The Teeth of the Tiger - Tom Clancy [64]
"So, what do we do now?"
"When they are settled in Mexico City, we arrange for transport into America, and, I presume, we arrange for weapons."
"Complications?"
"If the norteamericanos have our organizations penetrated, they might have some prewarning, plus whispers of our involvement. But we have considered this already."
They'd considered it briefly, yes, Ernesto reflected, but that had been at a convenient distance. Now the knocker on the door was rattling, and it was time for further reflection. But he couldn't renege on this deal. That, too, was a matter both of honor and of business. They were preparing an initial shipment of cocaine to the E.U. That promised to be a really sizable market.
"How many people are coming?"
"Fourteen, he says. They have no weapons at all."
"What will they need, do you suppose?"
"Light automatics should do it, plus pistols, of course," Pablo said. "We have a supplier in Mexico who can handle it for less than ten thousand dollars. For an additional ten, we can have the weapons delivered to the end users in America, to avoid complications during the crossing."
"Bueno, make it so. Will you fly to Mexico yourself?"
Pablo nodded. "Tomorrow morning. I will coordinate with them and the coyotes this first time."
"You will be careful," Ernesto pointed out. His suggestions had the force of an explosive device. Pablo took some chances, but his services were very important to the Cartel. He would be hard to replace.
"Of course, jefe. I need to evaluate how reliable these people are if they are to assist us in Europe."
"Yes, that is so," Ernesto agreed warily. As with most deals, when it came time to take action, there were second thoughts. But he was not an old woman. He had never been afraid to act decisively.
The Airbus pulled up to its gate, the first-class passengers were allowed to deplane first, and they followed the colored arrows on the floor to immigration and customs, where they assured the uniformed bureaucrats that they had nothing to declare, and their passports were duly stamped, and they walked off to collect their luggage.
The leader of the group was named Mustafa. A Saudi by birth, he was clean-shaven, which he didn't like, though it exposed skin that the women seemed to like. He and a colleague named Abdullah walked together to get their bags, and then out to where their rides were supposed to be waiting. This would be the first test of their newfound friends in the Western Hemisphere. Sure enough, someone was holding a cardboard square with "MIGUEL" printed on it. That was Mustafa's code name for this mission, and he walked over to shake the man's hand. The greeter said nothing, but motioned them to follow him. Outside, a brown Plymouth minivan waited. The bags went in back, and the passengers slid into the middle seat. It was warm in Mexico City, and the air was fouler than anything they'd ever experienced. What ought to have been a sunny day was ruined by a gray blanket over the city-air pollution, Mustafa thought.
The driver continued to say nothing as he drove them to their hotel. This actually impressed them. If there was nothing to say, then one should keep quiet.
The hotel was a good one, as expected. Mustafa checked in using the false Visa card that had been faxed ahead, and in five minutes he and his friend were in their spacious room on the fifth floor. They looked around for obvious bugs before speaking.
"I didn't think that damned flight would ever end," Abdullah groused, looking in the minibar for bottled water. They'd been briefed to be careful drinking the stuff that came out of the tap.
"Yes, I agree. How did you sleep?"
"Not well. I thought the one good thing about alcohol was that it made you unconscious."
"For some. Not for all," Mustafa told his friend. "There are other drugs for that."
"Those are hateful to God," Abdullah observed. "Unless a physician administers them."