The Devil to Pay

by Harold Robbins

  “Cesar was raised with the stigma of being a bastardo. I think that is why he so resented Carlos, why he has never loved the plantation. Carlos never accepted him in the way that he wanted, by marrying his mother. And it’s why, in the end, he taunted Carlos that he would destroy it. He knew Carlos loved the plantation over everything else. Like your mother, Carlos was a great person, but he was not perfect.”

  “I wish … I wish Carlos had contacted me. I would have liked to have met him.”

  Tears formed in Juana’s eyes. “By the time he was ready to meet you, it was too late. He was very sick, thin and pale. He did not want you to see him in that condition.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  I nearly jumped out of my chair. Juana was as startled as I was.

  Josh had entered the kitchen without us noticing him.

  43

  “Are you fuckin’ crazy? You weren’t supposed to come back here.”

  I got up so fast, my chair went over backward. “You have no right to talk to me that way.”

  “Like hell I don’t; I risked my life warning you in Shanghai. You should have gone back home.”

  “Please, don’t yell at her,” Juana said.

  “It’s okay.” I gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Everything’s going to be all right. I need to talk to Josh alone. I’ll be back in a little while.”

  He went out the door first and I flew by him. I wanted him out of her hearing. When we were a safe distance, I jumped on him.

  “I appreciate your call, but why didn’t you warn me before I was arrested and nearly murdered.”

  “I told you before you went, go back home—”

  “I can’t go home! You don’t know—”

  “I do know what happened in Seattle, and so does everyone else in Colombia, including Cesar and Escobar. But that’s been cleared up. You’re not a suspect.”

  “What do you mean, I’m not a suspect? How do you know?”

  “I have my sources; so do they; they’ve been keeping tabs on things. A security camera at a bank ATM near your store picked up Jorge passing money to the arsonist before the guy went in and blew himself up.”

  “Cesar arranged to blow up my place in Seattle, with me along with it.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “He got Escobar to do his dirty work for him.”

  “No, I think he told Escobar that Carlos had left you the property and Escobar arranged it himself. Escobar doesn’t do anyone’s dirty work for them; he murders solely for his own profit.”

  “So why didn’t he just have me killed when I arrived here?”

  He shrugged. “Who knows? No one can figure out Escobar. Maybe he decided he didn’t need any more bad American press. Maybe he liked the idea of you and Cesar at each other’s throats. Maybe—”

  “There are thousands of coffee farms; why doesn’t Escobar get another one?”

  “These are questions the oracle at Delphi couldn’t have answered. I think Cesar was stupid enough to contact someone close to Escobar for financial help when the bank started breathing down his neck. Hell, maybe Escobar owns the damn bank that carries the note on the plantation; he has a piece of almost everything in the region that makes a profit. Regardless of how it happened, once Escobar decided he had a need for the plantation, Cesar had to cooperate or kiss his ass good-bye. Making a deal with Escobar is worse than dealing with the devil. The devil only wants your soul; Escobar takes your ass, too.”

  “I think Cesar is up to his eyeballs in drugs. Lily Soong was involved and he was involved with her.”

  “That came later. Escobar sent him to meet with the triad in Shanghai. He met up with Lily there.”

  “So Cesar is involved.”

  “He got drafted. Escobar makes the kinds of offers that are hard to refuse—if you want to keep on breathing. Don’t forget Juana. If Cesar stepped out of line, he would come home and find Juana raped and chopped into pieces. I told you, don’t keep making the mistake of thinking in civilized terms. Even the Mafia doesn’t do the stuff Escobar does.”

  “How does a gem smuggler know so much about Escobar and his business? What are you, his local spy? Is that what you do, keep him informed of what’s going on at the plantation?”

  “Look, go home. Get married—if you can find someone dumb enough to marry you.”

  “Go to hell. I have a contract for a million pounds of coffee and it’s just a start. I’m not going anywhere. Pablo Escobar can take his dirty business somewhere else. He’s not going to run me off my own plantation.”

  “Are you completely nuts? You’re not talking about a sane person. Escobar’s a ruthless murderer; he kills cops and presidents; he’d swat you like a fly on a window.”

