One of the few was preparing to leave shortly—a Learjet that had arrived from Teterboro and, a few minutes ago, filed a flight plan for Bogotá, Colombia. Amsler was now on his way to Hangar One to take a look at it.
In contrast to most of southern Florida, the small town of Opa Locka was an unattractive place. Its name derived from a Seminole Indian word, opatishawockalocka, meaning “high, dry hummock.” The description fitted, as did a more recent one by author T. D. Allman who described Opa Locka as an impoverished “ghetto” appearing like “a long-abandoned and vandalized amusement park.” The adjoining airport, though busy, had few buildings, and the area’s overall dry flatness—on top of that natural hummock—conveyed the impression of a desert.
Amid that desert, Hangar One was an oasis.
It was a modern, attractive white building, only part of which was a hangar, the whole comprising a luxury terminal catering to private aircraft, their passengers and pilots.
Seventy people worked at Hangar One, their duties ranging from vacuuming incoming planes’ interiors and disposing of their trash, through restocking galleys with meals and beverages, to mechanical maintenance—minor repairs or a major overhaul. Other staffers tended to VIP lounges, showers, and a conference room equipped with audiovisual, fax, telex and copying aids.
Across an almost but not quite invisible dividing line, similar facilities existed for pilots, plus a comprehensive flight planning area. It was in that area that Customs Inspector Wally Amsler approached the Learjet pilot, Underhill, who was studying a printout of weather data.
“Good evening, Captain. I believe you’re scheduled out for Bogotá.”
Underhill looked up, not entirely surprised at the sight of the uniform. “That’s right.”
In fact, both his answer and the flight plan were lies. The Learjet’s destination was a dirt landing strip in the Andes near Sion in Peru and the flight there would be nonstop. But the exacting instructions Underhill had been given, and for which the pay would be munificent, specified that his departure data should show Bogotá. In any case, it didn’t matter. As soon as he had shed U.S. Air Traffic Control, shortly after takeoff, he could fly anywhere he chose and no one would check or care.
“If you don’t mind,” Amsler said politely, “I’d like to inspect your ship and your people aboard.”
Underhill did mind, but knew it would do no good to say so. He only hoped that his oddball quartet of passengers could satisfy this Customs guy sufficiently to have him clear the airplane and let the flight get on its way. He was uneasy, all the same, not for the passengers but about his own potential involvement with whatever was going on.
There was something unusual, possibly illegal, about those caskets, Denis Underhill suspected. His best guess was that either they contained items other than bodies, being smuggled out of the country, or, if bodies, they were victims of some kind of Colombian-Peruvian gang war and were being removed before U.S. authorities realized it. Not for a moment did he believe the story told to him at the time the charter was arranged in Bogotá, about accident victims and a grieving family. If that was true, why all the cloak-and-dagger secrecy? Added to that, Underhill was sure at least two of those people aboard the Lear were armed. Why, also, the obvious attempt to avoid what had now happened—an encounter with U.S. Customs?
Though Underhill didn’t own the Learjet—it belonged to a wealthy Colombian investor and was registered in that country—he managed it, and along with salary and expenses received a generous share of profits. He was certain his employer knew that corners were sometimes cut with charters that were either downright illegal or on the borderline, but the man trusted Underhill to handle such situations and keep his investment and his airplane out of jeopardy.
Remembering that trust and his own vested interest, Underhill decided to use the accident victims yarn now, thereby putting himself on the record and, he hoped, the Learjet in the clear whatever else might happen.
“It’s a sad situation,” he told the Customs man and went on to describe the tale he had been told in Bogotá, which—though Underhill didn’t know it—tallied with the documents in Miguel’s possession.
Amsler listened noncommittally, then said, “Let’s go, Captain.”
He had encountered Underhill’s type before and was not impressed. Amsler assessed the pilot as a soldier of fortune who for the right kind of money would fly anywhere with any cargo, then later, if trouble erupted, depict himself as an innocent victim deceived by his hirers. All too often, in Amsler’s opinion, such people were flagrant lawbreakers who got away with it.
