Angels of Maradona

by Glen Carter

  “He’s the Pentagon correspondent, for Christ’s sake. He got tipped,” Jack said. “That’s his job.”

  “Whatever.”

  Jack heard the shower. He looked fondly at something made of lace at the foot of the bed and smiled. She’d been great, but now Jack had something important to discuss with Malone.

  “The story here is over, except for the funerals,” Jack said.

  “Funerals make great television, Jack,” Malone replied. “Not to mention good profile. That’s important for you right now.”

  Jack sat on the edge of the bed and blew at the wisp of steam rising from his coffee. “That’s downright ghoulish,” he said.

  “That’s reality,” Malone replied. “Have you seen the numbers lately? They’re tanking. Carmichael’s getting nervous, and you know what? So is Mr. Hair and Teeth.”

  Jack chuckled. “Thirteen years is a long time.”

  “Apparently not long enough for Frank Simmons.”

  Jamie was right. It was no secret Frank Simmons was on the way out, and profile was going to go a long way toward deciding who his replacement would be. The bigger the story, the bigger the profile. Huxley had the Pentagon. That was big and so was the White House where Rankin was becoming a star. But Jack Doyle had been in the trenches and that was where the real stories happened, not public relations bullshit and managed media events at the Pentagon and aboard Air Force One.

  Malone dragged on his smoke. “There’s talk a change could be coming soon, Jack. And your name is being mentioned a lot.”

  Jack flexed the muscles in his damaged hand – his bonafide war wound. The only danger plaguing Huxley and Rankin was the threat of paper cuts. “Rankin and Huxley both have more years than me,” Jack said.

  “And your point?”

  “Seniority.”

  “Seniority’s worth squat if you’re not the right person for the job.” Right again, Malone, Jack thought, wanting to move on to his story proposal. Malone would have to be sold on it first. “I’m thinking it’s time to take it back to the front lines in the drug war, Jamie,” Jack said. “Take the Cheerleader Murders to where the seeds were planted.”

  “Go on,” Malone said.

  Jack paused. “Denton’s got a lot invested politically. Then there’s his son.”

  “Latest numbers say he’s at forty-eight percent approval rating,” Malone cut in.

  “Forty-nine,” Jack corrected. “Everyone feels the man’s pain.” Jack walked to the bed, pushed newspapers out of the way to find the remote. The television flickered to life and he punched up CNN. He continued, “I’m thinking it’s time we went down there and got our hands dirty. You know the story – country disintegrating into lawlessness, violence, forty years of civil war. The cocaine economy. Everything.”

  “Don’t know about that, Jack,” Malone said, sucking even harder on his cigarette. “Lots of dead people down there, especially reporters. A guy got stabbed to death last week.”

  CNN was running visuals of Jack’s hand-to-hand with Diego. Nice take-down, he thought. Malone was purposely refusing to talk about the hostage drama because of the blowout on the telephone after it happened. “This is what I’m thinking,” he continued as if Malone hadn’t said anything. “We’ll put four or five minutes in the can, and use it when Denton plays his ace. Who knows? Maybe he’ll invade Colombia and we’ll all look like prophets.” Jack chuckled, though he knew it made perfect sense. Malone would have to agree.

  “Sure, Jack, turn Colombia into another Vietnam? You and I know there’s not much chance of that. Anyway, Carmichael will never go for it.” Malone dragged on his cigarette. “You’d be walking into a bloodbath. Besides, you’re not finished there yet.”

  That’s what Jack expected him to say. “Bring in McCoy.”

  “That’s not a good idea.”

  “Jamie.”

  “Listen. Ya know what I think of that guy. There’s no way I’m going to let him screw this story up too.”

  Jack stood up and walked to the window, then turned as the water was turned off in the shower. The bathroom door remained shut.

  “Jack, McCoy’d fuck up a funeral.”

  “That’s not funny,” Jack replied.

  “I’m serious.”

  And right about McCoy, Jack didn’t say. Jamie stopped a moment. Jack knew he was catching his breath, probably reaching for another cigarette. “Carmichael likes him,” Jack continued. “Someone to follow in my footsteps when I replace Simmons, right, Jamie?”

