A God in Ruins - Leon Uris [130]
“Top level. Partners from Vancouver to the southern tip of Argentina.”
Oh, my goodness, Red thought. The power of The Combine was awesome.
“All supplies?”
“Uh-huh. Fifty-fifty split after expenses. Cash. It includes ack-ack, fifty-caliber machine guns, dynamite, water-treatment plants, medical supplies, field boots, you know, you know…”
Red was silently adding zeros to his potential take. All the hard work had not been in vain.
“Why?” he asked softly.
“You’ve got a very fine reputation, and you also have what seems to be foolproof access into and through Mexico. You’re a man who is well thought of, a straight shooter. The Combine sees enormous growth in the Southern Hemisphere marketplace. There are now three opposing guerilla groups in Cuba, restless bands along the Amazon, weapons for the dealers, and a half dozen spots in the Caribbean ready to pop.”
“What do you think you’re going to be able to do for me?”
“We can supply you with American weapons, no limits.”
“You supply, I run them over the border.”
“That’s right. And, uh, we go on a handshake. No letterheads, lawyers, websites, contracts. It has to be a matter of trust, Red.”
“Trust among the polecats,” Red mused. “Is that it?”
“You must produce one key element. Not all merchandise can move at all times like a conveyor belt. You have to produce a fail-safe secret depot for storage.”
If Red Peterson wanted to make a stand, The Combine could construct parallel routes and get rid of him. But that would cost The Combine a fortune. Red had it down, to the permanent key officials to be paid off. He knew that Red Petersons would come and go, but The Combine would be there forever, because greed is eternal. Come drought, famine, earthquake, collapse of government, come what may—guns were the currency.
The two went through a long list of figures. Red was coming to realize that in relatively short time he could put upward of a hundred million dollars in his pocket. He offered his hand.
“We’ve got a deal when I approve of your depot,” she said.
“I’ll take you there tomorrow. Want to get laid tonight?”
“Never on the first date, Red.”
Chapter 36
Red Peterson groped, caressed, patted his wife’s backside, then hopped up into the pilot’s seat of his Queen Air. Greta touched cheeks with Maud, giving her a mandatory “Ummm” but knowing full well her old bastard was on the prowl.
The rattlesnake knew he was good, Maud thought. They had blended into a merger that would corner the expanding Latin weapons market. Maud had slept with one eye open and one ear trained on the bedroom door, hoping he might pay her a visit. He was menacing, like the men in The Combine.
Red moved with certainty to hold the sassy airplane in check, as though he could see the wind.
That morning after breakfast, Red gave her a briefing of the Hudson Mining and Cattle Co. on the White Wolf Ranch. It lay in southern Utah and was one of the few militia able to keep some full-time “freedom soldiers.” These men were carried on the payroll of the copper mine and ranch.
The White Wolf Brigade commander and ranch owner was a retired Army officer, Oswald “Wreck” Hudson. The mine and ranch barely broke even. Big monies came from Red Peterson, drug and immigrant smuggling, and web-site scams. White Wolf was also part of an underground network supplying a safe haven for criminal militia on the run.
They flew west into Utah past one canyon after another, mesas holding a few determined trees, stone chimney rock formations of a phallic nature, agonized peaks, tan desert and, always, a stone edifice to a sleeping Indian maiden.
Red set the Queen Air down at Cortez, as anonymous as an airfield could be without being illegal.
Maud had pictured Wreck Hudson accurately. Thin man, handlebar mustache in a struggle to get attention and to be brave. He greeted them in civilian garb but packing a pair of ivory-handled pistols finished in silver.
In a Land Rover, Wreck