They walked together from the Hangar One main building to the Learjet 55LR, parked under an overhead canopy. The Lear’s clamshell door was open and Underhill preceded Inspector Amsler up the steps into the passenger cabin. He announced, “Lady and gentlemen, we have a friendly visit from United States Customs.”
During the preceding fifteen minutes, since landing and taxiing in, the four Medellín group members had remained aboard the Learjet on Miguel’s orders. Then, after the engines were shut down and both pilots left—Underhill to file a flight plan, Faulkner to supervise refueling—Miguel talked seriously to the other three.
He warned them of the possibility of a Customs inspection and that they must be prepared to play their rehearsed roles. There was a sense of tension, clearly some anxiety, but all indicated they were ready. Socorro, using the mirror in a makeup compact, slipped a grain or two of pepper beneath each lower eyelid. Almost at once her eyes filled with tears. Rafael this time said no to the pepper and tears; Miguel didn’t argue. Baudelio had already disconnected his exterior equipment from the three caskets, after making sure their occupants were still deeply sedated and would not stir for an hour or more if left unattended.
Miguel made clear he would be principal spokesman. The others would respond to his prompting.
Consequently it was not a total shock when Underhill made his announcement and a Customs officer appeared.
“Good evening, folks.” Amsler used the same polite tone he had with Underhill. At the same time he looked around, taking in the caskets secured on one side of the cabin and the passengers on the other—three of them seated, Miguel standing.
Miguel answered, “Good evening, officer.” He was holding a sheaf of documents and four passports. He proffered the passports first.
Amsler accepted them but didn’t look down. Instead he asked, “Where are you all going and what is the purpose of this flight?”
Having seen the flight plan, Amsler already knew the declared destination and Underhill had described to him the journey’s motive. But a Customs and Immigration technique was to start people talking; sometimes their manner, plus any sign of nervousness, revealed more than actual answers.
“This is a tragic journey, officer, and a once happy family is now overwhelmed with grief.”
“And you, sir. What is your name?”
“I am Pedro Palacios, not a member of the bereaved family but a close friend who has come to this country to give help in time of need.” Miguel was using a new alias for which he had a matching Colombian passport. The passport was real and the picture inside was of himself, but the name and other details, including a U.S. entry visa dated a few days earlier, were skillful fakes. He added, “My friends have asked me to speak for them because they are not proficient in English.”
Amsler looked at the passports in his hand, located Miguel’s and, glancing up, compared the photo with the face in front of him. “You speak English very well, Señor Palacios.”
Miguel thought quickly, then answered with assurance, “Part of my education was at Berkeley. I love this country dearly. If it were for some reason other than the present one, I would be happy to be here.”
Opening the remaining passports, Amsler compared the photos in them with the other three people, then addressed Socorro. “Madam, have you understood what we have been saying?”
Socorro raised her tear-streaked face. Her heart was b
eating fast. Haltingly, forsaking her normal fluent English, she answered, “Yes … a little.”
Nodding, Amsler returned to Miguel. “Tell me about those.” He gestured to the caskets.
“I have all the required documents …”
“I’ll look at them later. Tell me first.”
Miguel let his voice become choked. “There was a terrible accident. This lady’s sister, her sister’s young son, an older gentleman also of the family, were on vacation in America. They had reached Philadelphia and were driving … A truck, out of control, crossed the turnpike at great speed … It struck the family’s car head-on, killing everyone. Traffic was heavy … eight more vehicles crashed into the wreckage, with other deaths … a fierce fire burned and the bodies—Oh my god, the bodies!”
At the mention of bodies, Socorro wailed and sobbed. Rafael had his head down in his hands, his shoulders shaking; Miguel conceded mentally that it was more convincing than the tears. Baudelio simply looked wan and sad.
While speaking, Miguel had watched the Customs inspector carefully. But the man revealed nothing and simply stood waiting, listening, his expression inscrutable. Now Miguel thrust the remaining documents forward. “It is all here. Please, officer, I ask you—read for yourself.”