  “McCoy’s just plain stupid, you know it,” Malone said angrily. “Besides we’re missing the point here.”

  Jack knew this was coming. He grabbed his jacket and slapped at the pockets. No smokes. He’d quit a month ago but the habit was hanging on like a phantom limb. “What point?” He said after a moment.

  “None of the networks are touching Colombia. You know that…not even the Italian newsrooms and they’ll go anywhere. The more bang-bang the better.”

  “One of those newsrooms lost a photog in Kabul, didn’t they? It’s no wonder they’re gun-shy.” Jack heard the scratch of flint through the phone. Malone sucked deeply before responding. “Everyone’s gun-shy,” he said. “And this network can’t afford to lose its best reporter.”

  “Thanks for caring,” Jack said.

  “No worries. Anything for a friend.”

  Jack considered what to say next. The cheerleaders’ story was gaining momentum quickly, but nothing could be gained from pictures of coffins being lowered into the ground. The story was much bigger than that, much more complicated. Getting it might mean some danger pay. What the hell? It’s what Jack did. He’d already made up his mind. Better to ask for forgiveness than permission, he decided. But Jack wouldn’t leave an assignment uncovered because that was a career killer. “Bring in McCoy to do sidebars. The high school’s holding a memorial service tonight, the governor’s going to be there, the senator too.”

  “Jack.”

  “We’re gonna be full tilt with the other stuff,” Jack lied. “It’s a no-brainer. Even McCoy can handle it.” Jack knew he was making sense. The silence on the other end of the telephone meant Malone knew it too.

  “He’s a stupid asshole.”

  “Put him in front of the camera. He’ll say what he’s told. That’s what producers are for.”

  Malone ignored the remark and continued, “Speaking of producers, have Kaitlin call me as soon as you touch base with her.”

  “Sure…now what about McCoy?”

  “You win,” Malone surrendered.

  “Thanks, Jamie. You’re too hard on him.”

  “Whatever. Gotta keep Carmichael happy, I suppose.”

  “Now you’re getting it.”

  Jamie coughed, punctuating the end of their conversation, and then hung up.

  Jack was going to Colombia, because that’s where the story was now. It was going to create a huge headache for Jamie Malone for a couple of hours. But it was going to pay off in spades. Jack was sure of it. The story would take a couple of days at most and when Jack returned they’d have a ball-breaker. The other networks would shit when they saw the piece – especially the exclusive interview Jack intended to get with the leader of the FARC rebels. Jack was certain Jamie Malone would eventually thank him for showing the initiative, and would probably take a large measure of the credit for sending Jack in.

  Jack sipped his coffee and thought about the story. Kaitlin was going to love it. He was thinking about her when the bathroom door opened and Mona Lasing stepped into the bedroom, her hair and body wrapped snuggly in thick white towels.

  Mona allowed one of the towels to drop casually to the floor. Watched Jack’s face for his reaction.

  “Let me guess,” she said, “Malone mayhem.”

  “In spades,” Jack replied, taking in the full measure of her.

  “My guy’s a tornado too,” Mona said. “And if I don’t call him soon, he’ll have a stroke.”

  Jack frowned, then look
ed at her lustily. “He’ll survive.”

  Mona smiled back at him. “You’re insatiable and incorrigible.”

  “I’m a flawed man,” Jack replied. In pursuit of a huge story, he added silently to himself.

  SEVEN

  It was another perfect morning on the estate outside Medellin, where three of Colombia’s most vicious drug lords were assembled, soon to be joined by a man more powerful than the three of them combined, who had chosen to watch them for a full ten minutes from the window of his study while they waited impatiently.

  None of the three would have won any beauty contests, especially not Zebe Bonito and she was the only woman among them. She hadn’t always been repulsive. In fact men once paid good money for her. She’d been beautiful then but that was before the ridge of angry red flesh that snaked from below her right ear to the end of her narrow chin. Even her disfigurement didn’t blacken the memory of her first kill, when she fought savagely to fell the drunken fucker who had slashed her. Dropped him with his own knife in a motel room and emptied his pockets while he pumped out.

