Chapters 36 and 37 of the thriller "D.C Undercover" Oscar Bartoli (Scarith Books/New Academia Publishing)

Chapter 36

The Gulfstream 450 landed at McCarran International Airport at 6:30 p.m. Las Vegas time and taxied towards the civil aviation area. A black limousine was waiting for the traveler who disembarked accompanied by a blond hostess carrying a small carry-on.

Despite the ferocious heat that enveloped him on the short distance to his car, Cardoni was dressed in a dark suit and tie. The limo left the airport, then went a little more than a mile down Tropicana Avenue and after turning left pulled up at the East tropic of the New York-New York Hotel.

Cardoni stood on line to check in surrounded by a group of tourists in shorts on a weekend excursion to Vegas. He was assigned a suite on the 12^th floor. Once in his room he dialed zero on the hotel phone and asked the operator to connect him to Mr.Gutierrez.

The phone rang five times.

“Hello?” answered Gutierrez in a strange voice. “Who is it?”

“Me. I just got here from Washington.”

“Umm, I’m a little busy right now. I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes. I am in suite 214, elevator B.”

Cardoni settled into an armchair to watch the latest news on CNN. He reached for the ice bucket. It contained a bottle of San Pellegrino mineral water and a small one of champagne. Cardoni poured himself a glass of water.

Twenty minutes later Cardoni left his suite and headed for the elevator. In the corridor he passed by couples pawing each other on their way to their rooms. 

When he got to suite 214, Cardoni rang the bell. The door opened automatically. Upon entering he had to step aside for a beautiful Creole wearing stiletto heels and a very tight and brightly colored Emilio Pucci miniskirt.

“Come in, Cardoni,” said Gutierrez. He was dressed in a white linen shirt, left unbuttoned down to the waist and exposing his hairy chest, and black silk pants. On his feet he wore loafers without socks, a fact that irritated Cardoni.

Gutierrez got out of his armchair and embraced his friend. Then both men sat back down. On the coffee table between them was a tray full of liquor bottles and an ice bucket with a bottle of Veuve Clicquot champagne.

“You do not drink alcohol, correct?” asked Gutierrez with a smile. “I’ll help myself,” and he poured a flute of champagne.

“Did you notice the hot girl who just left? The beauty of this country is that everything is for sale or rent. All you need is money.

This one cost me $1,000 but it was worth it.”

As a Freemason first and later as a founder of The Rock, Cardoni had learned to put up with all kinds of disgusting people. It had to be done, as they were most often the ones with power. But every time he had to deal with this Mexican he felt queasy. Everything about this man bothered him: his body language, his way of speaking, and the arrogant way in which he threw money around to paper over his vices and those of his associates. There was, however, one aspect of Gutierrez’s personality that interested him and made up for all his defects. It was his ability to see and plan long range in a clear way, in short: his vision.

“What were you doing in Washington?” asked Gutierrez.

“I had to meet with friends who work in government.”

“Well, I just arrived this morning from Acapulco. Two days ago I made that trip to Colombia I had mentioned to you.”

Edmundo Gutierrez got up and went to the entertainment center. He turned on the radio, found a station playing Cuban music and raised the volume up high.

“Come close,” he said to Cardoni. “That we can speak. If there are any bugs they won’t pick up anything.”

“The situation is deteriorating. It’s dog against dog,” said Cardoni while patting his bushy beard. “The Arabs have decided to intensify their attacks and to claim full responsibility for them. No more been accused by the Russian mafia as happened in Rome. It’s a full out jihad.”

Edmundo Gutierrez listened attentively while carefully observing Cardoni’s face. 

“This guy sure is something,” thought Gutierrez. “He’s so full of himself and so pompous. He thinks he’s the center of the universe, while he’s just a pawn in the hands of others. He thinks he is in control! And what about his bad English?  What a joke. But he’s useful because of his contact. The main thing was to make a lot of money and quickly.”

“The ‘coup de theatre’, the sensational bit of stagecraft,” said Cardoni “must be the assassination of the President. He is convincing the western world that the future is in renewable energy and not oil.”

“Did you see what the Japanese have decided?” asked Gutierrez. “After Fukushima of the fifty-four nuclear reactors in Japan only fifteen are in operation. And there are eleven more that still have to undergo stress tests. So they are practicing ‘setsuden’ meaning a drastic reduction in electricity consumption and changing their lifestyles.”

“What should we do? Just sit back and watch?” 

The question hit Gutierrez like a blow to his solar plexus. In layman’s terms it meant, “It’s easy to criticize and fall back on platitudes. But do we have any concrete plans?”

At any other time Gutierrez would have been pissed off and told off that insufferable Italian. But the $1,000 spent on the lovely Creole had put him in a relaxed mood.

“I’m not just watching,” he answered while pouring himself more champagne. “That is not what is going on. Things are in the works even though many either pretend not to see or are too stupid to understand.”

This cryptic reply visibly upset Cardoni who looked back at him inquisitively.

“I had mentioned that I would check on Colombia. They aren’t wasting time. They are focusing on the Arabs. They are taking measures and quickly. They are making money for themselves and will make money for us. But this scenario involves more than South America and the cocaine trade.”

“What else could there be?” asked Cardoni will ill-disguised irony.

Gutierrez might have been a brute, but he was not stupid. He pretended not to notice and continued delineating a scenario that was well known to him.

“The American departure from Afghanistan has resulted in a tidal wave of drugs. Demand keeps increasing so prices will increase. Things will get more expensive and risky. The future, Cardoni, is drugs. Arabs, the President of the USA, and the jihad are all bullshit. The future is in drugs, but not the traditional ones. It’s synthetic drugs. Currently synthetic marijuana and cocaine are considered inferior to ‘natural’ ones. But they are equally potent. The increasing number of people overdosing on them confirms the fact that the future is there.”

