Unholy Order

by William Heffernan

  “What do you know about Colombia?” the colonel asked, when Devlin had outlined the problem. He seemed to snap the words out as a challenge.

  “Not a great deal,” Devlin conceded. “What I do know comes from the job, and that’s pretty much been limited to the major drug cartels.”

  De la Mayo gave Devlin a knowing smile. “Few people in the north know very much about my country,” he said. “First, the major cartels no longer exist. Get that straight in your mind from the outset. The Medellín and Cali cartels have been destroyed. It is to the credit of our new president, Andrés Pastrana, who, before he became president, was himself kidnapped by these madmen.”

  He gave Devlin a broad shrug, as if what he had said meant nothing. “What we have now is worse. Now there are dozens of smaller cartels, each one run by men who are even more violent than their predecessors.” He leaned forward in his chair. “What you are dealing with here, my friend, is the most vicious group of criminals the world has ever seen.” He waved a hand in front of his broad body. “Nothing is beyond them. No atrocity is too great. Providing it gives them what they want.”

  Devlin sat back in his chair and studied the man. De la Mayo’s words seemed flamboyant, perhaps even overly dramatic. Devlin chalked it up to Spanish machismo and a need to have his own work appreciated. Still, he had to get back to their subject.

  “I understand the problems you face, and I don’t envy you those difficulties,” he said. “It’s a formidable task.” De la Mayo nodded his approval and Devlin pushed ahead. “But regrettably my focus is a bit narrower. I believe this man, Emilio Valdez, attempted to murder one of my detectives. Right now all I have is a name and an old photograph, so anything you can tell me about him will help. Especially any connections he might have to people here in the States.”

  De la Mayo shrugged away the question, as if the answer were obvious. “Valdez is a killer. It is what he does. It is all that he does.” He nodded his head for emphasis. “In the past he has worked for several of the smaller cartels. Presently, we believe, he is part of a group that operates out of Bucaramanga, which is a city northeast of Medellín. This particular group is run by Ernesto Chavarría, a man who would order the death of his own mother if it would put more pesos in his pockets.” De la Mayo brought a hand up and shook his finger for emphasis. “These are not sophisticated men. These are men whose thoughts are governed by only two questions: What can I get? and What do I have to do to get it? If money is involved, they will do anything. For them, life is not a complicated matter.” The colonel paused, as if deciding how much more he should say. “I believe this would be the first time Valdez has been in your country, although he speaks your language fluently.” He raised a lecturing finger again. “But be assured of one thing, my friend. If this man you are searching for is indeed Valdez, he is here for only one purpose. He is here to kill.”

  “Is Chavarría here?”

  The colonel shook his head. “To my knowledge he has never come north. He is unsophisticated but not stupid. He knows he cannot buy his way out of the legal system here or intimidate its judges and prosecutors with death threats. Your country is too large and complex, so regrettably he remains where he is safe.” He tapped his chest. “In my country.”

  “How about his connections here? Someone who might be giving Valdez his orders?”

  “Yes, Chavarría has these connections. Together with the FBI, we are presently investigating a particular bank that we believe is laundering money for him.”

  “Can you tell me which bank?”

  De la Mayo shook his head. “It is not for me to do so. Perhaps you can learn this from your Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  Fat chance, Devlin thought. But he would try anyway. “What about contacts outside that bank? Is there anyone else Valdez might go to for instructions?”

  De la Mayo flashed a smile that seemed to soften his otherwise severe demeanor. “That I can tell you. There is a man named Ricardo Estaves, who was once suspected of having ties to the Cali group. He is supposedly a coffee importer who maintains an office here. We have never been able to prove his connection to narcotics, but on several occasions in the past he was seen with members of the old Cali cartel. On his last visit to Colombia he also was observed entering Chavarría’s home in Bucaramanga. Since there is no longer any coffee grown in that region, we can only assume he was there on drug business and is now connected with that group.”

  “What specifically does he do for them here in the States?” Devlin asked.

