To Save the Nation Page 2

  When the plane was ready to leave, the co-pilot came out of the cockpit and signaled that they were about to take off. The passenger fastened his seat belt. The pilot received clearance from the tower, taxied down the runway, and within a few minutes the aircraft was airborne for Acapulco.

  This time, however, Executive Air Flight 83 wouldn’t reach its destination.

  CHAPTER 4

  HE WAS BORED SILLY. Armed with a degree in journalism from Columbia University, Alex Ginsberg continued to hold out hopes for a choice assignment as a journalist. He had two jobs prior to this one: The first was a brief stint at Dell Publishing, working out crossword puzzles. That was followed by a year at New Yorker magazine, proofreading articles written by others. He then landed what he thought was the assignment of his dreams: A job as a reporter with United Press International, assigned to the UPI desk in Mexico, primarily covering financial news.

  Until now, however, it had all been humdrum. Inflation. Free trade. The occasional multi-national merger. But how could he really show his investigative skills and literary talent writing about the everyday happenings of business and economics? Had he made a terrible choice to major in journalism? How could he hope to move up the professional ladder and maybe even someday be worthy of a Pulitzer Prize—by essentially relating facts?

  By nature, Alex wasn’t a complainer. But while the UPI job certainly paid the rent for his one-bedroom apartment in Mexico City, and would probably look good on his resume, if he could just get a juicy assignment, he thought, he could really show them his potential.

  His boss, Hal McDonald, was the one who doled out the work, usually based on seniority or, in Hal’s words, “experience.” Alex had been lobbying Hal for weeks to give him a try on something more challenging, a story with real meat. Hal had no imagination and kept telling Alex his job at UPI was just to report the facts, not dig them up.

  Frustrated, Alex decided to take a long weekend in Acapulco, soak up some sun, have a little fun, and reflect on how working in Mexico wasn’t so bad at all. His longtime friend, Jim Ferguson, was on assignment in Acapulco to close a multi-million dollar condo financing deal. Jim was an attorney in the Dallas office of the international law firm of Prescott & Wilson, and one of the firm’s rising stars. It had taken Jim weeks to get all the ducks in a row, but everything had finally come together to wrap up the financing, and Jim, too, was ready for a few days of R&R himself.

  Jim was staying at the Fairmont Acapulco Princess, overlooking the Pacific Ocean and Revolcadero Beach with its famous white sands. He’d been upgraded to a two-bedroom deluxe suite, with plenty of room for Alex, which made the decision to spend a few days in Acapulco an easy one. Jim had been down there several times and knew all the best drinking holes and choicest beaches.

  It was Thursday, Thanksgiving day, and Alex arrived on the first flight from Mexico City, landing at nine that morning. He and Jim spent the day in the sun, drinking Margaritas and ogling some of God’s finest creations. The sun was hot, and they were physically exhausted from doing absolutely nothing.

  After a brief siesta, they went out for a dinner and enjoyed a fantastic four-course meal at one of Jim’s favorite French restaurants, Chez Joseph. Escargots from Burgundy in garlic and butter sauce for starters. They shared a tureen of Joseph’s signature cream of tomato soup, with fried polenta croutons and fresh basil. For the main course, Alex had poached Chilean sea bass in a light cream sauce, with wild rice pilaf, and Jim had medium-rare New Zealand rack of lamb, with garlic mashed potatoes and sautéed green beans with almonds.

  They accepted the sommelier’s recommendation of a bottle of the best Côtes du Rhône, Châteauneuf du Pape, which was powerful, complex and certainly not bone-dry, to accompany the meal. And for dessert, they ordered crêpes flambées with Cointreau, mandarin oranges and vanilla ice cream, prepared table side.

  Flawless service, exceptional presentation, with each plate arranged as only a master chef could do it, a true work of art. The finest quality ingredients and preparation.

  Jim was still on the firm’s expense account, as he had another day or so of work to complete the last details of the closing and put together sets of documentation for all the parties—the property owners, developers, various financing institutions and their legal counsel.

