way out of this present jeopardy seemed slight. He wondered; Was it best to make a run for it now, at least put up a fight, or should they continue sitting here, letting the minutes tick away, with their only hope the unlikely gamble of getting through?
Luís muttered, “The fuckers are looking for us!” Reaching under his coat, he produced a Walther P38 pistol and laid it on the seat beside him.
Miguel snarled, “Keep that out of sight!”
Luís covered the gun with a newspaper.
Beside him, Miguel felt Socorro tremble. He put a hand on her arm and the movement stopped. He saw her looking steadily ahead, her eyes on an approaching state trooper.
The uniformed figure appeared to be alone, unattached to the group at the head of the line. He was glancing into stopped cars as he passed, pausing occasionally, apparently responding to questions. When the officer was a few yards away Miguel decided to take the initiative. He depressed the switch which lowered the electric window beside him.
“Officer,” Miguel called out, “can you please tell me what this is about?”
The state trooper, who seemed little more than a youth, came closer. A name tag identified him as “Quiles.”
“It’s just a driver sobriety check, sir, in the interest of public safety,” he said with a smile that seemed forced.
Miguel didn’t believe him.
Then, as the trooper took in the hearse and its contents, he added, “I hope you haven’t all come from a wake where there was a big booze-up.”
It was a feeble lunge at humor which came out clumsily, but Miguel saw his chance and grabbed it. Riveting Trooper Quiles with a glare, he said sternly, “If that was meant as a joke, officer, it was in extremely poor taste.”
The young trooper’s expression changed instantly. He said, chagrined, “I’m sorry …”
As if he hadn’t heard, Miguel pressed on, “The lady beside me has been visiting this country with her sister. That is her beloved sister in the casket behind us—tragically killed in a traffic accident, along with two others in the funeral van behind. Their bodies are being flown from here to be buried in their own land. We have an airplane waiting at Teterboro and we appreciate neither your humor nor the delay.”
Taking her cue, Socorro turned her head so the trooper could see tears streaming down her face.
Quiles said penitently, “I said I was sorry, sir and madam. It just slipped out. I do apologize.”
“We accept your apology, officer,” Miguel said with dignity. “Now, I wonder if you could help us proceed on our way.”
“Hold on, please.” The trooper walked quickly forward to the head of the line where he consulted a sergeant. The sergeant listened, looked their way, then nodded. The young officer returned.
He told Miguel, “I’m afraid we’re all a bit on edge, sir.” Then lowering his voice in confidence, “The truth is, what’s happening here is a cover and we’re really looking for those kidnappers. Did you hear what they did in White Plains today?”
“Yes, I did,” Miguel answered gravely. “It was terrible.”
The car immediately ahead had moved forward, leaving a gap.
“Both of your drivers can pass around to the left, sir. Just follow me to the barrier, then join the onward traffic. Again, I’m sorry for what I said.”
The trooper motioned the hearse and GMC truck out of line, at the same time signaling a car behind to continue forward. Glancing back, Miguel could still see no sign of the Plymouth Reliant. Well, he reasoned, Carlos would have to take care of himself.
The trooper preceded them on foot until they were level with the portable booth they had seen from a distance, then waved them by. The road ahead was clear.
As the hearse passed him, Trooper Quiles snapped a smart salute, holding it until both vehicles were gone.
Put to its first test, Miguel thought, their cover story had worked. With the challenge of Teterboro still to come, he wondered: Would it work again?
During the weeks they had been at Hackensack, M
iguel had visited Teterboro Airport twice to study the layout.
It was a busy airport used exclusively by private planes. During an average twenty-four hours some four hundred flights might land and take off, many of them at night. About a hundred aircraft made Teterboro their base and were parked along the northeast perimeter. Along the northwest perimeter were the headquarters buildings of six companies which provided operating services for visiting and resident aircraft. Each company had a private entrance to the airport and handled its own security.
Of Teterboro’s six service companies, the largest was Brunswick Aviation, the one which, at Miguel’s suggestion, the incoming Learjet 55LR from Colombia would use.