  “We suspect he is a contact for distributors and also plays a role in the cartel’s need to launder money.”

  “Is he under surveillance—a wiretap—anything?”

  De la Mayo gave him a pained look. “We have tried. Both legally and illegally. But he knows the game. His office and his apartment here are swept for listening devices at least twice each week, and when he wants to meet with someone he simply goes to a large hotel, rents a room, and has his meeting. He is in and out before we can mount an adequate surveillance.”

  “So this Estaves might be our boy’s contact.”

  “It would be my best guess,” De la Mayo said. “But I doubt he would ever meet with him in person. Estaves is regularly seen using pay phones. Never the same one, of course. But we suspect his arrangements for meetings and all other contacts are made in this way.”

  Devlin shook his head. “It doesn’t sound promising.” He paused to think it through. “What else can you tell me about Estaves? Any particular habits, places he goes to regularly, anything at all?”

  De la Mayo began dramming his fingers together. “He actually leads a rather quiet life.” His face broke into another smile. “He is, I’m told, a very devout Catholic. In fact, I myself have followed him to mass on several Sundays. It is odd—no?—that a man could be involved in this filthy trade and still consider himself a religious man.”

  “No odder than a nun carrying heroin in her body,” Devlin said. He paused again. “What do you know about this Opus Christi group?”

  “I know they are very powerful in my country. I know that many influential men are members, both within the government and in the business community. I also know that this group is very secretive and very devious. And for these reasons I do not trust them.”

  “You think they could be involved in drug trafficking?”

  Again, De la Mayo smiled. “Señor, I have dealt with drug traffickers for most of my life. Now, as my career nears its end, I find I am very much like the famous fictional detective Hercule Poirot. Now, my little gray cells tell me to suspect everyone.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Ricardo Estaves sat in a battered desk chair in the cramped, cluttered office normally used by the building superintendent of the First Avenue co-op in which he lived. Unknown to those who would keep him under surveillance, Estaves paid the superintendent a generous monthly fee to make the office available and to provide access to the “workmen” who occasionally visited by way of the building’s service entrance.

  Emilio sat before him now, dressed in blue work pants and a matching shirt that had the name Joe stitched above its breast pocket. He had come to the short, fat, balding coffee importer to complain about Charles.

  “Patron, this man is going to get us killed,” he said in Spanish. “Or even worse, sent to some stinking Yankee prison.”

  Estaves leaned back in his chair and gave Emilio a benign look. Normally he would not meet with the man. He would keep their contacts limited to the telephone. But there had been a hint of panic in Emilio’s voice when they had spoken earlier, and he had decided to see the man’s eyes so he could tell if he was still capable of carrying out their contract.

  “I’m told that Yankee prisons are actually quite satisfactory,” he said. “Compared to our own, at least.” He waved a plump hand, dismissing his own words. “But I agree. It was unwise to order the death of this woman police officer. It throws too great a light on us, and that is something that sho
uld be avoided.” Emilio started to speak, but Estaves’s raised hand stopped him. “Now that this woman detective has seen you, perhaps that has changed things.”

  Emilio studied his shoes to keep Estaves from seeing the anger in his eyes. The fat little man had surprising power within their organization. Ernesto Chavarría trusted him, and that made him a man to be feared.

  “If it is your wish that she be killed, it will be done, patrón.”

  Estaves toyed with his brightly patterned silk necktie. It was an affectation that gave him comfort. As a child raised in the slums of Bogotá, he had been poor; and now that he had found prosperity, the feel of silk was reassuring. For years he had worn nothing else. His shirts, his ties—the very suit that now adorned his plump body—were all handmade in that soothing fabric.

  The superintendent’s office lacked air-conditioning, and he ran a handkerchief over his sweaty jowls. “What is your opinion, Emilio? You are the expert in these matters.”

  Emilio’s eyes came up slowly. They were cold and hard and unflinching. “If it was my decision, patron, I would finish these priests we have agreed to put away. Then I would leave the country.”

