White Lines

by Mel Stein

  It wasn’t all about cocaine, although Colombia might well have been the leader in that particular product. But it was also third in the marijuana stakes and roaring up the charts with heroin since it started growing opium poppies in the late 1980s. The States may have been the main recipient of its produce, but the mule routes were just as effective in getting the stuff into Europe. Yes, they began here and they ended with a young woman like Jessica dying in an English hospice. Only they didn’t end. They began again. It was ceaseless, this treadmill of death. As long as the men who built the machinery, who held the whips, were making their obscene profits, then it would continue.

  The old cartels might be dead and buried, but the regional mafia was still there, and now there was also the Branco cartel. No need to hide the name; everybody, including the rest of the mafia, the police and the government, knew who was behind it. It was almost as if the last two had exhausted their energies in clearing out the old guard and had no stomach for a fresh fight.

  The chief of police had done a great job over the last few years, but perhaps Branco had learned from those who came before him, or else he was just naturally more clever. Nothing could be linked directly to him. A Minister of Justice had come close, but he had been a passenger in a plane blown up over the mountains, taking him, his investigators and forty other innocent souls to kingdom come. A judge who refused to yield to the pressures to dismiss a seemingly water-tight case against Branco’s nephew, was machine-gunned down on his way from church, killed in a state of grace along with two children, a grandmother and a passing stray dog.

  The war between law enforcers and pliers of the trade had been long and violent. Back in 1983 Tranquiland was established on the banks of the Rio Yari in Los Llanos as the largest cocaine factory in history. A strange name for an industry that brought with it death rather than tranquillity. It became a town of its own, with roads, sleeping quarters and, of necessity, its own airstrip. With its fourteen laboratories, its own water and electricity supply, it operated as a community in every sense of the word, lacking only a political infrastructure. When you were producing some 3,500 kilos of purest cocaine every month, there was no need for politicians.

  Rodrigo Bonilla had been appointed Minister of Justice back in August 1983 and launched a serious spearhead attack on the drug barons, Jorge Ochoa, Gonzalo Gacha, Carlos Lehder and, perhaps most powerful and renowned of them all back then, Pablo Escobar. Eventually a group of police and undercover agents were formed who were as incorruptible as it was possible to be amidst the corruption that was Colombia itself. In the spring of 1984, in the midst of the rainy season, the crack squad raided Tranquiland and arrested everybody they found. Needless to say they were able to detain only scientists and artisans. The men in charge had flown, leaving behind seven aircraft, enough weaponry and military vehicles to equip a small army and a river with fourteen tonnes of cocaine floating downstream filled with dead or dying fish who had overdosed.

  All the cartel bosses moved to neighbouring Panama except for Lehder, who had some political ambitions, which he pursued by founding his own newspaper and his own political party, the MNL, of which, perhaps not surprisingly, he was the first (unelected) leader. He did, however, get himself elected to Congress from which position of power he claimed immunity from prosecution, a contention that he was able to maintain for some considerable time. His argument found particular support amongst those members of the judiciary who were either rewarded by his generosity or blackmailed by his knowledge.

  The emigrés pined for their homeland and were actually missed by a large section of the population who had benefited from their industry either by employment or charity. Escobar, with his estimated wealth of two billion US dollars, could afford to be generous. Not only did he finance the construction of a barrio for 200 poor families in Medellin, for which he earned the title of Robin Hood Paisa, but he also offered to invest his capital in a national development programme. More inventive was a joint offer with the other drug barons to pay off the entire Colombian National Debt of 13 billion dollars.

  When that offer was refused they reverted to type, buying land and industries through nominees, creating their own private armies, and finally in 1984 assassinating their main enemy, Justice Minister Rodrigo Bonilla. The war had entered a new phase. The government began to issue extradition orders, assassinations became daily events, bombings were no longer a rarity. Newspaper headquarters were destroyed and even the National Police Agency in Bogota was not spared a bomb attack so powerful that buildings twenty blocks away collapsed.

  The government stepped up its efforts and one by one the old cartel leaders were either killed or so persecuted that they surrendered to save their lives and their wealth. The Ocheas and Pablo Escobar finally struck a deal. They pleaded guilty to a minor charge and were guaranteed that they would neither be extradited nor sent to one of the unspeakable Colombian jails that housed the common criminals. In fact Escobar insisted on a new jail being built just for him, low security, high luxury, situated in his home town of Envigado, just outside Medellin.