During one of his visits Miguel masqueraded as the owner of a private plane and met with Brunswick’s general manager as well as the managers of two other companies. From those meetings it became evident that, for the purpose of loading an aircraft, certain areas of the airport were more secluded and private than others. The least private and most popular arrival and parking area was known as the Table, centrally located near the operators’ buildings.
The least-used parking area, regarded as inconvenient, was at the south end. Requests for space there were granted gladly since it relieved pressure at the Table. Also nearby was a locked gate, opened on request by any of the Teterboro operating companies.
Armed with this knowledge, Miguel had sent a message to Bogotá through his contact at New York’s Colombian consulate, advising that the incoming Learjet should request space at the south end near the gate. Then today, making one final use of a cellular phone, he had called Brunswick Aviation requesting that the south gate be opened from 7:45 to 8:15 P.M.
Miguel knew from his earlier conversations at Teterboro that such a request was not unusual. Owners of private aircraft often had business they preferred others not to know about and the airport’s operators had a reputation for discretion. One of the airport managers had even described to Miguel an incident concerning an incoming load of marijuana.
After observing suspicious-looking bales being moved from an airplane to a truck, the manager had telephoned police, prompting the drug traffickers’ arrest. But afterward the aircraft owner, a regular Teterboro user, complained bitterly about invasion of his privacy when, as he put it, “This is supposed to be a discreet, dependable airport.”
Now, as the hearse and truck neared Teterboro, Miguel directed Luís toward the south gate. Though he did not expect to avoid security attention entirely, he was gambling on its being more informal there than at a main entrance.
There had been a stressful silence in the hearse since the encounter with the State Police. But with tensions easing, Socorro told Miguel, “Back there you were ¡magnifico!”
“Yeah,” Luís added.
Miguel shrugged. “Don’t relax. There may be more to come.”
As they neared the airport fence, he checked his watch: 8:25. They were already a half hour late, also ten minutes after the time he had asked for the south gate to stay open.
When the headlights of the hearse lit up the gate, it was closed and locked. Beyond was darkness—no one in sight. Frustrated, Miguel slammed a fist onto the dashboard, exclaiming, “iMierda!”
Luís got out of the hearse to inspect the lock. From the truck behind, Rafael joined him, then walked back to the hearse. “I can blow that mother open with one bullet,” he told Miguel.
Miguel shook his head, wondering why one of the Learjet pilots had not met them here. In the darkness he could make out several parked aircraft inside the fence, but no lights or activity. Could the flight have been delayed? Whatever the answer, he knew they must use the Brunswick Aviation main entrance.
He told Luís and Rafael, “Get back in.”
As they turned away from the south gate, the Plymouth Reliant fell in behind. Obviously, Carlos had come safely through the police roadblock. His instructions were to follow as far as the airport entrance, then wait outside until the hearse and truck returned.
Approaching the brightly lit Brunswick building, they saw that another gate blocked their way. Beside it, at the doorway to a guard post, stood a uniformed security man. Next to him a tall, balding man in civilian clothes was peering intently at the oncoming hearse. A police detective? Once more Miguel felt a tightening of his gut.
The second man stepped forward. Probably in his early fifties, he moved with authority. Luís lowered his window and the man asked, “Do you have an uncommon shipment for Señor Pizarro?”
A wave of relief swept over Miguel. It was a coded question, prearranged. He used an answering code he had memorized, “The consignment is ready for transfer and all papers are in order.”
The newcomer nodded. “I’m your pilot. Name’s Underhill.” His accent was American. “Goddamn, you’re late!”
“We had problems.”
“Don’t bother me with them. I’ve filed a flight plan. Let’s get going.” As he went around to the passenger side, Underhill motioned to the guard and the gate swung open.
Clearly, there was to be no security check, no police inspection. Their cover story, so painstakingly prepared, was not needed. Miguel found he didn’t mind at all.