  Jim considered his dinner with Alex a client development expense. Who knows? Maybe someday Alex would be able to steer a major corporation his way—or perhaps alert him to a breaking story so he could get his firm’s marketing people on the case before other law firms even knew what was going on. A major new case might even convince the firm’s Management Committee that Jim was partnership material.

  Back in Jim’s suite, they were ready to turn in for the night when Alex noticed the blinking red light on the phone. He’d left word for his boss where he would be, and he now had several frantic messages to call back as soon as possible.

  Alex immediately called Hal McDonald.

  CHAPTER 5

  “ALEX, I’VE BEEN TRYING TO REACH YOU FOR HOURS. I hope you’re not too drunk to focus, because I’ve got a hot one for you. This may be the chance you’ve been waiting for.” Alex had never before heard Hal McDonald so energized. “Grab a pen and pad so I can fill you in.”

  Alex took a yellow legal pad from Jim’s desk, gave Jim a thumbs up, and with the phone perched on his shoulder started to take detailed notes. Ten minutes and six legal-sized pages later, his head was spinning.

  “Sure, Hal, I’ll do exactly as you said, and I’ll report back to you as soon as I’m back in town. And I really do appreciate your giving me this opportunity. I won’t let you down.” He hung up the phone, took a deep breath, and shook his head in amazement. “You won’t believe this,” he said. “Because I happen to be here in Acapulco, right now, when there’s a breaking news story, I get the chance of a lifetime to break out of politics and finance. This is incredible! Let’s go downstairs for a drink, and I’ll fill you in.”

  “Fine with me,” said Jim.

  Alex tucked the yellow pad under his arm, and they headed for the elevator. Their suite was on the top floor, and once in the elevator, Alex pushed the button for the lobby level. The door closed, and Alex was about to start relating what Hal had told him, when an English-speaking couple entered the elevator on the floor below. He glanced at Jim, and they maintained strict silence between them for the rest of the ride down.

  THERE WERE SEVERAL BARS on the main floor of the hotel, and Alex looked for a place free from the loud music of the mariachis, quiet enough to have a discreet conversation, yet not so quiet that they could be overheard at the next table. The Flamingo Bar fit the bill.

  They took a booth in the far corner, away from the bar, a good distance from the TV, and with no one sitting at any of the tables nearby. They could hear each other, yet there was no one close enough to hear them. They each ordered a local beer.

  “I’m going to break the first rule Hal laid out for me,” said Alex. “‘Don’t tell anyone about this story.’ How can I not tell you, when you were sitting there as he told me what happened? When I took my notes on your legal pad—which I’m going to keep, by the way. I wouldn’t even have gotten the call if I hadn’t been here this weekend, and I’m only here because you invited me down! Jim, I must tell you, but this has to stay between just us, OK? I’ll consider this something like attorney-client privilege, and you can’t peep a word to anyone, under any circumstances. Agreed?”

  “No problem. I certainly have no connections in the news biz and wouldn’t do anything to hurt you or your position. Mum’s the word.”

  “So, tell me if you don’t think this is the most incredible lead a reporter at my stage of the game could ever get: Earlier this evening, a private charter jet carrying a pilot, co-pilot, and passenger slammed into a mountainside in the Sierra Madres on its final approach into Acapulco. Hal’s friends at the Mexican Federal Police immediately tipped him on the story, which they thought might be of interest because the f
light originated in New York City and involved an American-made aircraft.”

  “So, how does a charter jet air crash with at most three dead become an international story worthy of an ace UPI reporter like you?” Jim said with a smile.

  “The passenger, Jim. The passenger, that’s how. Hal already had our New York office do some quick background research. The passenger was a major international banker, Ricardo Guttmann. Guttmann, an Argentinian, was in the process of buying up banks on three continents—New York, Brussels, Luxembourg, and Tel Aviv—and may have a dark side to him, but that’s not clear.

  “Our clipping files don’t show too much, except that his banks in Argentina have been shut down for a day here and there for violating currency laws and members of his family have been kidnapped and huge ransoms paid to the left-wing Montonero guerillas, who oppose the current right-wing military regime in Argentina. There could be an angle here.”

