Contra File

Belize City

Belize City

I

t was just shy of 100 miles from Punta Gorda to Belize City, so Shake and Chan got an early start on their trip to pick up Tracey Davis who was due in on a mid-afternoon Taca flight out of Dallas-Fort Worth. They’d make it in plenty of time for Chan to do some shopping at the Fort Street Flea Market before the flight arrived. She had a tourist brochure that indicated it was the hot spot for native Central American handicrafts. Chan intended to make a reconnaissance which would be followed by a full-blown spree later in the week when she went over the selection with Linda and Tracey. The trip was also a major adventure for Bear, who traveled in the backseat of their rented Toyota Land Cruiser with his head stuck out the window, ears flapping in the wind and nose quivering at the exotic, unfamiliar scents along the coast road.

“Glad we brought him along, right?” Shake chuckled and pointed at the highway sign urging him to enter the right lane for an exit to Fort Street in downtown Belize City. They had been stopped at five checkpoints—two military and three national police—along the route, delays that prompted Bear to express his displeasure with loud barking. Neither the Belizean cops nor the military seemed anxious to argue with the big dog and they breezed through with only cursory glances at their passports.

“We’re lucky there’s no quarantine down here.” Chan snapped on the dog’s leash as Shake pulled the SUV into a parking lot near the crowded local bazaar. “All it took was a trip to the vet to get copies of his papers—that and getting him to behave on the airplane. Mike’s pilot buddy didn’t look too happy about Bear sitting in the cabin with us once he got a look at the size of him.”

“You don’t mess with Mister Bear.” Shake laughed and looked around at the shop signs. “Why don’t you take him and explore a little bit? I’m gonna look for a liquor store and lay in the booze supply for the party. We’ll meet back here in two hours and drive on out to the airport.”

G

There was a mob of people milling around the Fort Street Flea Market, but Chan had no trouble parting the sea with Bear leading and tugging on his leash. She window-shopped for a block or two and then hit the mother lode at an open-air kiosk where local handicrafts were on display under an expanse of colorful canvas. Bear sent two teenage shop-girls screaming through the aisles when he barked a friendly greeting. Chan made him sit, then sit-up and shake hands before they would venture any closer than arm’s length.

Chan spent about 45 minutes looking at finely-carved mahogany, polished seashells, exotic leather goods and jewelry, capturing the most interesting pieces with her phone-camera and making notes about prices for later comparative shopping. She checked her watch, decided the hard-selling shop girls deserved a reward, and bought a pendant for Tracey that featured a tarpon carved in lavender jadeite. It seemed perfect for a woman who made a career out of studying fish and the waters in which they swim. She was headed back toward the parking lot when Bear began to make the little whiny noises that told Chan it was time for him to pee. She steered him away from the crowded bazaar and caught site of a sandy open area about half a block away at the end of an intersecting street.

That street was clearly the Belize City bar district. As Chan let Bear pull her toward the trees and bushes at the other end of the block, she could smell the fetid tobacco and stale beer odors mixed with the sinus-clearing tang of disinfectant wafting from open doors. Most of those doors framed hookers in mini-skirts and way too much makeup, lounging in what they hoped were seductive poses. Realizing Chan and Bear were unlikely potential customers, the girls mostly just cut them a vacant glance or made lewd cracks about the size of the dog. Almost all of the chatter was in Spanish rather than the accented English spoken by most Belize natives. Scrub off some of the makeup, Chan thought as she nodded and smiled, and there probably isn’t one of the girls much past her teens. Most of them looked uncomfortable or distinctly bored, like broad-hipped farm girls way out of their element. She’d read a few articles about human trafficking and forced prostitution in Central America. The girls might be hooking in Belize but Chan was willing to bet that most of them were from Guatemala, Honduras, or El Salvador. Most likely Belize, with its relatively lively tourist trade, was just a working stop on their route north to Mexico or the U.S.

On the street corner near the little park was a clutch of hard-eyed, heavily tattooed men in gaudy shirts and even gaudier jewelry, smoking and joking much too loudly. The handlers—or whatever term applies to pimps in Belize City, Chan thought as she tightened Bear’s lead and ignored their lewd appraisal. They were whistling, laughing, and jiving in a crude mixture of English and Spanish when she reached the park and let Bear sniff around for something worthy of lifting his leg. When he’d done his business, she found a slat bench and sat for a breather with Bear curled up near her feet. She was scrolling through the photos on her phone when she heard a woman screaming and crying.

Chan glanced up to see one of the pimps dragging a girl down the street toward the little park with one hand wrapped painfully around her neck and the other pulling brutally on one of her ears. Bear growled and alerted as the struggling couple barreled into the sandy area, the man screaming curses and the woman begging for mercy. None of the locals seemed to pay much attention and those that were near the confrontation sidled away. Chan looked around for a cop, but there were no uniforms or patrol cars in sight. She had her phone in hand but no idea if there was such a thing as 9-1-1 in Belize.

When the pimp backed his charge up against a wind-twisted tree and began to use his fist on her bare midriff, Chan had enough and tugged Bear toward the struggle. She tried to sound like a cop or someone in authority as she shouted for the man to stop. He barely glanced at her, growled something she didn’t understand, and went back to work on the girl’s belly. When she got close enough to put a shoulder into him and shove, he swiped at Chan with a vicious backhand. She ducked it and stomped as hard as she could on his sandaled foot. He hopped back holding his injured foot and screaming for the gringo b***h to mind her own business. She aimed a kick at his balls that barely missed but Bear was in the game by that time and lurched forward to plant his paws on the man’s shoulders. The weight of the dog and the proximity of some long, bared fangs sent him off on the run. Chan was trying to regain control of Bear and check on the beaten girl when two cops arrived on the scene, one male and one female, and both in the distinctly British-influenced uniforms of the Belize Tourist Police. The female cop talked to the bruised and angry hooker while the male cop began to conduct an interview with Chan from just beyond the length of Bear’s leash.

G

Shake was strolling through the Fort Street Flea Market beside a smiling bearer from the local booze emporium who was pushing a hand-cart loaded with liquor. Once he found the right spot, it didn’t take Shake long to buy six cases of local Beliken Beer and Lighthouse Lager for the beach party. The stuff was available in Punta Gorda, but a local told him it was cheaper and available in volume in Belize City. On the recommendation of the shop-keeper, he added a case of high-octane One Barrel Rum. Shake stopped on the way to the car long enough to buy a basket of fresh fruit that he’d been assured would blend well with the rum. He had his shopping done and was right on time to meet Chan at the parking lot.

Just ahead of him at a produce stand, standing out blatantly in the crowd of shoppers in shorts and t-shirts, were three soldiers in uniform. Shake called a halt, bought the sweating bearer a cold beer from a street vendor, and studied the military men haggling with a shop-keeper over prices. He recognized the British pattern summer-service uniforms and the curved kukri knives in leather sheaths hanging from their belts. Shake had seen that same uniform and a variety of Gurkha field dress when he was serving as an exchange NCO with Britain’s Royal Marine Commandos. As proud and insular as the British Bootnecks were, they had a great deal of respect for the diminutive Nepalese troopers and their vaunted fighting ability, especially after a sterling performance by the 7th Duke of Edinburgh’s Own Gurkha Rifles during the 1982 Falklands War. One of the items that held pride of place in Shake’s eclectic collection of military souvenirs was a ceremonial kukri presented to him by a Havildar Major after a grueling training exercise with some Gurkhas in horrible weather conditions on the Brecon Beacons training range in Wales.

The three Gurkhas were apparently on some sort of liberty, likely shopping for local produce to supplement their military rations. They had sacks of rice stacked at their feet and they were rapidly filling plastic shopping bags with fresh mangos and papayas. Insignia indicated the senior man was a Havildar or sergeant. All three of the short, solidly built soldiers wore the broad-brimmed Hat Terrai Gurkha at a rakish angle. Each hat was wrapped around the crown with a khaki puggaree hatband in six neat folds and bore the crossed kukris of Britain’s Brigade of Gurkhas. Probably students or instructors at the Jungle Warfare School in Belize, Shake decided. He pulled one of his cards from a case, scribbled the name of the resort in Punta Gorda on the reverse, and waved for the bearer to finish his beer.

Their path to the parking lot led them right past the Gurkhas, and Shake paused to catch their attention. They smiled back at him curiously as he templed his hands beneath his chin. “Namaste,” he said with a slight bow and handed his card to the Havildar as all three surprised soldiers automatically returned his Hindu greeting. “You have my greatest respect,” he said and pulled a bottle of rum out of the case. He handed over the liquor, tossed off a salute, and led his assistant down the street. If he knew Gurkhas, his card would find its way to the senior man before long and that might lead to an interesting little detour on his vacation. Multi-tour Vietnam Vet Mike Stokey had never served with Gurkha troops as far as Shake knew, and he’d get a kick out of watching them work in the jungle. There were few troops better at it in the world.

G

“Did they get the guy?” Shake was still questioning Chan about her encounter with the hooker and pimp as they milled around the airport arrivals area waiting for Tracey to clear customs.

“Beats me, Shake, but I doubt it. The cop didn’t seem overly upset about the whole deal. I gave him as good a description as I could recall, but when I started talking about tattoos you could see the glaze come over his eyes. I got the distinct impression that kind of thing happens all the time.”

“What kind of tattoos?”

“Looked like bog-standard gang stuff to me. He had ’em all over his arms and running up his neck. The one I could remember best was kind of military. It was a skull wearing a beret and there was a big letter Z underneath it.”

“Los Zetas,” Shake shook his head and wrapped an arm around his wife tightly. He was recalling a briefing he’d been given by a CIA handler back in the mid-1980s when the Zetas began as a very secretive, very vicious element of the Mexican Army Special Forces command. They were for hire to the emerging Central American drug cartels and rapidly spawned chapters in the military forces of El Salvador, Guatemala and Honduras. “They’re genuine bad-asses and most of them are ex-military of one kind or another. You’re lucky Bear put the fear of God into him. Those dudes are stone killers, and they’ve got their mitts in everything illegal north and south of the border.”

“I was more worried about the girl, Shake. She was absolutely terrified and the female cop was no help at all. I spent a little time trying to calm her down and gave her a couple of bucks before I left.”

“Shouldn’t have done that, Chan. What you gave her will wind up in that pimp’s pocket.”

“Well, I wanted to do something. She seemed so helpless and lost. I heard her tell the cop she was from Guatemala.”

“She is helpless and lost if she’s being run by Los Zetas, Chan. Those guys, plus MS-13, the Mara Salvatrucha, the 18th Street gangs, they’re all over down here and up to their eyes in drugs, prostitution and anything else that turns a buck. They’ve morphed into a well-heeled bunch of domestic terrorists. They’ve got the cops either cowed or paid off so if anything effective is ever gonna be done about them, it’s up to the military. That’s one of the reasons the Marine Corps is sending people like Morty P with teams to work with and train the Central American military. It’s a way to give the good guys some effective muscle and a little tactical edge.”

Shake was about to change the subject and tell her about the Gurkhas he met at the bazaar but Tracey trundled through the pneumatic door from the immigration area and waved to get their attention. She looked healthy and tan, wearing a big smile as she dropped a backpack and gave them both enthusiastic hugs. “Welcome to the Mosquito Coast, honey.” Shake shouldered her pack and stepped back to get a better look at his only child. “You look good, Tracey, really good. I’m guessing you’ve found a way to spend a little time outside the lab these days.”

“Woods Hole Sailing Club, Dad.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek and shot an arm over Chan’s shoulders. “If I’m not stooped over a microscope, I’m out on the bay with the sun on my face and the wind in my hair.”

“Well, it’s worked wonders, Tracey, and you’ll get plenty of that down here with us. You should see the great little place where we’re staying—and there’s a big beach party planned for tomorrow night. Shake and your Uncle Mike went fishing and they’ve laid in fresh swordfish and lobsters.”

“Can’t wait!” Tracey grabbed Chan’s elbow and headed for the exit.

“You got any other luggage?” Shake trotted to catch up as his daughter pointed toward the backpack he was carrying.

“That’s it. I just threw some stuff in the backpack and caught a flight. If this place is anything like what you described on the phone, I won’t need much besides bikinis and board shorts.”

It took Tracey some time to fight her way out from under Bear, who apparently remembered her fondly. They were still tussling in the back seat of the Land Cruiser when Shake steered out onto the coast road and headed south out of Belize City. When he got up to highway speed, Bear lost interest in the new arrival and reclaimed his place near an open window. Chan reached back to give Tracey the gift she’d bought for her, and then tucked her feet up on the seat of the SUV. Tracey was delighted and promptly laced the necklace onto a gold chain around her neck. “I love it, Chan! It’s absolutely perfect, a jade tarpon—great game fish and you don’t find them much anymore in U.S. waters.”

“I’m told you can still catch ’em down here,” Shake commented as he pulled up at the first police checkpoint on the outskirts of the city. “We’ve found a guy with a good boat who can find the fish. Maybe we’ll try for some tarpon while you’re down here.”

“Works for me,” Tracey said as she retrieved her passport from a Belizean cop and stuffed it into her purse. “Unlike some other oceanographers and ichthyologists of my acquaintance, I like to study them and eat them.” As the vehicle accelerated on the other side of the checkpoint, Tracey fished around in the cooler on the floor. “Damn airplanes always leave me thirsty. It’ll probably take me a week to get re-hydrated.”

“Well, you take as long as you want, girl.” Chan leaned back and wrapped an arm around her knees. “We’ve got no plans beyond having a good time.” Shake glanced into the rearview and caught Tracey’s big smile as she watched the tropical terrain fly by on the other side of the window. His wife was wearing a similar smile and it made him feel terrific to see them both so happy. They’d been through a lot lately, physically and emotionally. It was time for some carefree recuperation.

“Dad, didn’t you do some work down here one time?” Tracey scooted forward and rested her elbows between the front-seat headrests.

“Not in Belize, honey. I was mostly in Costa Rica and Honduras. You were about five at the time.”

“Yeah, I can’t recall details but I remember Mom was highly pissed. You said you were gonna work for the CIA and she thought we’d be heading for Washington.”

“She had a little trouble with the distinction between an analyst and an operative.” Shake smiled and shook his head. “And our domestic situation did not improve when the whole deal blew up into the Iran-Contra Affair.”

“I’m a little sketchy on your role in that, Shake.” Chan plucked a beer out of the cooler, opened it and took a sip. She wasn’t a big beer drinker, but the tropical atmosphere seemed to call for cold beer on hot sands, and she’d taken a shine to the local Lighthouse Lager. “I know you and Ollie North are pals, but I didn’t know you were in on Iran-Contra.”

“I wasn’t precisely in on it, Chan. I was more like milling around on the perimeter. I was only involved in the Contra part of Iran-Contra although that didn’t matter much in the end. All of us subcontracting for The Company in Central America got caught by the fallout. When the s**t hit the fan up on Capitol Hill, we had twenty-four hours to bail and get our asses north of the border.”

“Yet another chapter of America’s murky military history that features my dear old Dad,” Tracey laughed and rummaged around in the cooler. “It looks like there’s enough beer to keep us quiet if you want to spill some highly classified beans.”

“Not much that’s still classified about that goat-rope. And now that I think about it, what I’m starting to see down here reminds me a lot of the Contra days back in the mid-eighties.” Shake checked his watch and dialed in the cruise control.