While Gutierrez explained, Cardoni had noticed a business card near the liquor tray.

“Just think of the ‘bath salts’ boom. There has been so much demand that the Drug Enforcement Administration banned five substances used to make this drug. Look, Cardoni, think of beer.”

Cardoni was taken aback. “What does beer have to do with drugs?”

“A lot. Beer is made in a network of plants that immediately respond to local demand. The only exception is for foreign labels. But most consumption deals with brands with established regional distributorships that can supply a fresh, high quality product. The same thing applies to synthetic drugs. Local labs are springing up everywhere. It’s a matter of controlling them and coordinating them using a centralized structure. It doesn’t mean that cocaine from Colombia or Mexico will stop flowing. But certainly less than now. That’s why the cartels are getting organized to control the thousands of labs spreading throughout the nation.”

Cardoni had listened carefully. “Let’s continue this discussion tomorrow. I’ve got jet lag and need to rest.”  He then said goodbye and left.

Once back in his suite Cardoni pulled out the business card he had lifted from Gutierrez’s liquor tray. Emblazoned on it was the word “Companions,” a phone number and a web site.  He powered up his laptop, went on the site and clicked in Ebony, ignoring Asian, Blond and Brunette. From the list that popped up he chose Diamond. Yes, she was the escort he had seen leaving Gutierrez’s suite. He punched in the phone number. The girl was available and would be there in fifteen minutes. Payment via credit card or in cash to the escort.

                                           

The suite’s doorbell rang. Cardoni went to open. He was very excited because he was not used to this type of encounters. But the girl who he had briefly glimpsed at had enthralled him.

Diamond smiled. She put the ten $100 bills her elderly client had left on the table into her purse and then asked in a professional tone of voice if he had any preferences.

“No,” stuttered the inexpert client.

Diamond began to slowly undress. Once naked she turned towards Cardoni and took off his shirt and tie and then his pants. She smiled at seeing his long boxer shorts and the garters holding up his socks.

Cardoni was on the king-sized bed, with his eyes closed. He let Diamond get to work. It was years since he had had the joy of a sexual encounter. Having unrestrained sex with such a young and lovely woman made him feel young and full of energy.

Diamond took quite a while to get a rise of his withered penis, but finally the blowjob ended successfully. 

Cardoni, stiffened in a long orgasm, brought back memories of long forgotten pleasures. His rigidity, however, was permanent due to a sudden stroke: it was a case of “sweet death.”

Diamond immediately realized what had happened. It was the second time in one month! Cursing, she hurriedly dressed and left. The staff in charge of the thousand plus room hotel would discreetly handle everything and blame the stroke on exhaustion and stress.

________________________________________________________________________

Chapter 37

“This is great news,” commented Michael Bardi showing his friend Tom Genisio the headline in the Las Vegas Sun. “They finally got the bastard!”

Genisio glanced at the paper while synchronizing his radar devices on an encrypted frequency.

“Who was he? Did you know him? He asked.

“And how. I dealt with him while under cover. He was a real son of a bitch, responsible for a whole bunch of horrible crimes. Edmundo Gutierrez for years had been under the protection of Mexican authorities. He was a well-known leader of one of the major drug cartels.”

The two agents were in a van with tinted windows parked near Lake Havasu City’s small airport.

“Even if he put the volume of the radio at the maximum level, our colleagues were able to listen in and tape him using high sensitivity omni directional microphones. But the funniest thing is that his conversations were taking place in his suite in the New York-New York Hotel. He was meeting with an Italian guy, a former Freemason. And they found that guy dead in bed – the classic case of a heart attack due to a blowjob performed by a girl called Diamond from the Companion escort service.”

“And you knew him too?” asked Genisio as he fooled with one of the many monitors crowded into the van.

“Yes, I did. He was a shady character I met in Rome. He had set up some kind of important and exclusive international club. That’s why he was in contact with Gutierrez. I just hope we don’t decide to hand him over to Mexican authorities or that at the very least they do it after getting something out of him.”

Genisio had been listening to Michael, but his attention was focused on one of the monitors. 

“The President is landing in two minutes. He is flighing on one of our planes to avoid leaking by some son of a bitch.

“By the way you didn’t tell me how your trip to Sicily went? Did you find your grandparents’ village?” asked Michael.

Remembering the trip and the people he had met in Sicily, for a few moments Genisio seemed to lose the professional demeanor he used to hide his feelings.

“It was wonderful. I was made to feel so welcome. As if I had only left a week earlier. But it was my grandparents who had left with a cardboard suitcase and not a word of English. All they had was a great desire to escape the area’s centuries old poverty. Oh, I forgot – I brought you something.”

Michael looked at his colleague in surprise.

“Take it, it could be useful.” Tom Genisio handed Michael a small case. It contained an antique switchblade in perfect condition.

“With this,” said Tom, “family matters and more are settled in Sicily.”

Michael pressed on a small knob and a long, very sharp blade sprung open.

“Very nice,” he said. “Thank you. The people in your region didn’t joke around …”

“They still don’t. Now let’s get to work. I hope all goes well over the next few hours. The President decided to venture into the lion’s den. He must have his reasons, but… We have to provide security in coordination with the local police and I don’t trust them.”

Michael turned on his microphone and instructed the team to be ready as the POTUS was about to land.

The CIA’s white Gulfstream touched down delicately and taxied towards a secluded part of the airport where a group of black cars was waiting. 

A smiling President in shirtsleeves disembarked, followed by his press secretary and the director of the CIA, and got into his armored car. The motorcade including an ambulance, headed to Lake Havasu City, ten miles away.