  “So, Alex, do you think something about his business dealings could have caused someone to want to take him down?”

  “I have no idea, but he certainly was high profile. Why would his plane just drop out of the sky, with no distress call and no reports of any difficulties in communications between the cockpit and Acapulco tower? The aircraft was a Gates Learjet 24B, first class equipment. It’s the small business jet of choice for many top execs and corporate air charter companies. Seats up to six and has a range of anywhere between 1,250 and 2,000 miles, depending on how heavy it’s loaded and how much fuel it’s carrying.”

  “I didn’t know you were into aircraft specs, Alex!”

  “I’m not—but the guys in New York dug that up as well. Deliveries of the 24 began in ‘66, and the current version, the 24B, was certified in ‘68, which is eight years ago. They’ve been flying the 24 and its predecessor, the 23, since ‘63. There are nearly 1,000 of all versions in service, and only a couple have gone down.

  “I’m sure a lot of people will want to know why this plane crashed. If a bomb took it down, this will crank up the interest level. If it was equipment failure, that could have an adverse financial impact on the manufacturer if they can’t figure it out quickly. Corporate America will be very interested in following this story.”

  “Slow down. Alex. Your imagination is working overtime. Ever hear of pilot error?”

  “Sure, that’s possible, but given who they were carrying, somebody may have wanted it to go down. I wouldn’t assume pilot error without seeing the full report, finding out what the cockpit recorder said, and exactly what the tower told these guys. Charter jet pilots are well-trained and fly these babies for a living. Slamming into a mountain at 9,000 feet, shortly before arrival, would be the last thing experienced pilots would do.”

  “No kidding! For these guys, it was definitely the last thing they did!”

  “Cut the comedy, Jim. You know what I mean. There was no weather involved here, that’s for sure. We haven’t seen a cloud all day. So far, there’s not even a suggestion of another aircraft being involved, and the reports from the ground say nothing about an explosion prior to the crash, although nothing can be ruled out.

  “The Mexican authorities are taking the lead on the investigation because the crash happened on Mexican soil, even though the plane was made in the U.S., the pilot and co-pilot were Americans and the passenger wasn’t Mexican. The Americans have to stand by and wait for an invitation to get involved. At this point they don’t know if there are survivors, but based on reports from peasants on the ground, there was a huge explosion and fire after impact, in a remote mountainous area.”

  “So, how are you going to report on the crash? You’re not heading out into the mountains alone, are you?” Jim was legitimately concerned about his friend’s safety.

  “Certainly not. I don’t get paid enough to do something so foolish. But Hal has contacts at the highest levels of the Mexican Federal Police. Not only did they make him aware of the accident shortly after it happened, they’re also letting me accompany the investigating team. I think they’re a big part of his budget for T&E. He made it perfectly clear that turf and image are really important to them. I’m to go along for the ride and do as I’m told but keep out of their way and not report anything that could be an embarrassment to them.”

  “So, when do you leave?”

  “I have to be at the regional outpost of the Mexican Federal Police on the highway just outside the airport, at six in the morning,” Alex said, looking down at his watch.

  “That’s just a few hours from now. I’m supposed to ask for Capitán Ramírez, the head of the investigating team. I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep, but if I don’t get at least a couple of hours, I’ll be miserable. My guess is, tomorrow is going to be a very long day.”

  “Far be it from me to keep you up drinking,” replied Jim.

  They finished their beers, left some greenbacks on the table to cover the bill, and headed back upstairs.

  CHAPTER 6

  ALEX TOSSED AND TURNED FOR HOURS as his mind raced. What must it have been like to be in that plane when it crashed? How long would the trip to the crash site take? Would they run into trouble along the way? He’d heard of bandits ambushing groups passing through, even armed police convoys.

  What dangers would he meet as they chopped their way through the heavy forest to arrive at the scene of smoldering wreckage, jet fuel, and burnt corpses? Would he puke his guts out because of the smells and the sight of burnt bodies?

