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Antonov looked to Gurnov, who nodded as expected.
“How did the transfer go?” Antonov went on.
“Surprisingly well. I told you that Miguel Treto was good. He’s never let me down, even when it’s gotten hairy with the damn Communists messing with him and that cargo ship.”
“For example?”
“Like the bastards refusing to accept shipments, just flat out making him haul it back to Miami, or squeezing him for a bribe. He said he had the feeling that they were going to do that this time, especially when they arrived late in the day, after dark. He sweated that big-time, because he knew it would have messed up the rendezvous timing. But Treto’s a pr
o—made it go off without a problem.”
“What about the product?” Gurnov put in.
Perez played dumb. “The girls or the—”
“Both,” Gurnov snapped.
“It all came through fine. We put the girls on the Citation with Bobby Garcia. He dropped two of them in New Orleans. I talked to him after they landed in Dallas.”
“And the other product?”
“Carlos is headed your way with the coke. Twenty keys.”
Gurnov had a mental image of Perez’s short cousin.
And mine will be here faster, and without having to drive past all those cops sitting on the side of I-95, just waiting for another smuggler to profile.
Then bust the midget—after confiscating the coke.
“What if some cop pulls him over for DWM?” Gurnov said, then glanced at Antonov.
“Driving While Mexican,” Gurnov added.
Antonov shook his head.
Perez snapped: “He’s an American citizen, you know. He will be fine. He’s made the run plenty of times. There’s ten keys in each car, and they’re running an hour apart.”
Antonov was quiet for a moment, then, out of the blue, he said casually, “What about that boatload of Cubans? The ones that crashed the boat ashore?”
What is that about? Gurnov thought, surprised.
Perez was silent for a long moment, then he said, his voice not quite so self-assured, “That went as planned, too, Nick. They were Cubans taking advantage of the wet-foot, dry-foot policy.”
“And you weren’t taking advantage of our plans? At ten grand a head?”
There was stone silence. Then Perez said, “Yeah, we got paid. But Miguel Treto has done that for me at least twenty, thirty times now. It’s why it all went so smoothly with your stuff. A diversion.”
“But I didn’t know about the plan,” Antonov said evenly, as he looked to Gurnov.
Gurnov raised his eyebrows.
Perez said, “I didn’t—”
“If you’re going to take chances,” Antonov said, his voice rising, “you take them on your own.”
Perez was silent for a moment.
“Nick, I thought it would be the perfect diversion. And it turned out to be that. Every cop in South Florida showed up when that sheriff boat called for backup to stop them from getting to shore.”
