The Devil to Pay

by Harold Robbins

  It was a regular Fort Knox.

  At the back was a large generator, the type used for running electrical equipment at large construction sites. The other huts didn’t have lights, but I could see from the setup that the generator provided lights, heat and air-conditioning, and whatever other uses in the lab that required electricity. A water tank had been set up next to the hut, with a pipe leading inside.

  A truck with a cargo area was next to the generator. The cargo doors were locked.

  So far I had learned exactly nothing. Water and electricity would be expected if the interior of the hut was being used to grow experimental coffee plants.

  I tried peering between slats of a louvered shutter. I could see light inside but couldn’t make out anything. The louvers were not heavy metal but felt like aluminum. I wondered if I could bend back one enough to see inside—and rebend it back into its original shape good enough so it wouldn’t be noticed.

  I stepped away from the window, shaking my head. I must be nuts! It would be pure insanity to do that. Whatever was going on inside involved Pablo Escobar … and the one thing Josh told me that I had complete faith in was that Escobar was a poisonous snake that struck if you crossed him.

  I started to walk away but swung back around. This is my property. I should be able to do what I damn well pleased. I didn’t have any choice—I was certain that whatever was going on in that hut was connected to Escobar nearly having me killed in Seattle; who else could reach that far?

  I might as well go back to Seattle and turn myself in if I was going to let fear of criminals keep me from getting to the truth.

  The hut next door, the one being used as a kitchen, was unlocked. I found a large kitchen knife I thought would do the job. Clutching the knife, I went back to the louvered shutter.

  Courage, girl. As I looked over the louvers, they didn’t appear to be difficult to bend. I could put the knife blade in, twist it to bend the slat up a little, peek in, and then tap the metal back down with the wooden handle. It would be a piece of cake.

  I stuck the knife in and twisted. The metal was harder than I thought. I couldn’t bend it. I stopped and picked up a rock about the size of my fist. Putting the knife blade back in, I banged on the handle to force it up against the louver.

  I was going to bang a second time when I heard the door to the hut being opened.

  Shit.

  I dropped the rock and the knife and flew into the bushes. I kept running, in pure mindless panic.

  Christ! Somebody had been in the building.

  I tripped and went down and got back up to my knees, my breath coming hard, my heart beating wildly.

  I heard someone in the bushes—it had to be a man by the way he was crashing through, heavy, violent, not the progress a woman would make.

  The foliage was thick. My only chance was to hide. It was easier not to be seen if I went down and lay perfectly still.

  That’s what I did, at the spot where I was, going flat on the dirt, barely breathing, listening to the person stomping and pushing through the growth.

  Then I heard nothing. He was probably standing still. Listening for me as I listened for him, not moving a muscle except to breathe, and doing little of that.

  I lay motionless, sure that my pounding heart could be heard beating like a jungle drum.

  I don’t know how much time passed, probably seconds, but it seemed like an eternity until I heard him moving again. Then I heard something else—the hack of a machete. Everybody on the plantation seemed to have one—whoever he was, he must have come out of the hut with one of those long, swordlike jungle tamers.

  That thought scared the hell out of me—he hadn’t even yelled when he came out the door to scare me off. He wanted to catch me. What did he intend to do? Chop my head off? My arms and legs so I could be questioned before I died? And who was he?

  I didn’t dare move my head up to get a look. I lay flat on the ground, trembling, terrified the blade being used to hack about the brush was going to slice into me.

  I had to wait it out—shit, something’s crawling up my leg.

  I was wearing long pants, but it had gotten inside a pant leg and onto my bare flesh. I could feel the creature on my skin, crawling up my leg, toward the inside of my thigh.

  I imagined a giant centipede, a big hairy spider, a scorpion; it could be any of those.

  The hacking grew closer. The thing in my pants reached my knee. I pressed my knees together, trying to crush it. I felt it backtrack and move about the blockage. It slipped by and onto my inner thigh.

  I smothered a scream.

  I couldn’t take it any longer—I leaned up a little so I could reach down and grabbed the thing in my pants, crushing it with my hand. I still didn’t know what it was.

  Before I could lie back down, the blade of the machete whacked the foliage next to me, inches from me.

  I screamed.

  First I saw the blade, raised above my head.

  Then the man.

  “You!”

  27

  Ramon Alavar stared down on me, his green eyes full of fire, the machete raised. My left arm instinctively went up in a defensive gesture, a useless one against a machete, but mostly I just froze, paralyzed, gaping up at him.

  The machete trembled, as if he was fighting an urge to use it—or not. His features also wrestled with emotions.

  “Hello,” I squeaked.

  He slowly unwound, the tension visibly draining out of him, the machete slowly lowering, until it was at his side.

  I got off the ground, shaking my leg to get the dead creature out—a big bug, hard-shelled, like a giant cockroach. I brushed off my clothes as Ramon stared at me, machete still at the ready.

  “If you’re not going to murder me, why don’t you relax? You look like you’re going to chop off my head.” My voice came out much calmer than I felt.

  He smiled. A beautiful smile, the perfect white teeth you see on movie stars. Damn, why did he have to be so handsome.