It was a squeeze with four on the hearse front seat, but they managed to close the door. The pilot directed Luís as the hearse moved onto a taxi strip between blue lights and headed for the airport’s south side. The GMC truck was behind.
Several aircraft loomed ahead. The pilot pointed to the largest, a Learjet 55LR. From its shadows a figure emerged.
Underhill said tersely, “Faulkner. Copilot.”
On the Learjet’s left side a clamshell door was open; the lower half included steps from the fuselage to the ground. The copilot had gone inside and lights were coming on.
Luís maneuvered the back of the hearse close to the Lear’s steps for unloading. The truck stopped a short distance away and from it, Julio, Rafael and Baudelio jumped down.
With everyone assembled around the Learjet doorway, Underhill asked, “How many live ones are flying?”
“Four,” Miguel answered.
“I need those names for the manifest,” the pilot said, “also the names of the dead. Apart from that, Faulkner and I don’t want to know anything about you or your business. We’re providing a contract charter flight. Nothing else.”
Miguel nodded. He had no doubt both pilots would earn golden pay for this journey tonight. The Latin America–U.S., air routes were loaded with air crews, Americans and others, who flirted with the law, taking high risks for big money. As for these two, Miguel didn’t care one way or the other about their wish to distance themselves from what was happening. He doubted, though, that it would make any difference if they fell into real trouble. The pilots would share it too.
With the copilot supervising and Rafael, Julio, Luís and Miguel lifting, the first casket containing Jessica was transferred from the hearse to the jet. Making the turn through the fuselage doorway was difficult, with barely an inch to spare. Inside, the right-side seats had been removed. Straps to hold cargo in place—in this instance the caskets—were attached to tracks on the floor and other fittings overhead.
By the time the first casket was loaded, the hearse had been moved away and the truck backed in. The other two caskets followed speedily, after which Miguel, Baudelio, Socorro and Rafael boarded and the clamshell door was closed. No one bothered with goodbyes. As Miguel seated himself and looked through a window, the lights of the two vehicles were already receding.
With the copilot still fastening straps around the caskets, the pilot flipped switches in the cockpit and the whine of engines began. The copilot went forward and the radio crackled as tower clearance was asked for and received. Moments later they were taxiing.
Reaching over from his seat, Baudelio began connecting external monitoring equipment to the caskets. He continued to work at it as the Learjet took off, climbed swiftly through the darkness and headed south for Florida.
On the groun
d, some unfinished business remained.
As the hearse and GMC truck emerged from the airport, Carlos, waiting outside, put the Plymouth in gear and followed the hearse to Paterson, some ten miles west. There Luís drove the hearse to a modest funeral home which had been randomly selected in advance and parked on the establishment’s lot. He left the keys inside, walked quickly to the Plymouth and drove away with Carlos.
Perhaps, in the morning, the funeral home owner would wrestle with his conscience about calling police or waiting to see what happened, if anything, about an apparent gift of a valuable hearse. Whatever the outcome, Carlos, Luís and the others would be far away.
From Paterson, Carlos and Luís traveled six miles north to Ridgewood where Julio had, by this time, driven the GMC truck. He left it outside the premises of a used-truck dealership which had closed for the night. It seemed possible that an unclaimed, almost-new truck might eventually be absorbed, its presence never reported.
The other two picked up Julio at a prearranged point nearby, then the trio returned to the Hackensack hideaway for the last time. There, Julio and Luís switched to the Chevrolet Celebrity and Ford Tempo. Without further delay, they and Carlos dispersed.
They would leave the cars at widely divergent points, with the doors unlocked and ignition keys in place—the last in the hope that someone would steal the cars, thus making any connection with the Sloane family kidnapping highly improbable.
14
It was not until after the first-feed Saturday National Evening News that the special task force meeting, interrupted by that morning’s harrowing events at White Plains, resumed at CBA News headquarters. By then it was 7:10 P.M. and the task force members had resignedly canceled any weekend plans. It was often said of TV news people that their irregular working hours, long absences from home and the impossibility of leading any predictable social life produced one of the highest occupational divorce rates.