  For several years Escobar ran his business from the jail with all the home comforts required. But without his ability to travel, his teeth were no longer so sharp, his name was no longer so feared. The market became fragmented as young Turks made inroads into his territory, and by 1992 his patience was exhausted. Anticipating a governmental step to move him to more secure surroundings he decided to escape. His freedom lasted nearly a year and a half. For the most part his reputation was sufficient to guarantee sanctuary wherever he sought it, but he had still made enough enemies in his life to watch helplessly as his aides and bodyguards were picked off one by one. The American Drug Enforcement officers were particularly interested in Escobar and in December 1993 he was tracked down to his jungle hide-out and killed. It may have quietened down but it was not over. There was too much at stake for it to be over. The Carli cartel was led by the Rodriguez Orejuela brothers and for a while they seemed to have learned from their predecessors’ mistakes. Within a year, moving in a smoothly sophisticated way, they had the major share of the New York cocaine market under their control. This time around there were no bombings, no assassinations and very little violence. Instead, they used lawyers. In place of cash there was a whole pyramid of companies set up for the purpose of money-laundering. It was another industry like any other. In 1995 Rosso José Serrano was appointed Chief of Police. He began with the police force itself, cleansing it of over 6,000 officers, nearly one third of the nation’s force. It was he who had seen off the Carli cartel and it was he who had methodically set about the destruction of the laboratories in the Guaviare region. The statistics were incredible. Patti loved statistics. They were the framework upon which a journalist could construct her stories: 63 airstrips destroyed, 35 aircraft captured, 57 tons of pure cocaine seized together with 783 tons of cocoa-leaf paste. Enough to turn the whole of New York into addicts, if they weren’t already.

  Yet, it had no real effect. The supplies of cocaine from Colombia remained constant, and as one of the Hydra’s heads was cut off, another dozen sprang up to replace it. And through the chaos, out of the smoke and mist had strode Riccardo Branco. He claimed to be a relation of Escobar although nobody had ever seen any proof of that. He also claimed to have inherited the Medallin cartel with its complex network, and he also claimed to be Robin Hood reincarnated. Where Escobar had built homes for a couple of hundred, Branco built for thousands, naming the blocks after his dead aides, turning them into martyrs, when they were, in truth, just murdered gangsters who had lived and died by the gun. It did not stop with homes. He also constructed an orphanage and a hospital, although his enemies whispered that he contributed to the population of them both.

  Yet, there could only be whispers about Branco. There was never any hard evidence. He appeared to have a perfectly successful and legitimate business. He was into construction, he was into the equipping of hospitals, he was into communications, he was into the
media and, however hard the authorities tried to probe beneath the surface, they could never unravel the illegitimate from the legitimate.

  Unlike the Cali cartel, Branco courted publicity. He wanted to be visible, wanted people to see his good works. He could never be accused of hypocrisy as he supported the open sale of drugs, although obviously always referring to the suppliers and manufacturers in the third person. That, in itself, was a clever and subtle smokescreen. Patti had read the translation of one of his speeches.

  ‘You drive drugs underground, you drive up the prices. What do the manufacturers of cocaine do that the tobacco giants do not? Men, women and children, they smoke. My hospitals are full of them, dying of lung cancer and those are the lucky ones, for there are other painful ways of creating a living death. These tobacco giants, those who sell cheap alcohol, they advertise, they glamorise and all is fine. And what do these kings of tobacco do for their subjects? Cheap labour, poor conditions, with all the power of a government behind them anxious to claim its revenue by way of tax. And the so-called drug barons are the criminals. They give to charity, they create jobs, they worry about the quality of their product. And they are the criminals? I do not think so.’

  It was that desire for publicity that had given Patti the edge, the thought that if she could persuade Branco that she could show him as a great humanitarian, then she could get an interview. After that she only had the vaguest idea of what she might do. In the past, things had the habit of falling into place, like the haphazard plotting of a thriller where all the pieces come together.

  Seeing Branco at the football match was a windfall. She’d planned to stay on after Mark’s departure and somehow or other get an audience. Then he’d been presented to her on a plate and she could not believe her luck. A Brownie point to Mark for getting her into the best seats. Branco hadn’t wanted to know at first, saying he knew all about the English tabloids; but Patti always kept a few photocopies of her better articles for the broadsheets and upmarket magazines in her bag. She’d produced them, stretched her Spanish to its very limits and, sensing that Branco had an eye for a pretty girl, she fluttered her eyelashes, tossing her feminist ideals to the wind. He had argued. To his surprise she had argued back and, eventually, with a broad smile that seemed to invite fish to swim towards it, he agreed, but only on his terms.

  ‘I have a commitment after the match, and tomorrow I must fly to Panama on business …’

  ‘Any time, anywhere,’ Patti had said, never thinking he would say between one and two in the morning and a car would collect her from opposite the Capilla del Sagraci in the Plaza de Bolivar. She’d known that he’d made this arrangement to show her not only that he was in control, but also to test her. It was an offer she could not refuse if she had any chance of completing her mission. She looked first at her watch. She’d been here an hour already. She knew Mark would be worried, but she knew that if she’d gone to the reception and told him what she had planned, there was no way he would have let her go. So she’d returned to the hotel, showered, changed, collected her dictaphone and notepad and had been there well before the appointed hour. Her eyes moved from the time on her wrist to the chapel in the shadow of the cathedral. It looked very old, maybe seventeenth century and another time she would have got out her guidebook to check its credentials; but not tonight.