  “What were you doing?” he asked.

  “I own this place. I was trying to see what you were doing.”

  He seemed to reflect on my comment as we walked slowly back toward the hut. We were nearly there when he said, “You’re lying. You didn’t know anyone was inside; you wouldn’t have made all that noise if you had.” He stopped and faced me, appraisingly. “You were breaking into the hut.”

  “True, but what exactly were you doing in the hut?”

  He smiled, beautifully again. “I asked you first.”

  “I own this property.” I kept repeating the claim of ownership in the hopes that would impress him.

  “But I have the machete. I’m afraid in my country, that beats mere legal title.”

  I stopped and faced him. “All right, the truth. Everyone’s pretty vague about how the chemists are coming along with their work developing a decaffeinated coffee tree. I was told that if they’re successful, it would be worth a lot of money.

  “I don’t want to go into it, but I have some very pressing problems back home that require money to resolve. I’d like to know more about how far they’ve gotten in developing the plant … and no one will tell me anything.”

  I was certain he knew exactly what my problems back home were. No doubt he was on the long list of conspirators that had created them, but this wasn’t a time to sound like I knew too much—which of course, I didn’t anyway.

  He pursed his lips and slowly shook his head. “You’re probably only telling me half the truth, but I am easily fooled by beautiful women.”

  Now that I knew his attraction to me on the plane was planned, I wasn’t ready to swoon when he called me beautiful. But it did make my heart skip a beat.

  “It’s your turn,” I said.

  “My reasons are different, but like you, I have a pressing need for money. Sadly, I was more familiar with raising polo ponies than managing my properties and investments. As an official with the coffee administration, I’m well aware that
attempts are being made to produce a decaffeinated bean, not just here, but in several places. If I had some, uh, shall we say, insider information, about a successful process, my financial problems would go away and I could go back to petting my ponies and women.”

  We walked again, as he talked. There was a certain amount of callous sincerity in his version. He was the type who probably did squander a fortune, polo ponies were unquestionably more up his line than investments, and he appeared shallow enough to steal someone else’s hard work.

  Plus he had the machete.

  He said, “As you might imagine, a coffee bean grown naturally without caffeine would have an instant market. Are you familiar with how coffee is decaffeinated?”

  “A little.”

  Coffee was decaffeinated before it was roasted to preserve flavors—but even at that, decaffeination resulted in some loss of flavor. Even after processing, decaf still had caffeine in it because it was considered decaffeinated if 97 percent of the caffeine was removed.

  I avoided decaf coffee because I never knew how it was being processed—even if told, I wasn’t sure if I could trust the information.

  The traditional way coffee had been decaffeinated was by the use of a solvent, usually methylene chloride or ethyl acetate—basically paint removers. The beans were steamed to raise their moisture level, bringing the caffeine to the surface, and then were washed in the solvent and then resteamed to remove the solvent.

  Methylene chloride was flat-out toxic. Incredibly, decaffeination with ethyl acetate, which is volatile and flammable, was considered a “natural” process because the substance is found in some fruits. The FDA permits the use of the chemicals because it claims little residue of the toxins is left in the process. Of course, that’s the same FDA that had approved numerous drugs that sometimes kill when swallowed.

  Some American roasters had stopped using the solvents and were using carbon dioxide or a water process, both of which were considered natural processes. But I preferred my coffee with caffeine, anyway.

  I also knew that besides the Soong-Sanchez project there were frantic efforts being made to produce a decaffeinated bean in other parts of the world. In the coffee business, producing a bean that didn’t have caffeine in it was like the fabled dream of untold riches that medieval alchemists had about making gold.

  Deep down, I had hoped that the two scientists were producing a caffeine-free bean and that even after being robbed by Escobar there would be enough money left over to save the plantation and fight my Seattle problems.

  Ramon said, “As you know, regardless of how it’s done, it involves an expensive process. Discovery of a bean decaffeinated right off the tree would be worth tens of millions of dollars. Coffee is my country’s biggest crop, so naturally, our government is very interested in the process.”

  He gave me another brilliant smile.

  I gave him a sour grin. “A moment ago you said you were interested because you needed the money.”

  “Like you, there are many levels and lies to my actions. But as you norteamericanas would say, let’s get down to the bottom line. Like you, I was doing a bit of spying.”

  We had walked to where a man was waiting in a Jeep Cherokee.

  We paused before we reached the vehicle and Ramon said, “I must ask two favors of you. Don’t tell anyone that you found me in the hut. People interested in the process might take offense—Colombian style.”

  “I really can’t tell without exposing myself, can I?”

  “Very true,” he said, flashing his smile. “The other favor is that you have dinner with me.”

  I nodded. “On one condition. That you tell me why you went through all the trouble of trying to lure me into a car with Sca—Pablo’s friend, Jorge.”

  I knew better than to ask the stupid question. I might as well have come right out and asked why he was trying to kidnap me in Bogotá. So I did.

  “Was I to be just kidnapped? Murdered?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? Plata o plomo.”

  “You’re on Pablo Escobar’s payroll?” That was a no-brainer.

