Nassau, Bahamas, November 1969
No Names One and Three had come up dry in the Miami area regarding the Nassau rip-off earlier in the year. Sterling had given them permission to widen their investigation to Nassau. They had tortured and killed the pilot in Spain, and remained convinced he really didn’t know who bought the planeload of drugs. The only clues they had involved some Mexicans. Also involved was a middleman who dealt only in cash, but they did get a description. He had medium brown skin, about five-foot-nine-inches, a slight island accent, and wore Hawaiian shirts, a taboo in Nassau. One witness said he claimed to be from California.
The No Names worked the bars and night scene. Not surprisingly, they quickly became known and feared for their interrogation tactics. A nightclub bouncer readily recalled seeing such a person, as did a few waitresses and bartenders. Nobody could add any helpful information.
Number Three spoke up, “We’re fishing in the wrong pond. We should be breaking arms over at the airport. That’s where the plane landed. That’s where the pilot turned over the plane to this middleman. Somebody saw something. Something else too. We shouldn’t rule out that the middleman is actually the mastermind, or is at least wearing two hats.”
Number One needed more time to absorb this. “So, this middle man walks around in different clothes when he’s playing the middleman, and regular clothes, which ain’t much here, when he’s the mastermind.”
“Right,” said Number Three. “And suppose there isn’t any middleman. Or the real mastermind is out of the country pulling the strings.”
“Yeah,” said Number One. “We should start at the airport.”
Walking up to one of the line boys, Number Three asked, “How long have you worked here?”
“Almost two years,” as the nineteen-year-old looked at two men who were not here on vacation.
“Do you know much about the different makes and models of airplanes?” asked Number Three.
“Sure. I need to be certain what kind of fuel they take. Some pilots are in a hurry and don’t tell me.”
“Good. Did a Piper Comanche land here late in the summer?”
“I recall seeing a new one. I fueled it, and he pulled into that hangar over at the end.”
Although a little vague, his description matched the dead pilot.
“Who knows all about these hangars? Like who owns or leases them?”
“The fixed base operator, Mark Hughs. His office is in the two-story building off to the side of the longest runway.”
As they walked away, Number One said, “We introduce ourselves to Mr. Hughs, jack him up until he talks, and leave.”
“No,” replied Number Three. “This is a big airport. The guy must have connections with the police and pols. We gotta be careful. You still got your fake Interpol ID?”
“Yeah.”
“We use the ID to appear legit and get his help. Let me talk.”
“You always talk anyway.”
Each airport with scheduled airline service also has a general aviation fixed base operator, the FBO, who serves the needs of everybody from corporate jets to vintage aircraft. As the men approached the FBO counter, they flashed their credentials, provided their seldom-used real names, and said they needed to speak with Mr. Hughs right away. Hughs came out presently and asked how he could be helpful. He was a balding, white man with a distinct British accent.
Number Three explained that the Spanish government had requested a follow-up investigation into the disappearance of the Comanche last summer. He stated an eyewitness had seen the plane enter the hangar at the end of the row. The plane took off shortly and disappeared. The Spanish police later arrested the pilot with a large amount of stolen cash.
“Who owns that hangar, Mr. Hughs?” asked Number Three.
“I own the hangar, but I’ll check my records and ascertain to whom I leased it. Follow me.” They did as they were told. This Englishman made them uneasy for some reason.
“My accounts show a lease for the month of August to one Rafael Gonzalez of Sonora, Mexico. May I assume that you are interested in this month?”
“Yes,” said Number Three, almost too quickly.
“He paid in cash. I have never seen the plane, nor do I have further information for you. If you like, you may walk down and look around, be my guest. Good day, gentlemen,” and he turned and headed back to his office.
A lone Hispanic male was cleaning the hangar. Numbers One and Three exchanged looks. After establishing he had worked there for a couple of years, the questions began politely enough. However, they could see fear in his eyes. Finally, Number One couldn’t restrain himself and locked up an elbow.
“We don’t have all day, asshole. After I break most of your joints, I’ll start removing body parts.” Number One was on top of his game. “Tell us everything about the plane? Who was here? Who paid the faggot pilot? Who took the drugs and where?”
“You’re hurting my arm so much I can’t think. Let me just stand and try to remember.”
Number Three nodded his assent.
“I was cleaning the next hangar over when the pilot pulled in. With my ear to the aluminum siding, I could hear some of what they said. In addition to the Cuban pilot, who was counting money, were three bad men with heavy Norteño accents. The Mexicans debated whether to kill him and take both the plane and the money. They decided against murdering the Cuban because the airport was busy, and they feared being caught. One Mexican, who was also a pilot, kept saying, ‘Too heavy.’ Two had tickets to Mexico City. The Mexican pilot was going to fly the plane somewhere close, where they would unload and destroy it. Four or five small airports are less than an hour away. He fueled the plane recently, so that’s why they couldn’t kill him and all get in. I could hear only parts of the conversation.”
“Have you seen or know anything about a Negro man, who wore Hawaiian shirts and spoke with an island accent?” asked Number Three.
“I noticed him reading the paper once in the FBO lounge.”
“He was never in the hangar here when you were listening? No island accent?”
“No.”
“They pushed the Comanche out of the hangar and the Mexican pilot gets in alone or with the Cuban,” began Number Three. “Then two walk to the commercial side for a flight to Mexico City, while the others fly to some small island to off load drugs and destroy the plane. Is that right?”
“Yes sir.”
“Did you hear any names?”
“Only nicknames and common first names which I don’t recall.”
Number One shoved him hard up against the aluminum and shouted, “What else?”
The aluminum made a terrible racket and a voice from the next hangar demanded, “What’s going on in there?”
“Tell him you fell while cleaning.”
The young man did what he was told.
Number Three sat on the floor shaking his head. “After all this time and work, we don’t have shit. We already knew that our Cuban pilot sold us out to a group of Mexican thugs. At least one is probably in south Florida waiting for another chance to rob us. This American Negro is a ghost. Sterling will love this.”
The Bad News
Sterling listened carefully to the report from his two investigators.
Then he instructed, “Forget the American, who probably is a Bahamian. I suspect his role was to arrange unloading the drugs and disposing of the plane at the destination airport. He worked for the Mexicans for a fixed fee or a percentage. We are most vulnerable at two points: the airstrip west of Barranquilla and Valkaria. From now on, one of you takes the commercial flight to Barranquilla, and at least one of you will arrive early to meet the incoming flight to Valkaria to do reconnaissance around the field prior to arrival. Carry extra clips; you may need them. I’ll make the assignments. Inform the other two. Everybody is full time from now on. Any questions?”
Both shook their heads.
“Dismissed.”
Walking out of the office, Number Three said, “He’s not mad at us?”
“That’s because we do good work,” replied Number One.