  “And this woman detective?” Estaves asked.

  “Only if she came close to me would I kill her.” He raised his hands, palms up, in front of him. “Her death will only complicate the work you have given me, patrón. It will make it harder for me to kill these other priests.”

  Estaves considered Emilio’s words. “Yes, I see that. But Charles fears this woman is getting too close to our other enterprise—our important enterprise—the narcotics we are bringing into this country. He fears what this detective might discover if she reaches this second nun who was with the unfortunate Sister Manuela.” He paused, his eyes narrowing on Emilio. “The death of that young nun was a serious mistake, my friend.”

  Emilio’s back stiffened. “I assure you, patrón, I had nothing to do with that.”

  The lie flowed smoothly off Emilio’s lips, and Estaves found himself admiring the man’s ability to make it so. And he understood the need. The cartel had long overlooked the side deals their employees occasionally made—as long as they remained small and did not interfere with the cartel’s profits. It was a small perquisite, a bonus for other work well done. And Emilio’s side effort—forcing the nun to smuggle a small amount of heroin—had been brilliant. After all, who would suspect that a nun had swallowed condoms filled with narcotics? By itself, even her death had been acceptable. Allowing her to reach a hospital where the police could question her would have put their larger operation in jeopardy. But the combination of factors—the cause and effect—was something that required punishment. And despite his facile lying, Estaves knew that permanent punishment awaited Emilio upon his return to Colombia.

  Estaves allowed his hands to rest on his protruding stomach. “Do you have another solution, my friend?” He kept his eyes on Emilio’s face, noting a small tic that had come to one eye.

  “All the city’s police would be after us if we killed this detective,” he said. “But only a few would be after us if we killed someone else.”

  “And who would you kill instead?” Estaves asked.

  Emilio gave a small shrug. “I would kill the other nun,” he said. “Then this woman detective could discover nothing from her.”

  An appreciative smile formed on Estaves’s lips. “That is very good. Very good indeed. I will speak with Charles and find out where you can find this other nun.” He raised a finger. “In the meantime, you will continue with the priests. I want this matter concluded quickly.”

  Emilio stood, preparing to leave. “As you wish, patrón.” He paused a moment. “And the woman detective?” he asked.

  Estaves gave him a noncommittal shrug. “For now, you can forget her.” He leaned closer to Emilio. “That, of course, means you will lose the ten thousand dollars you were to collect for her life.” He watched Emilio flush with embarrassment. “Yes, my friend. We always know what our people are doing.”

  Emilio lowered his eyes momentarily. “I am sorry, patrón!’

  Estaves waved a hand, dismissing him. It would be a shame to lose Emilio, he thought. He was a clever man and good at his work. But then, there were many clever men, and for most of them killing was not a difficult matter.

  It was late afternoon when Boom Boom returned from his “day job.” He had come back loaded down with miniature technology. Now, in addition to the small automatic in its garter holster, a Palm 7 wireless Palm Pilot and an enhanced cell phone were taped to his leg. He would be able to use the cell phone to send e-mail back to the squad without risking messages on the closely monitored Opus Christi system. He would also be able to sit in the safety of his room and use the Palm 7 to hack into that very system.

  Peter was waiting when Boom Boom entered the lobby. He seemed nervous and kept glancing around to see if anyone was watching. “I have to talk to you,” he whispered. “Please come into the dayroom with me.”

  “Okay,” Boom Boom whispered back. “But play it cool, my man. If I saw you acting this way on the street, I’d figure somethin’ was goin’ down.”

  Boom Boom followed the young numerarier to a large first-floor room at the rear of the building. Sofas and chairs were scattered about. One wall was lined with bookshelves, containing works with religious themes. There was a large television set, equipped with a VCR. There was also a young man stationed nearby to monitor its use. Boom Boom had already learned that very little television fare was deemed “spiritually appropriate.”