  The Plaza was still busy despite the lateness of the hour. This was not the heart of the hotel district, more the cultural centre, but she still felt terribly exposed. A clock, perhaps from the cathedral itself, struck the hour. One, two. She could only remember what Luis had told her about Colombian punctuality and realised that she could be standing here until dawn. Maybe Branco had only agreed to meet her to see off her persistence. Next to the information kiosk was a phone booth and she moved towards it, driven by guilt. The very least she could do was to telephone Mark, who surely by now would be back at the hotel. Unless he’d been picked up at the reception. It was odd how that jokey little thought sent a shiver down her spine. She wouldn’t hurt him for the world, and she was sure that by now he must be worried sick. She’d caused him enough heartache these last few weeks with her selfish behaviour. She had taken only a couple of steps, when out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a long, dark car slowing down beside her, matching its pace to her stride. She had seen that car before as it made its first circuit of the Plaza, but had not thought it was for her. Now it most certainly was. It never quite stopped, but just in front of her it pulled in to the kerb, a door opened and a voice said, ‘Ah, Miss Delaney, I have found you,’ and then a pair of strong, male hands pulled her off her feet and into the dark air-conditioned interior.

  CHAPTER 21

  ‘I can’t believe you did what you did,’ Mark erupted. She was back in the hotel room, shaking from head to toe and he realised that if he continued the tirade for a moment more she would burst into tears. It had been just ten minutes before that there had been a knock on the hotel door. He’d hesitated about opening it, then heard Luis’s voice. He’d sensed he wasn’t alone and had used the security spy-hole before releasing both locks. Luis half pushed, half carried Patti into the room. He seemed overcome by disbelief.

  ‘I find her, Mark, I find her standing in the streets of Bogota in the early hours of the morning. I watch her for a few minutes before I pick her up and see the driver of every other car that drives around the Plaza also watching her and wondering why an expensive girl like her is standing on a street corner, wondering whether they can afford her.’

  ‘How the hell did you know where to look?’ Mark asked.

  ‘I have friends. When I hear that she is talking to Branco I make a few calls, people who know Branco.’

  ‘The police?’

  ‘Some of them. But more than that. There are people in this city who make it their business to know every time that Branco goes to the toilet. And so they also know he has agreed to meet an English journalist. They know that for the moment he is amused by her, but Branco’s moods change wildly. Now the English journalist is also a matter of interest. They think they know where he is to meet her, but I get there first.’

  ‘Did she argue?’ Mark asked as he heard Patti retching in the bathroom. She returned to the room with a toothbrush in her mouth and a tube of toothpaste in her hand, a hand that was still trembling.

  ‘No, I didn’t argue,’ she said and threw herself into Mark’s arms. He tried to kiss her, but the toothbrush got absurdly in the way and he settled for holding her close against him. ‘I was terrified. I was just about to call you when Luis showed up.’

  ‘I’m grateful,’ Mark said, wondering for the first time how an ex-footballer, a sports commentator, had the sort of contacts that Luis so obviously possessed.

  ‘You should be, my friend.’

  ‘You don’t think Branco would have given the interview, do you? He may have interviewed you to discover what you were really after, but he always has his own agenda. Who knows what he would have done? If he thought you were harmless then he would probably have given you a drink, asked you to sleep with him and when you said no, his pride would have insisted he delivered you back to your hotel.’

  ‘And if he didn’t think I was harmless?’

  ‘If you had asked the wrong questions, then he would not have hesitated to force you tell him exactly what you were after.’

  ‘Forced?’

  ‘You want another word?’ Luis asked. ‘Tortured, maybe raped. He will treat all women well, but you lose your sex when you become an enemy. To his enemies Branco will show no mercy.’

  ‘Isn’t this all a bit dramatic?’ Patti had poured herself a whisky from the minibar and was quickly recovering her composure. ‘This is the end of the twentieth century, not the middle of the sixteenth. I think you’re just trying to scare me.’

  Luis frowned.

  ‘I can see that you are beginning to lose the fear you felt when I found you.’ He looked at the glass of scotch in her hand which she had topped up from the rapidly
diminishing minibar.

  ‘Drink can make heroes of us all.’ She smiled and took another swallow.

  ‘I am not joking. Ask Amnesty International about Colombian jails. They are the official punishment areas. Can you imagine what the unofficial ones are like? Believe me. Go to sleep now. Get on a flight in the morning with Mark. I don’t know what really brought you to this place, but don’t come back. How do they say it in English? They have your card marked now.’

  It was hard to tell whether or not Patti had taken his advice but, after he left, she did at least collapse on the bed, her red hair contrasting sharply with the crisp white of the pillows. Her dress rode up over her pale freckled legs and Mark, despite the situation, or perhaps because of it, felt at once the rising of desire and the more passive desire to protect her, now and for always. But, it was never going to be easy to protect someone as wild and free as Patti. He lay down beside her without undressing and, as she rolled over on her side, he put his arms around her in a loving spoon and they fell into a deep sleep almost immediately.