  Miguel, her “manager” was drunk when he sewed her wound shut with six-pound fishing line, oblivious to the muscle and delicate nerves that ran beneath her face. It was five years before she hunted him down, and returned the favour.

  Bonito gingerly traced the mangled flesh with the tip of a finger while studying the faces of the two others.

  Carlos Ruiz, the smiling fat man of Medellin, made small talk while Ungaro Alvarez of Cali sat ramrod straight and swiveled his head like a bird of prey searching for its next meal. Furtive eyes bracketed a beak of a nose.

  Montello’s man Suarez approached, gently placing a tray onto the marble table. He distributed fine porcelain cups and then positioned a silver carafe in front of them.

  “Senor Montello begs your forgiveness,” he said. “An important overseas call has delayed him.” He nodded his head, turned and retreated over freshly cut grass towards the main house.

  Ruiz poured for all of them and then sat back. “You’re looking well,” he said to Bonito with not a trace of sincerity in his voice and unable to take his eyes from her ruined face.

  She looked at him with undisguised loathing. “We’re fucked because of you,” Bonito spat.

  “Cordial as usual,” Ruiz said, wrapping stubby fingers around the dainty porcelain cup. “What about it, Alvarez?” he added, bringing the cup to his lips, slurping the thick brew. “I’m sure you have an opinion.”

  Alvarez stared elsewhere. “My opinion is shared with few, Ruiz… not you.”

  “Debate is healthy,” Ruiz replied.

  “I didn’t come here to debate,” Alvarez said. “What you have to say is of no consequence to me.”

  “Still, there is this problem of ours,” Ruiz added. “It can’t be ignored.”

  “The problem is yours, Ruiz,” Bonito barked, jabbing a finger in his direction. She swallowed the rest of her words, realized too late that he was trying to draw them out, to measure the strength of their positions.

  Ruiz looked only slightly disappointed. “What is it the Americans say?” He looked to one, then the other, grinning. “Shit happens.”

  “And soon it’ll be happening to us.” Alvarez sneered. “Don’t underestimate the Americans and their self-righteous president. Anger and grief are powerful incentives…Ruiz.”

  “There are new risks, I agree,” Ruiz replied. “But let’s not overreact.”

  Alvarez shifted his tall frame slightly. “Have you not been paying attention? They speak our names in the same breath as Hitler, Stalin… Hussein. And that was before your cousin’s little stunt in New Orleans. A fucking senator’s daughter was murdered!”

  Ruiz shifted to restore blood flow to the lower regions of his four hundred pound body. He continued to smile. In fact, in nearly every one of the DEA surveillance photographs of Carlos Ruiz, the Medellin drug lord has a smile on his face, displaying a mouthful of glistening white teeth like Chicklets embedded behind lips that resembled dew worms. He never shied from the camera, and once gave the finger to a DEA Blackhawk helicopter as it swept low over his mountain villa. Analysts who studied the photographs later laughed at the hairy fat man with the teeth, wearing a Speedo bathing suit like “ten pounds of shit in a five-pound bag.”

  Montello approached silently from across the lawn, unnoticed until he reached the table. “I see everyone’s here. Good,” he said as he sat. “Nice of you to come.” Montello pushed a button to raise a lead-lined patio umbrella and then reached for his coffee.

  His three guests cast perfunctory glances around the table, a trinity of blank faces that gave nothing away except their distrust of one another. None of them would engage in further pleasantries.

  “You’re already wasting our time, Montello.” It was Alvarez who spoke first, checking his watch, the birdman seemingly transfixed by its shiny gold strap.

  “That’s unlikely,” Montello responded, bringing the fine blue cup to his lips.

  Montello gazed across the lawn to the house where Suarez stood stone-like beneath a royal palm. He would waste no time. “You would be smart to listen,” Montello said, silently counting their bodyguards. “The Americans have been posturing again.”

  “Fuck them,” Bonito barked. “More empty threats.”

  “Normally, yes,” Montello agreed. “But this time there are additional incentives.” He pointed at Ruiz. “You, my friend, know that better than all of us.”