  Would the police really let him see what they found, or was he to be a journalistic puppet, reporting only what he was told he could report? Why was Hal McDonald so adamant that he had to keep out of their way and not report anything that could be an embarrassment to the authorities? Was this just a general admonition, or did Hal suspect something about the crash that could cause a stir?

  What would be the implications of the death of the banker, Ricardo Guttmann? Was there someone in his organization who would take over at the helm? Did he personally guarantee any of his companies’ debts? What would happen to pending bank deals around the world? Would there be ripple effects if the deals were aborted?

  Why did the plane go down in the last minutes of what was otherwise a routine flight? If there was foul play, would the Mexicans dig it up, or would they gloss over it and quickly close their file? Why should they care anyway? No Mexicans died, and no Mexican property was lost. But what if the plane was carrying drugs, or drug money? How would the Mexicans deal with that in his presence? Would the police scavenge the plane’s cargo? How would they deal with him being there? His heart pounded.

  Alex finally dozed off around four, to be awakened by his alarm at five fifteen. Groggy but still hyped, he was ready for what would certainly be the most challenging day of his professional life. He quickly splashed some cold water on his face and put on the only non-beach clothing he’d brought with him: A pair of khakis, sandals, and a T-shirt. He threw a camera, notepad, and small tape recorder into a backpack and jumped into the lone cab at the taxi stand in front of the hotel.

  THIRTY MINUTES LATER, the cab arrived at the regional outpost of the Mexican Federal Police. Alex pulled a slip of paper out of his shirt pocket.

  Ramírez, he thought to himself as he took a deep breath. I sure hope he speaks English.

  There was no question he was at the right place. Outside the building a convoy of Jeeps lined up, the first and last of which were crowned with machine guns. About fifteen uniformed men were milling around the vehicles, drinking coffee. All were armed with rifles or machine guns.

  Alex asked the first one he encountered where he could find Señor Ramírez.

  “Sí, el Capitán Ramírez, está par allá.” “Over there,” Alex understood, as the man pointed to the door of the building, a stucco-covered two-story structure which had seen better days, with iron bars over the windows and a large gate leading to the inner courtyard. The official seal of the Mexican Federal Police hung over the doorway.

  At that very moment, tw
o uniformed men came out, followed by two others in street clothes with what he later learned were kits containing crash investigators’ tools of the trade: Cameras, notepads, measuring devices, and hundreds of plastic bags, vials, and labels to bring back any evidence they might collect. Alex stepped forward and introduced himself.

  “Capitán Ramírez?” Alex held out his hand to the older of the two men, hoping he’d picked the right one and he’d been fully briefed about Alex joining their team.

  “Buenos días, Señor Ginsberg, we are glad to have you with us,” Ramírez said without hesitation but with a heavy Mexican accent. His voice was rough, that of a smoker. “I was notified last night by my superiors that you would be joining us, which is highly unusual, you must know that, but you are most welcome to observe. I hope you have a good stomach. I’ve seen many automobile crashes, but never an airplane crash, and I would expect that it will not be a pretty sight. You are sure you really want to go?”

  “I’ve prepared myself for the worst. Yes, sir, I know this won’t be a picnic, and I’m definitely up for it.” What could he say? He couldn’t back down now. McDonald would think he was a wimp and never give him anything challenging again.

  “Well, then,” Ramírez continued. “May I have the pleasure to introduce you to my second-in-command on this investigative mission, Señor Gonzalez. He will ride with you and make sure you stay out of trouble. He speaks English also.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Señor Ginsberg,” said Gonzalez.

  “Please, you can call me Alex, if you don’t mind. And may I ask who those fellows are, the ones who aren’t in uniform?” Alex pointed to the two men in street clothes who had gotten into the rear seat of the third Jeep, where they’d loaded their kits and were studying maps while they waited.

  “They are the official government crash investigators. Our job will be to get them —and you—to the site safely and retrieve any valuables and evidence we may find. Their job will be to investigate the crash and make a report. We will certainly lend a hand, if necessary, but the conclusions will be theirs.”