Chapter Seven
“There’s a Mr. Tillman here to see you, sir.”
“Show him in, Marsha.” Navarro rose from behind his desk to greet his visitor. “Mr. Tillman, I’m Martin Navarro,” he said, approaching Tillman.
Tillman eyed Navarro’s extended hand with disdain. “I’m not in the habit of shaking hands with wise guys.”
Navarro smiled. “The only difference between us, Mr. Tillman, is that a politician’s crimes are legal.”
“I didn’t come here to be insulted,” Tillman snapped.
“No, of course not,” Navarro replied then gestured to the man sitting on the couch against the wall. “Tony Varese, my right-hand man.”
“Is that what you call him?” Tillman retorted sarcastically. “I would have thought ‘hatchet man’ would have been a better description of his duties.”
Varese chuckled softly to himself. “Then it would seem we have something in common, Mr. Tillman.”
“Tony, that’s enough,” Navarro interceded before Tillman could say anything. “Please, sit down, Mr. Tillman. We’ve got so much to talk about.”
“You can begin by telling me why you called me this morning threatening to release certain information to the Press – which, you claimed, would destroy Senator Scoby’s reputation – unless I met with you here today. What is this, some kind of blackmail scam? Because if it is–”
“Sit down,” Navarro repeated, indicating the chair to the right of his desk. “Would you like a coffee? Or perhaps something a little stronger?”
“Nothing,” Tillman replied, sitting down.
Navarro moved around behind his desk and sat down. “Did you tell Scoby you were coming here?”
“Certainly not,” Tillman retorted indignantly. “The less the senator knows about this the better.”
“Of course,” Navarro said with a smile.
“Navarro, my time is limited,” Tillman snapped. “Will you get to the point!”
“What if I told you I knew all about the deal you finalized earlier this week with the Cabrera cartel in Medellin?”
Tillman’s face went pale but he was quick to regain his composure. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Let’s bypass the denial stage, shall we? It’s not fooling anyone.”
“I tell you, I don’t know about any deal made in Medellin, ” Tillman snapped back.
Navarro removed a folder from the drawer in front of him. “There’s enough evidence in here to put you and Scoby in San Quentin for the next twenty years. Let’s see what we’ve got here. A copy of the reservation card from the Intercontinental Hotel in Medellin. The name on it is Charles Edward Warren. Your handwriting, I believe? And then there’re the photographs which were taken at the various meetings you’ve had with Miguel Cabrera, both here in New York and in Medellin, over the last five months.” He tossed a dozen photographs onto the desk in front of Tillman. “Any one of these photographs could ruin Scoby’s career.”
Tillman swallowed nervously then picked up the nearest photograph. It showed him dining with Cabrera at a small restaurant in Medellin. He dropped the photograph back onto the desk. “The senator knew nothing of this. The whole thing was my own idea.”
“Your loyalty’s very touching.” Navarro opened another drawer and removed a shoe box. Inside, neatly arranged in chronological order, was a row of audio cassette tapes. “All your meetings with Miguel Cabrera were recorded secretly on tape. They proved that Scoby’s been involved with it from the very beginning. And if that wasn’t enough, we can even prove that Jorge Cabrera provided Scoby with financial aid to help with his election campaign,” Varese said, getting to his feet. “I doubt any of this would go down very well with the public, do you? Especially as Scoby won the election on such a strong anti-drugs campaign.”
“Tony, I think Mr. Tillman may need that drink after all,” Navarro said to Varese.
Varese crossed to the drinks cabinet in the corner of the room. “What would you like, Mr. Tillman?”
Tillman stared at Navarro. “Miguel Cabrera gave you this information, didn’t he?”
“We do have a mole in the cartel,” Navarro replied evasively.
It had to be Miguel Cabrera. He must have known the risks. What if his father had discovered his duplicity? Kinship would have counted for nothing. If anything, it would have made it even worse for him. Family betrayal. But why?
“Your drink,” Varese said, breaking Tillman’s train of thought.
Tillman drank the bourbon down in one gulp. He handed the glass back to Varese. “It’s Miguel Cabrera, isn’t it? It has to be.”
“Who it is doesn’t concern you,” Navarro replied.
“I want to know!” Tillman yelled, the blood rushing to his face. “I want to know,” he repeated, this time in a calm voice.
“Why?”
“Wouldn’t you want to know if you were in my position?”
Navarro looked up at Varese who gave him a noncommittal shrug. “Yes, it was Miguel Cabrera.”
“But why? The Colombians and the Mafia have been archenemies for years.”
“Pour me a small bourbon, Tony,” Navarro said, then got to his feet and crossed to the window. He turned back to Tillman. “Miguel Cabrera wants to take over the cartel from his father. And that means he needs money to finance his power base. We agreed to provide him with that money in return for this information.” He took the glass from Varese. “You see, Miguel has a vision of the future. The strongest cartel in Colombia uniting with the most powerful family in the United States. The Cabrera cartel and the Germino family. And, in doing so, creating a complete monopoly on the movement of drugs into the United States.”
“It could never work of course,” Varese added.
“So you’ve deliberately set him up?” Tillman said.
“We played along to get the information we wanted. But he doesn’t know anything about our plan to intercept the drugs and distribute them as our own. So, when the time’s right, he’ll be dealt with accordingly.”
“So where does my deal with Cabrera come into all of this?”
Navarro returned to his desk. “First, let’s run through the basic points of this deal you made with Jorge Cabrera. You have senior customs officials who, in return for the right kind of financial incentive, would see to it that each month several large shipments of cocaine, all sent by the Cabrera cartel, were allowed to pass undetected through certain customs checkpoints in New York State for distribution across the United States. And, in return, the Cabrera cartel would be willing to allow some of their smaller shipments to be seized by the same customs men to give the impression that they were carrying out Scoby’s tough anti-drugs measures successfully. How am I doing?”
Tillman just nodded.
“And, for every shipment that was successfully smuggled through customs, Scoby would receive ten percent of its final street value. That money, in cash, would then be distributed amongst certain right-wing governments in South and Central America.”
“The senator has no personal interest in the money: it’s purely a political venture,” Tillman said proudly. “The world believes that Marxism is dead now that Russia’s finally decided to turn its back on the old-style communism. They couldn’t be more wrong.”
“Spare us the political rhetoric,” Navarro said disdainfully. “Now, let me put our proposal to you. Your deal with the Cabrera cartel remains the same. But once the cocaine gets through customs, your people will tip us off as to its ultimate destination. We’ll then intercept some of those shipments before they reach their destination and distribute them as our own. But only some.” He held up a finger to stress the point. “We don’t want it to appear suspicious. Well, at least not at first. And in return we’ll pay Scoby fifteen percent of its street value. The money will be laundered through our legitimate businesses, like West Side Electronics, and forwarded to any government of his choice. So not only will the deal provide more financial aid for the death squads in South and Central America, it’ll also give us the edge over the Colombians in the drugs war.”