  “No one can hold me responsible for what happened.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” Montello said. “But it was your people who got sloppy.”

  “And they’re dead men,” Ruiz shot back. “They bring the DEA down on my house, I’ll eat their hearts.”

  Bonito wanted badly to lunge for the knife strapped around her ankle. Pin his jaw shut with the blade. No more shiny teeth.

  Montello smiled inwardly. The anger divided them. This was a good thing. Ordinarily what had happened in New Orleans would be inconsequential. Not now. Ruiz refused to understand the implications for all of them.

  “Why should we listen to you?” Ruiz displayed his wonderful teeth, looked to the others for agreement. “You would have us all devalue the product.” A look of smug contentment on his ruddy features.

  “To enlarge our market, Carlos,” Montello said with a forced smile. “Simple economics.”

  Ruiz slapped a thick meaty hand against the table. “You shifted how many loads last year, Montello? Twenty-five percent in excess of our output, I’ll wager. You’re paying less for your paste because you’ve got half the farmers in Colombia supplying your coca leaves, not to mention the Bolivian producers. You can afford to talk about lowering prices.”

  “Make the product more accessible,” Montello shot back like he was trying to instill common sense in a child. “Enlarge our markets, increase our profits.”

  Alvarez and Bonito both fixed their attention on Montello. None of this was the point of the meeting. None of it would matter if they didn’t deal with the problem at hand: how to defeat the extradition treaty and avoid ending up in an American prison.

  Ruiz waited a moment before speaking. “None of us needs a lesson in simple economics.”

  Montello wasn’t listening. Ruiz would never get it. None of it would matter if they couldn’t stop the forces which were aligning against them. Ruiz would be the only hold out. He was a liability.

  Montello’s demeanor shifted slightly. “You have no ability to appreciate the strengths we have as a unified organization. You forget the lessons taught us twenty years ago.”

  Alvarez and Bonito grunted agreement.

  Montello looked to both of them, saw the tide was shifting in his favour. The diffuse light beneath the umbrella seemed to soften the savaged flesh on Bonito’s face, but only slightly. Montello signaled Suarez in a gesture too insignificant for any of them to detect. “Six months from now the countryside will be crawling with US marines. None of us will be safe,” he said
, shifting his attention from one to the other. “They will bring their Rangers. They will rappel their Delta teams onto our heads. And they will finish us. What will markets, prices, or any of it matter then? That’s why we need the Russian.”

  “We have resources of our own,” Alvarez interrupted, sniffing the air with contempt. “We have the revolutionaries on our payrolls, enough money to supply more than they need to turn Colombia into another Vietnam. None of the Americans forgets Vietnam.” Alvarez swiveled his head, beady eyes locking on a pair of bright blue wings on currents of hot humid air over the tree line. The others nodded.

  “We’ve been through this before,” Bonito pronounced. “No one forgets the last time Bogotá decided we were not welcome in our own country. The violencia lasted for years.”

  “The three J’s,” Ruiz chirped up. “Judges, journalists and justice ministers. You remember how many died. The government’s surrender.”

  Montello looked slowly around the table. “Things are different now. Our enemies won’t be cowed. The American president’s using sacred terms like ‘national security.’ He’ll act, he’s got no choice.”

  One right-wing newspaper had even dredged up the name of the brazen Carlos Lehder. “Cocaine is Latin America’s Atomic bomb,” he had said once. Another editorialist had described crack as a “weapon of mass destruction.” Republican hawks were pushing for dramatic measures – maybe even a US-led invasion of Colombia. It was even possible the Pentagon was about to launch surgical strikes against Colombia’s drug barons. Those who survived would no doubt be brought before American judges. Montello understood the danger they faced as well as the dramatic measures that would be needed. The Russian had offered an insurance policy, and even though the price was outrageous, Montello had agreed. A lot had to be accomplished first, and time wasn’t a luxury they had.

  Montello leaned forward and shot his cuffs in a move designed to remind them who was in charge. “You saw what the Americans did in Iraq. Saddam’s forces were formidable, and in the end they pulled the little hairy man from a hole in the ground.”