This time Amsler took the papers and leafed through them. The death certificates appeared to be in order; so did the body disposition permits and the entry permissions for Colombia. He went on to read the press clippings, and at the words “bodies burned … mutilated beyond recognition,” his stomach turned. The photographs were next. One glance was enough and he covered them quickly. He was reminded that earlier tonight he had considered calling in sick. Why in hell hadn’t he? At this moment he felt physically nauseated, and sicker still at the thought of what he had to do next.
Miguel, facing the Customs inspector, had no idea that the other man was worrying as well, but for a different reason.
Wally Amsler believed what had been told to him. The documentation was okay, the other material supportive and nobody, he decided, could fake the kind of grief he had witnessed in the past few minutes. A decent family man himself, Amsler’s sympathy went out to these people and he wished he could send them on their way right now. But he couldn’t. By law the caskets had to be opened for inspection and that was the cause of his own distress.
For Wally had a quirk. He could not bear to see dead bodies and was filled with horror at the thought of seeing the mutilated remains described, first by Palacios, then in the news clippings he had read.
The problem had started when Wally, at age eight, had been forced to kiss his dead grandmother lying in a coffin. The memory of waxen, lifeless flesh against his lips while he struggled and screamed in protest still caused him to shudder, so that for the rest of his life Wally never wanted to see a dead person again. As an adult he learned that psychiatry had a name for what he felt—necrophobia. Wally didn’t care about that. All he asked was that the dead be kept away from him.
Only once before in his many years as a Customs inspector had he viewed a dead body in line of duty. That was when the corpse of an American arrived late at night from overseas when Amsler was at work alone. An accompanying passport showed the deceased’s weight as a hundred and fifty pounds, yet the shipment weight was three hundred pounds. Even allowing for a coffin and container, the difference seemed suspicious and Amsler reluctantly ordered the coffin opened. The result was horrible.
The dead man inside was gross, having put on tremendous weight since issuance of the passport. Even worse, death and a botched embalming job had horribly bloated the body, causing it to putrefy and produce an unbelievably offensive stench. As Amsler breathed the disgusting air, he frantically motioned for the coffin to be closed. Then he ran outside and was violently sick. The sense of sickness and that awful smell remained with him for days afterward and the memory, never eclipsed, came back to him now.
Yet stronger than memory, stronger than his fears, was that inflexible sense of duty. He told Miguel, “I’m truly sorry, but regulations require that the caskets be opened for inspection.”
It was what Miguel had most feared. He made one last attempt to win by reason. “Oh, please, officer. I beg of you! There has been so much anguish, so much pain. We are friends of America. Surely, for compassion’s sake, an exception can be made.”
He spoke in Spanish to Socorro, “El hombre quiere abrir los ataúdes.”
She screamed in horror, “¡Ay, no! ¡Madre de Dios, no!”
Rafael joined in. “Le suplicamos, señor. ¡En el nombre de decencia, por favor, no!”
Baudelio, his face ashen, whispered, “¡Por favor, no lo haga, señor! ¡No lo haga!”
Without knowing all the words, Amsler grasped the essentials of what was being said. He told Miguel, “Please inform your friends that I did not write the regulations. Sometimes I have no pleasure in enforcing them, but it is my job, my duty.”
Miguel didn’t bother. There was no point in prolonging this charade. A moment of decision had arrived.
The Customs idiot was prattling on. “I suggest the caskets be taken from the airplane to somewhere private. Your pilot can arrange it. He will get help from Hangar One.”
Miguel knew he could not allow it. The caskets must not leave the plane. Therefore only one recourse remained—armed force. They had not come this far to be defeated by a single Customs cabrón, and he would either kill the man here in the airplane or take him prisoner and execute him later in Peru. The next few seconds would decide. The pilots, too, must be held at gunpoint; otherwise, fearful of later consequences, they would refuse to take off. Miguel’s hand slipped under his coat. He felt the Makarov nine-millimeter pistol he was carrying and slid off the safety. Glancing at Rafael, he saw the big man nod. Socorro had reached into her handbag.