  Peter and Boom Boom took chairs as far away from the young man as possible. To anyone watching from a distance it would, they hoped, look like an impromptu session of spiritual guidance.

  “Whassup?’ Boom Boom asked.

  Peter glanced nervously across the room.

  “Stop that,” Boom Boom warned. “You look like some kid who just swiped a candy bar. You keep it up, you’re gonna make somebody wonder what you’re up to.”

  Peter twisted in his chair. “I can’t help it,” he whispered. “Thomas has been after me all day. He keeps asking questions about you. I’m sure he suspects something.”

  Boom Boom smiled at him. He needed the man to chill out. “Hey, Peter, don’t worry about it. Just stick to the story we laid out for you. It’s covered. Thomas can check all he wants. The story’s gonna hold up.” He gave him a wink. “I’m just worried about you holdin’ up. You gotta stay cool and trust that we know what we’re doin’ here.”

  Peter began wringing his fingers. First one hand, then the other. “It’s just that Thomas is so intimidating.”

  “But he’s not your boss or anything, right?”

  Peter shook his head. “We’re actually equals, as far as rank is concerned.”

  “So tell him to piss off.” Boom Boom grinned at him. “Or however you say it so it’s not a sin.”

  Peter shook his head. “I can’t. He’s older, and I think those higher in the order will listen to him if he raises any doubts about you. Or about me.”

  Boom Boom leaned in closer. He needed to calm the man before he started jumping out of his chair. “What’s his problem?”

  Peter glanced toward the young man monitoring the television. The television was off. There was no one else in the room, and the young man was deeply engrossed in a thick book.

  “He doesn’t like you working on the computer system. He doesn’t feel you can be trusted … yet.”

  “Hey, man, that’s easy. I won’t work on it.”

  Peter looked confused. “But I thought you had to—”

  “Not anymore.” He patted one leg. “I brought back some stuff that will let me work from my room. All I need now are the passwords.”

  Peter seemed relieved; then his brow furrowed again. “He also said he saw you looking at some of the women when they were leaving the building. He said the look was lustful.”

  Boom Boom grinned at him. “Hey, man, I’m Spanish. Lust is my thing.” He
raised a hand. “But I’ll watch it, man. I promise. If Thomas is around and some lady walks by, I’ll make a little sign of the cross, like I’m warding off sinful thoughts.” He grinned again. “Thomas won’t know what I’m really praying for, you dig?”

  “Please don’t talk like that.” Peter’s face had flushed.

  He thinks about it too, Boom Boom thought. Thank God, he added to himself. He had begun to think the young man was dead from the waist down. “Hey, it’s just between you and me,” Boom Boom said. “I’m just tryin’ to lighten things up here.”

  Peter absently rubbed his leg, and Boom Boom thought he saw a thin band under the compressed fabric.

  “You wearin’ that thing again?” he asked. “That mortification belt or whatever you call it?”

  Peter nodded. “A repentance belt. I wear it for two hours every day.” His eyes held Boom Boom’s. “You’re supposed to do that too.”

  “No way, José.” Boom Boom leaned in closer. “And I haven’t been floggin’ my butt, either.” He raised his chin, indicating the belt on Peter’s leg. “You should stop doin’ that, man. That can’t be doin’ you any good, havin’ those little steel spikes cuttin’ into your skin like that.”

  Peter lowered his eyes. “It’s good for my immortal soul,” he said softly. “Lately, I’ve been wearing it for four hours each day.” He hesitated, then continued. “To atone for what we’re doing.”

  Boom Boom shook his head. He wished the guy would stop thinking like that. If he didn’t, sooner or later it would all come crashing down on him, and he’d end up turning them both in. “Hey, my man, we’re not doin’ nothin’ that doesn’t have to be done. You get yourself straight on that. You hear me?”

  Peter nodded, but Boom Boom could tell his words had just flown past the man. Nothing but guilt was registering, guilt and fear. Boom Boom hoped that fear would keep his mouth shut.