The routine never varied. Though Vincente often drew the same two agents, they always acted as if he were a tourist on his first visit to the States. The agent eyeballed the photo inside, comparing the straight, slicked back black hair, partridge brown eyes, smooth olive complexion, and sharp nose. The height and weight showed a short man on the thin side whose age was forty-four.
Vincente was a fastidious dresser. His clothes looked as if they came right out of GQ-- designer shirt, slacks, and green alpaca sport coat with a silk bandanna tied around his neck. The Customs agent thought he looked like a fancy mambo dancer.
Finally the agent finished his appraisal of the passport and smiled officially. "Would you mind waiting in our office, Mr. Vincente, while we search your aircraft? I believe you're familiar with the procedure."
"Of course." He held up a pair of Spanish magazines. "I always come prepared to spend some time."
The agent stared admiringly at the DC-3. "It's a pleasure to examine such a great old aircraft. I bet she flies as good as she looks."
"She began life as a commercial airliner for TWA shortly before the war. I found her hauling cargo for a mining company in Guatemala. Bought her on the spot and spent a goodly sum having her restored."
He was halfway to the office when he suddenly turned and shouted to the agent, "May I borrow your phone to call the fuel truck? I don't have enough in my tanks to make Wichita."
"Sure, just check with the agent behind the desk."
An hour later, Vincente was winging across Texas on his way to Wichita. Beside him in the copilot's seat were four briefcases stuffed with over six million dollars, smuggled on board just prior to takeoff by one of the two men who drove the refueling truck.
After a thorough search of the plane, and not finding the slightest trace of drugs or other illegal contraband, the Customs agents concluded Vincente was clean. They had investigated him years before and were satisfied he was a respected Costa Rican businessman who made a vast fortune growing coffee beans. It was true that Pedro Vincente owned the second largest coffee plantation in Costa Rica. It was also true he had amassed ten times what his coffee plantation made him as he was also the genius behind a highly successful drug smuggling operation known as Julio Juan Carlos.
Like the Zolars and their criminal empire, Vincente directed his smuggling operation from a distance.
Day-to-day activities were left to his lieutenants, none of whom had a clue to his real identity.
Vincente actually had a former wife who was living with his four children on a large farm outside of Wichita. The farm was a gift from him after she begged for a divorce. An airstrip was built on the farm so he could fly in and out from Costa Rica to visit the children while purchasing stolen art and illegal antiquities from the Zolar family. Customs and Drug Enforcement agents were more
concerned about what came into the country rather than what went out.
It was late afternoon when Vincente touched down on the narrow strip in the middle of a corn field. A golden-tan jet aircraft with a purple stripe running along its side was parked at one end. A large blue tent with an awning extending from the front had been erected beside the jet. A man in a white linen suit was seated under the awning beside a table set with a picnic lunch. Vincente waved from the cockpit, quickly ran through his postflight checklist, and exited the DC-3. He carried three of the briefcases, leaving one behind.
The man sitting at the table rose from his chair, came forward and embraced Vincente. "Pedro, always a delight to see you."
"Joseph, old friend, you don't know how much I look forward to our little encounters."
"Believe me when I say I'd rather deal with an honorable man like you than all my other clients put together."
Vincente grinned. "Fattening the lamb with flattery before the slaughter?"
Zolar laughed easily. "No, no, not until we've had a few glasses of good champagne to make you mellow."
Vincente followed Joseph Zolar under the awning and sat down as a young Latin American serving girl poured the champagne and offered hors d'oeuvres. "Have you brought choice merchandise for me?"
"Here's to a mutual transaction that profits good friends," Zolar said as they clinked glasses. Then he nodded. "I have personally selected for your consideration the rarest of rare artifacts from the Incas of Peru. I've also brought extremely valuable religious objects from American Southwest Indians. I guarantee objects that have just arrived from the Andes will lift your matchless collection of pre-Columbian art above that of any museum in the world."
"I'm anxious to see them."
"My staff has them displayed inside the tent for your pleasure," said Zolar.
People who begin to collect scarce and uncommon objects soon become addicts, enslaved by their need to acquire and accumulate what no one else can own. Pedro Vincente was one of the brotherhood who was driven constantly to expand his collection, one that few people knew existed. He was also one of the lucky ones who possessed secret, untaxed funds that could be laundered to satisfy his craving.
Vincente had purchased 70 percent of his cherished collectibles from Zolar over twenty years. It did not bother him in the least that he often paid five or ten times the true value of the objects, especially since most of them were stolen goods. The relationship was advantageous to both. Vincente laundered his drug money, and Zolar used the cash to secretly purchase and expand his ever-increasing inventory of illegal art.
"What makes the Andean artifacts so valuable?" asked Vincente, as they finished off a second glass of champagne.
"They are Chachapoyan."
"I've never seen Chachapoyan artwork."
"Few have," replied Zolar. "What you are about to view was recently excavated from the lost City of the Dead high in the Andes."