“We do not know that,” sighed the Manhattan counselor. “He may have been the baggage handler as well. Or have had access to the baggage hall. He may have passed for an Iberia staffer or customs officer with right of access. He may even have been either of these things. How energetic will the Madrid authorities be to divert their precious resources to the task of trying to liberate one they probably see as a dope smuggler, and a non-Spanish to boot?”
They turned onto the East River Drive toward Boseman Barrow’s comfort zone, downtown Manhattan.
“I have funds,” protested Julio Luz. “I can engage private investigators on both sides of the Atlantic. How you say, ‘the sky is the limit.’ ”
Mr. Barrow beamed down at his companion. He could almost smell the odor of the new wing on his mansion in the Hamptons. This was going to take many months.
“We have one powerful argument, Señor Luz. It is clear that the security apparatus at Madrid Airport screwed up badly.”
“Screwed up?”
“Failed. In these paranoid days, all airline baggage heading to the U.S. should be X-ray screened at the airport of departure. Especially in Europe. There are bilateral compacts. The outline of the bag should have shown up at Madrid. And they have sniffer dogs. Why no sniffer dogs? It all points to an insertion after the usual checks . . .”
“Then we can ask they drop the charges?”
“On an administrative foul-up? I’m afraid dropping the charges is out of the question. As for our chances in court, without some blistering new evidence in her favor, not good. A New York jury simply will not believe a screwup in Madrid Airport is possible.
“They will look at the known evidence, not the protestations of the accused. One passenger from, of all places, Colombia; slipping through the Green Channel; one kilogram of Colombian pure; floods of tears. I am afraid it is very, very common. And the city of New York is getting very, very sick of it.”
Mr. Barrow forebore to say that his own engagement would not look good either. Olympian quantities of money were associated by low-budget New Yorkers, the sort who end up on juries, with the cocaine trade. A real, innocent mule would be abandoned to the Legal Aid Office. But no need to secure his own departure from the case.
“What happens now?” asked Luz. His entrails were starting to melt again at the idea of confronting the volcanic temper of Roberto Cárdenas with this.
“Well, she will soon appear before the Federal District Court for Brooklyn. The judge will not grant bail. That is a given. She will be transferred to an upstate federal jail on remand, pending trial. These are not nice places. She is not street hardened. Convent educated, you said? Oh dear. There are aggressive lesbians in these places. I am deeply sorry to say that. I doubt it is different in Colombia.”
Luz put his face in his hands.
“Dios mío,” he murmured. “How long there?”
“Well, not less than six months, I fear. Time for the Prosecutor’s Office to prepare its case, somewhere in its vast workload. And for us, of course. For your private eyes to see what they can turn up.”
Julio Luz also declined to be frank. He had no doubt a few private eyes would be Cub Scouts compared to the army of hard men Roberto Cárdenas would unleash to find the destroyer of his daughter. But he was wrong in that. Cárdenas would do no such thing, because Don Diego would find out. The Don did not know about the secret daughter, and the Don insisted on knowing everything. Even Julio Luz had thought she was the gangster’s girlfriend and the envelopes he carried were her allowance. He had one last timid question. The limousine hissed through the slush to a halt outside the luxury office block whose penthouse floor housed the small but gold-plated law firm of Manson Barrow.
“If she is found guilty, Señor Barrow, what would be the sentence?”
“Hard to say, of course. Depends on mitigating evidence, if any; my own advocacy; the judge on the day. But I fear in the present mood it might be felt necessary to create an example. A deterrent. In the area of twenty years in a federal penitentiary. Thank heavens her parents are not around to see it.”
Julio Luz moaned. Barrow took pity.
“Of course, the picture could be transformed if she became an informant. We call it ‘plea bargaining.’ The DEA does trade deals for insider information to catch the much bigger fish. Now, if . . .”
“She cannot,” moaned Luz. “She knows nothing. She is truly innocent.”
“Ah well, then . . . such a pity.”
Luz was being quite truthful. He alone knew what the jailed young woman’s father did, and he certainly did not dare to tell her.
MAY SLIPPED into June, and Global Hawk Michelle silently glided and turned over the eastern and southern Caribbean, seeming like a real hawk to ride the thermals on an endless quest for prey. This was not the first time.
In the spring of 2006, a joint Air Force/DEA program had put a Global Hawk over the Car
ibbean from a base in Florida. It was a Maritime Demonstration Program, and short-term. In its brief time aloft, the Hawk managed to monitor hundreds of sea and air targets. It was enough to convince the Navy that BAMS, or Broad Aspect Maritime Surveillance, was the future, and it placed a huge order.
But the Navy was thinking Russian fleet, Iranian gunboats, North Korean spy ships. The DEA was thinking cocaine smugglers. The trouble was, in 2006 the Hawk could show what it could show, but no one knew which was which, the innocent and the guilty. Thanks to Juan Cortez the wonder-welder, the authorities now had Lloyd’s-listed cargo ships by name and tonnage. Close to forty of them.
At AFB Creech, Nevada, shifts of men and women watched Michelle’s screen, and every two or three days her tiny onboard computers would make a match—pitting the “Identi-Kit” deck layout provided by Jeremy Bishop against the deck of something moving far below.
When Michelle made a match, Creech would call the shabby warehouse in Anacostia to say: