Cash Landing
Dedication
FOR TIFFANY
Contents
Dedication
November 2009
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by James Grippando
Copyright
About the Publisher
NOVEMBER 2009
Chapter 1
Getting rich in Miami was easy. Or so Ruban Betancourt was told.
Miami had boomtown written all over it—again. The Great Recession was over. The perils of reckless borrowing and NINA loans—“no income, no assets, no problem”—were yesterday’s news. Cash was king. A new Bentley Continental GT like Paris Hilton’s? Cash. Hitting Miami Beach to clean out Chanel at Bal Harbour Shops? More cash. A penthouse in Sunny Isles? All cash, no mortgage required. Brazilians, Argentinians, Mexicans—anyone with a Latin fortune was flush with cash and buying up Miami.
Ruban saw the expensive cars and jewelry all around him, but he wasn’t plugged into the “new economy,” and he didn’t understand it. One year the banks loved him, couldn’t give him enough credit, and talked him and his wife into a house and NINA loan that they couldn’t possibly afford. “All you need is a pulse and credit score,” their mortgage broker had assured them. As it turned out, that pulse thing was optional. Fraudulent loans to dead people were soaring, right along with bank profits. Two years into their subprime mortgage, the Betancourts were in foreclosure and out on the street, their dream house scooped up for a song on the courthouse steps by investors who paid—what else?—cash. Front end and back end, the banks won. But not this time. Ruban got smart and looked to the skies. Not at the new high-rise condos and office towers that had reshaped Miami’s skyline. His eye was on “money flights”— commercial jets pregnant with bags of U.S. currency in their cargo bellies.
“Touchdown!” shouted Ruban.
He was in the passenger seat of a borrowed pickup truck, listening to the Miami Dolphins football game on the radio. The color commentator added his patented “All RIGHT, Miami!” over the airwaves. Ruban slapped a high five with his brother-in-law, Jeffrey Beauchamp, who was behind the wheel. The truck was parked alongside Perimeter Road near Miami International Airport. Jeffrey’s uncle, Craig “Pinky” Perez, was in the backseat, a fully loaded Makarov 9-millimeter semi-automatic pistol tucked under his belt.
“They’re still gonna lose,” said Pinky.
The pessimism was warranted. The team was “rebuilding,” and just eight weeks into the new season they already had five losses.
“Maybe I should buy the team,” said Jeffrey.
“Maybe you should shut up,” said Pinky.
“Maybe you should—”
“Everybody, shut it!” said Ruban. “Just shut up and watch the fucking planes.”
The family dynamics were wearing thin on Ruban. He’d approached a couple of buddies to pull off the heist with him, two pros with balls as big as globes but who had passed because it sounded too risky. He was stuck with family. Pinky would probably be okay, with an impressive criminal record to prove it. Jeffrey, on the other hand, was five foot six inches tall and weighed three hundred pounds, and the number-one woman in his life was still his mother. Always smiling, he loved to laugh, even at himself. But he was as gullible as a ten-year-old. It was like asking the actual loser on The Biggest Loser to knock off a bank, with the added dimension of drug addiction, which meant that he spent half his life coked-up and bingeing, the other half sleeping it off. Jeffrey would be the driver. Just the driver.
“Hey, is that it?” asked Jeffrey as he peered out the windshield.
Their truck was south of the airport on the other side of a twelve-foot fence of chain link topped with barbed wire. They had a clear view of the runway and control tower.
“Looks like a jumbo jet to me,” said Pinky.
The plane descended from the west, flying over the uninhabited Florida Everglades. Ruban had counted almost four dozen landings since 1:00 p.m., a typical afternoon at MIA, the second-busiest airport in the country for international traffic. But Ruban was getting antsy. The scheduled arrival time for Lufthansa flight 462 from Frankfurt was 1:50 p.m. It was now two o’clock. He smiled as he spotted the telltale bump on the forward double-deck section of the fuselage of the Boeing 747.
“That’s it, bro!”
“Yeah, baby!”
The landing gear deployed, the nose lifted, and the plane touched down at the west end of the runway. The engines whined as the plane rolled past them. The airline’s logo—a circle of gold on the deep-blue tail—seemed to smile on them like the Florida sun.
“Payday,” said Ruban.
“All RIGHT, Miami!” said Jeffrey. “Touchdown!”
The idea of a heist had been planted in Ruban’s brain over the summer. He was nearly floored by what his old friend was telling him. “Money flights happen every day, bro. Eighty million dollars. A hundred million dollars. Every fucking day.” The Miami branch of the Federal Reserve Bank of Atlanta is just northwest of the Miami International Airport, a distance of about four miles “as the crow files,” a fifteen-minute ride by armored truck. When a foreign bank has more U.S. currency on hand than needed, it physically ships the bills to the United States for deposit at one of the twelve Federal Reserve Banks. South Florida’s cash-hungry Latin community made Miami a prime destination.
Ruban had been planning and preparing for months. He’d studied enough maps of the area to know that the Lufthansa flight flew right past the Miami Fed upon approach to the south runway. The shipment’s ultimate destination, however, was as irrelevant as the world economic events that impacted the value of the U.S. dollar and fueled these money flights. To Ruban and his partners in crime, the 747 was nothing more than bags of cash, low-hanging fruit, theirs for the taking.
Ruban’s phone rang and he answered immediately. It was his source—the old friend who had tipped him off a
bout the “money flights.” This was the call he had been waiting for: time to move.
“Understood,” he said into his cell. “Ten minutes.”
He hung up. Clearing customs was normally a two-hour process, but the armored-car guards were moving faster than usual. The Lufthansa container had been transported from the aircraft to the warehouse. All bags had been inspected for tampering and tearing, the cash accounted for, and the bags resealed. The process of loading the armored truck was soon to begin. In another half hour the money would be heading north on the Palmetto Expressway at fifty-five miles per hour—unless Ruban made his move.
“Drive,” Ruban told his brother-in-law.
“How much we talking about?”
“Forty-some bags. Two million per bag, give or take, depending on the mix of bills.”
The math was beyond Jeffrey. “Sweet,” he said as he steered onto the Perimeter Road.
It was a short drive to the airport warehouse on Northwest Eighteenth Street. Ruban and Pinky put on latex gloves to make sure there would be no fingerprints when they pulled themselves up on the loading dock. Jeffrey parked outside the open cargo door. He kept the motor running. The time was 3:08 p.m.
Ruban could hardly believe that the enormous bay door was wide open, though he knew it would be. It was one of the many lapses in security that would make this job so easy. Each of those vulnerabilities had been spelled out to him in advance. Bricks of bills lay exposed on the concrete floor. Federal law prohibited any private citizen—including armored-truck guards—from carrying a weapon into the customs clearance site, so the guards were required to remove all weapons before entering the warehouse and performing any clearance tasks. The CCTV cameras were monitored by the security staff at the main terminal, well away from the warehouse, and the crooks would be long gone before the weekend security guard noticed anything awry on one of his many screens and contacted police. The kicker in this incredible equation was that the gaping bay doors led directly to a public-access road running parallel to the building. A fast-moving getaway vehicle could bypass the airport perimeter fence and the gatehouse and be on the expressway in less than sixty seconds.
Ruban had gotten all this information from a trusted old friend, a childhood buddy he’d grown up with in Cuba.
Ruban’s given name was “Karl,” which is not a Hispanic name, but decades of Soviet influence in Cuba had many faces, including that of Ruban’s father, a Russian soldier who never married Ruban’s mother and who was shipped off to Afghanistan, where he was killed, when Ruban was three. Karl and his older sister were half-Cubans—“Rubans”—who lived on a single mother’s salary of twenty dollars per month, paid in moneda nacional and supplemented by rice-and-beans rations and other “necessities” provided by the Cuban government. They owned no car. Their television worked intermittently, but in any case they watched only what the government allowed them to watch. The Castro regime’s ban on international travel by Cuban citizens meant that no one in the Betancourt family had left the island since 1959. Ruban was among the next generation of refugees, part of President Clinton’s Cuban crisis, having left only when he’d decided to leave for good, at the age of seventeen. If ever he returned, it would be as a rich man. He would stay at the Hotel Nacional, along with the European tourists. He’d drink mojitos all day and lounge on the white-sand beaches at Veradero. But first there was work to do.
His real job as a restaurant manager kept him too busy to indulge in hobbies, yet Ruban did have one: his gun collection. Mostly Russian-made pistols. They would come in handy in this new job.
“Ready, Ruban?” asked Pinky. The “Ruban” nickname had stuck. Not even his wife called him Karl.
“Let’s do this,” said Ruban.
Ruban and Pinky put on sunglasses to hide their eyes and pulled ski masks over their heads. They got out of the truck, and hauled themselves up onto the loading dock. Pinky pulled a Makarov 9-millimeter semi-automatic pistol as they ran into the warehouse. Ruban gave the order, first in English and then in Spanish.
“Down on the floor! Everybody down!”
The scene was exactly as Ruban had been told it would be. A cavernous warehouse littered with crates and plastic packing wrap. Canvas bags lay right by the doors, protected by only a handful of unarmed guards and warehouse workers. They complied immediately and dropped to the floor.
The thieves moved quickly. Ruban grabbed four bags, two in each hand, nearly his own body weight in fifty- and hundred-dollar bills. Pinky brandished the Makarov, never letting his guard down, but grabbed two more bags with his free hand.
“Like bags of cement,” Ruban said, groaning. Easy money didn’t mean easy to carry. One bag was dropped in their race back to the truck.
“Shit!”
“Leave it! Go, go, go!”
They left it on the floor, threw the five bags into the bed of the truck as they hopped down from the loading dock, and jumped into the cab.
“Vaya!”
Jeffrey hit the gas. The truck sped away. The men pulled off their ski masks, slapped high fives, and showered themselves with hoots and hollers of congratulations. Jeffrey felt the excitement. Maybe too much.
“Hey, Ruban?” He was driving so fast that the steering wheel was vibrating in his hands. “Tell me where we’re going again?”
Ruban slugged him in the arm. They’d gone over the escape countless times. “Shit, Jeffrey! Turn here!”
A hard right, and the tires squealed as they ran the stop sign. They were deep into the warehouse district.
“Left!” shouted Ruban.
Jeffrey steered toward the Miami Tile & Marble Depot. It was closed on Sundays, but the garage door opened as they approached. The black pickup entered and continued through the warehouse without stopping, passing pallets of tile and marble stacked floor to ceiling on either side. As the garage door closed behind them, a cargo door opened before them. It was the rear loading platform, where a delivery truck was backed up against the elevated dock. Its roll-up door was wide open. Jeffrey drove the pickup straight into the empty box of the delivery truck, stopped, then switched on the running lights so they could see. Ruban and Pinky jumped out of the pickup, secured the axles to the bed of the delivery truck with chains, and chocked the wheels with wooden blocks.
“Done!” shouted Ruban.
Pinky pulled down the roll-up door. Ruban banged on the metal wall between him and the cab. The driver was Marco, a forklift operator who was the lone security guard on Sundays, a friend of Pinky’s.
“Go!”
They jumped into the bed of the pickup. Canvas bags of money lay between them as the delivery truck pulled away from the loading dock.
“Home free,” said Pinky. “So easy!”
Ruban leaned back against one of the bags, a lumpy mattress of money. “Too easy.”
That’s what worries me.
Chapter 2
The search for a black pickup truck with an extended cab was in high gear.
It was led by the FBI but involved an alphabet soup of state and local agencies, from the FHP (Florida Highway Patrol) and FDLE (Florida Department of Law Enforcement) to the MDPD (Miami-Dade County Police Department) and its airport substation. Countless squad cars were on alert in the tri-county area, north to Palm Beach and south to the Florida Keys. FBI and MDPD helicopters were airborne, crisscrossing the skies. The black pickup was their Holy Grail, but they were also searching for discarded money bags, weapons, latex gloves, or ski masks along the road. Mindful that profiling was a legal no-no, law enforcement had an eye out for any vehicle with three men inside, possibly Hispanic, especially if it was fast moving and seemingly in getaway mode. The access road by which the thieves had fled was completely shut down, and the entire warehouse and surrounding area was a secured crime scene.
Special Agent Andie Henning was the first FBI agent to reach the warehouse.
Andie was entering her fifth year with the Bureau, all but the last six weeks of which had been in the Se
attle field office, where she’d spent eighteen months in the bank robbery unit. She’d made a name for herself in a lengthy undercover assignment in the Yakima Valley, and she was promised more of that work if she transferred to Miami. So far, the promise had been unfulfilled. She was assigned to “Tom Cat,” a multi-jurisdictional task force that focused on the growing number of organized-crime syndicates involved in cargo heists. On the upside, the transfer did at least put two thousand miles between Andie and her ex-fiancé. But that was another story.
“I see the Bureau sends the newbie on Sunday afternoons,” said MDPD lieutenant Elgin Watts. He was one of the cofounders of Tom Cat.
Andie wasn’t exactly a “newbie,” but she knew what he meant. “Littleford is on his way.”
Supervisory Special Agent Michael Littleford was the head of the FBI’s bank robbery unit, a twenty-five-year veteran.
A dozen officers from MDPD were already on the scene, most of them with Tom Cat. It wasn’t Andie’s place to tell them—at least not yet—but Tom Cat would be playing a supporting role in this case. The typical cargo heist involved truckloads of everything from designer clothes to pharmaceuticals, and law enforcement’s key to success was finding the warehouses the syndicates used to store the stolen goods. Here, the stolen currency had been on its way to the Federal Reserve Bank, and the warehouse was just the starting point. The FBI would assert its bank robbery jurisdiction as soon as Littleford arrived.
“How much did they get?” asked Andie. They were standing in front of the thirty-six bags of cash that the thieves had left untouched. The empty armored truck hadn’t moved, its doors wide open.
“Not sure yet,” said Watts. “But if you’re a trivia nut, I’d say at least a few million more than the JFK Lufthansa heist. We may be looking at a new record.”
Anyone in law enforcement who’d worked a bank robbery or armored-truck heist knew about JFK, but this wasn’t the time to debate the dollar value in 1978 versus the twenty-first century. “Who was first on the scene?”
“Officer Foreman. He works out of the MDPD airport substation.”
“How many witnesses?” asked Andie.