  “Oh, nothing so crude. I’m from a prominent old family, with many social and financial connections. We do not take money from nouveau riche like Escobar. Not at least in so crass a manner as an open bribe. What happens, instead, is we do a favor … and a discreet package arrives at our back door. If you have been helpful, it is full of pesos. And if you haven’t, you find your firstborn’s head—”

  He laughed at my expression of disgust.

  “Just joking; the point is, I’m not on his payroll. However, I’ve been using my authority as an official with the coffee ministry to make sure the plantation is not bothered by inspectors so the work in the huts can go on in secret.”

  Some secret; everyone on the plantation knew experimenting was being done to develop the plant.

  “Also, because of my connections in the government and society, I hear things. And sometimes I pass on to Pablo what I hear. In your case, I was going to Panama City on government business. I had spoken to Pablo earlier because he wanted to carry a message to an official in the Canal Zone. To be crass, it was a customs official turning his head so he wouldn’t see tons of cocaine going through.

  “I was about to board in Bogotá when Pablo called and asked me to take the same return flight you were on. My understanding is that Jorge had never gotten the opportunity to sit down and negotiate a selling price for the plantation.”

  “I don’t think his idea of negotiations is taught in business school.”

  Ramon laughed. “No, you’re right, but you would have been safe with me. Bogotá is not Medellín. But now you must let me make it up to you. Please, come to my casa for dinner.”

  I didn’t realize he lived in the area. How could I refuse? He was lying to me; I was lying to him; maybe if we talked enough, I’d learn something that slipped out of the cracks. Besides, he was a perfectly gorgeous man.

  “I need to stop by the house, grab a wrap, and let Juana know I won’t be home for dinner.”

  “I’ll have the driver take you while I wait here. It’s better that I am not seen at the plantation.”

  A half an hour later, the SUV carrying us to Ramon’s casa pulled up to a small airplane parked off a dirt road.

  “What’s this?”

  “A golden carriage with wings to take you to my casa.”

  “How did you land here?”

  “At this point, the road is straight and reasonably smooth. It only takes a moment to get into the air.”

  “This is insane.”

  “No, this is Colombia. I can cover in two hours by air what would take two days by car.” He took my arm. “When you get above the Andes, the sight is amazing. These are great mountains, some several miles high, and lush valleys. You will think you died and went to heaven.”

  I let him pull me to the plane, but I didn’t fool myself—the pearly gates weren’t going to be my destination when I gave up the ghost. I had been paving a road to hell for a long time.

  28

  Soaring over mountains miles high in a small plane gave me thrills I hadn’t experienced since riding on very large roller coasters when I was a little girl. There was no comparison with flying encased in a commercial airliner. The small plane gave stunning bird’s-eye views. It gave me the sensation of being able to step out and walk on the clouds.

  A little over an hour in flight we went beyond mountains and soared over a vast savannah.

  “Los Llanos,” Ramon said.

  Like the cattle country in Texas, pampas in Argentina, the Llanos was a grassland that stretched forever. I saw rivers and scattered trees, but its most prominent feature was its very lack of physical attributes.

  “My country has jungles, mountains, lush valleys—now you see our other prominent landscape, our great plains. Little is down there; it can be very hot and treeless; it lacks large populations, industry, and farmlands. What it doesn’t lack is cattle. My family has been raising cattle
on our hacienda for over two centuries, since before your Declaration of Independence was signed.”

  The ranch’s grand casa topped a small hill. More than a house, the dun-covered grand casa was a complex. From the air I could see the square-shaped main house, surrounded by high walls, occupied less than half of the space within the walls.

  “There are stables for our horses, a blacksmith shop, storage bins for food and water,” he said.

  “It looks like a fortress.”

  “For good reason. The Llanos is sparsely populated. It’s long been the rule that a family could own only as much land as they could defend. It is no longer the Wild West, but in my country, one must still show strength or the vultures will tear out your liver.”

  Below it was a small village, set next to a river, for the vaqueros who worked the cattle.

  “How big is your hacienda?”

  “It extends for six miles up the river and three to four in width.”

  As the plane was coming in for a landing on a narrow strip that didn’t look much different from the dirt road we’d taken off from, I thought about how much different my own country was from much of the rest of the world. Most of the “class” differences in the States were based upon money—in other places, social differences often had as much to do with heritage, with ancestors weighing in more than bank accounts.

  Just as Carlos had been the patrón of Casa de Oro, spoken of by the workers and colonos with greater respect than just a landowner would get, Ramon was the hacienda’s patrón. From the moment we stepped off the plane, I could see from the attitude of the driver of a station wagon waiting for us that “Don Ramon” was not just the owner of the hacienda but the master of it.

  Like the workers on the coffee plantation, those on the cattle ranch didn’t so much count their seniority by years as by generations.

  I assumed that despite the huge size, like the coffee plantation, the hacienda provided more reward from pride of ownership and maintaining traditions than financial rewards. Unless one struck oil, these places usually made one “land rich” rather than rich in spending money. And Ramon struck me as a man who needed more than pocket change.