“No,” Miguel said, “the caskets will not be moved.” He shifted position slightly, placing himself between the Customs man, both pilots and the clamshell door. His fingers tightened on the gun. This was the moment. Now!
In that same instant, a new voice spoke. “Echo one-seven-two. Sector.”
It startled everyone except Wally Amsler, who was used to hearing the walkie-talkie he carried on his belt. Unaware that anything had changed, he lifted the radio to his lips. “Sector, this is Echo one-seven-two.”
“Echo one-seven-two,” the male voice rasped back, “Alpha two-six-eight requests you terminate present assignment and contact him immediately by landline at four-six-seven twenty-four twenty-four. Do not, repeat do not, use radio.”
“Sector. Ten-four. This is Echo one-seven-two out.” Transmitting the acknowledgment, Amsler found it hard to keep elation from his voice. At this very last moment before removing the caskets he had received an honorable reprieve—a clear order he could not disobey. Alpha two-six-eight was the code number of his sector boss for the Miami area and “immediately,” in his superior’s parlance, meant “move your ass!” Amsler also recognized the phone number given; it was in the cargo section at Miami International.
What the message most likely meant was that an intelligence tip had been received about an incoming flight carrying contraband—most big Customs breaks came that way—and Amsler was needed to assist. A need to protect the intelligence would be the reason for using landline instead of radio. He must get to a phone fast.
“I have been summoned away, Señor Palacios,” he said. “Therefore I will clear your flight now and you may leave.”
Scribbling to complete the needed paper work, Amsler was unaware of the suddenly lowered tension and relief, not only of the passengers but of the pilots. Underhill and Miguel exchanged glances. The pilot, who had sensed that guns were about to be produced, wondered if he should demand that they be turned over to him before takeoff. Then, assessing Miguel and those glacial eyes, he decided to leave well enough alone. There had already been delay and complication. They would take their clearance and go.
Moments later, as Amsler hurried toward the interior
of Hangar One and a phone, he heard the Learjet’s clamshell door close and the engines turning over. He was glad to have that minor episode behind him and wondered what was ahead at Miami International. Would it be the big, important opportunity he had waited for so long?
The Learjet 55LR, clear of United States air space and on course for Sion, Peru, climbed … upward, upward … through the night.
PART
THREE
1
Within CBA News, Arthur Nalesworth—urbane, dignified and nowadays known to everyone as Uncle Arthur—had, in his younger years, been a very big wheel. During three decades at the network he worked his way to a series of top appointments, among them vice president of world news coverage, executive producer of the National Evening News, and executive vice president of the entire News Division. Then his luck changed and, like many before and since, he was shunted to the sidelines at age fifty-six, informed that his days of big responsibility were over and given the choice of early retirement or a minor, make-work post.
Most people faced with those alternatives chose retirement out of pride. Arthur Nalesworth, not consumed by self-importance but with a great deal of eclectic philosophy, chose to keep a job—any job. The network, not having expected that decision, then had to find him something to do. First they made it known he would have the title of vice president.
As Uncle Arthur himself was apt to tell it later, “Around here we have three kinds of vice presidents—working veeps who do honest, productive jobs and earn their keep; headquarters-bureaucrat vice presidents who are nonproducing but positioned to take the blame for those above them if anything goes wrong; and ‘has-been’ vice presidents, now in charge of paper clips, and I am one of those.”
Then, if encouraged, he would confide still further, “One thing those of us who achieve some success in this business should all prepare for, but most don’t, is the day we cease to be important. Near the top of the greasy pole we ought to remind ourselves that sooner than we think we’ll be discarded, quickly forgotten, replaced by someone younger and probably better. Of course” … and here Uncle Arthur liked to quote Tennyson’s Ulysses … “Death closes all: but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done …”