  “Maybe I’m not as stupid as you think I am. There’s one thing that Pablo Escobar can’t take, and that’s the heat. The police and army in this country are hunting for him, along with our DEA, and looking under every rock they can find. Before I came back, I told them where to look next.”

  “What’d you mean?”

  “I was bluffing last time when I said a friend would notify the world if something happened to me. Now I’ve sent a fax to the minister of justice and the American ambassador in Bogotá, and to the DEA in Washington, telling them that Escobar is trying to take over my plantation.”

  “Holy Mother of God.” He pounded his fists on his forehead. “Tell me you didn’t do that, you really didn’t—”

  “He isn’t going to show up around here because everybody in the world will be looking for him here.”

  He shook his head, wide-eyed, awed, terrified. “You’re not stupid; you’re completely mentally deranged. You need to be institutionalized—you’re going to get us all killed.”

  I stepped up and jabbed my finger against his chest. “I want you off my property or the next fax will be to those emerald mine owners you’ve been stealing from. I don’t know what your game is, but as far as I’m concerned, you know too much to be innocent.”

  He headed for his Jeep. “I’m leaving, all right, to see if there’s anything I can do to head off a total disaster.” He got behind the wheel and shouted at me, “I’ll be back in an hour or two; you better be ready to go. I’m taking you to the airport; you’re flying home.”

  His tires kicked dirt as he gave the Jeep the gas.

  Juana was on the veranda. “Nash, what he said about Don Pablo, is he going to kill us all?”

  I took a deep breath to calm my nerves. “Escobar is a mad dog. The only way to deal with him is with a bigger gun than he has. I don’t have a gun, but the government and my country’s DEA people do. There has to be easier prey than us if we have police and army around waiting for him.”

  “But what about his chemists, whatever work they’re doing for him?”

  “I’ve already thought of that. I’m going to tell them to leave.”

  “Will they listen to you?”

  “They will if I put a fire under them.”

  I asked her to go back inside the house and start dinner. It would give her something to do while I started a fire. Literally.

  44

  Five-gallon gas cans were stored behind the toolshed near the main house. I pulled the Nash out of the garage and stopped to put a can into the trunk.

  It was a short drive to the huts where the Chinese and Colombian chemists conducted whatever alchemy skullduggery they were up to. No one was outside when I drove up. The metal front door was closed and the generator outside was running.

  I took the can out of the trunk and was pouring gas around the base of the wood hut when Dr. Soong came out. He must have heard my car drive up.

  He stared at me and said something in very bad Spanish, but I caught the gist of it—he wanted to know what I was doing.

  “Burning down the place,” I said, in English. “I’m burning out you crooked bastards so you get off my property.”

  I don’t think he understood me, but he got the idea when he saw th
e match in my hand.

  He ran, yelling for Sanchez.

  I tossed the match and ran for the Nash. The two chemists came outside and stood and screamed nonsense at me.

  I gave them the proverbial finger as I drove off. Not very ladylike, but I can’t describe the enjoyment I got out of giving it.

  The wooden hut burned nicely and I was confident that the fire wouldn’t spread far, hopefully just to the nearby huts. It had rained in the wee hours, and the coffee trees and canopy were too damp to burn. Or so I hoped.

  Of course, with my luck, I would destroy the heart of the coffee region and find myself on the country’s Most Wanted List.

  45

  I stood on the veranda with Juana, watching the smoke from the distant huts slowly fade, when Josh returned in his Jeep. He came into the yard at high speed, another car, a decade-old Oldsmobile, behind him. A Colombian was driving the Olds.

  Josh was grim. He stopped in front of us and got out of the Jeep, slamming the door behind him.

  I stared at him with contempt. “I ordered you off the property.”

  “I’m out trying to put out fires and you’re starting them with gas. Why didn’t you just send Escobar an invitation to your bonfire? Juana, pack your bag. You, too,” he said to me. “You have five minutes.”

  “I’m not—”

  “I’m taking Juana to someplace safe; Jose is taking you to the airport at Medellín.”

  “It is that bad?” Juana asked.

  “Worse. I’ve sent another man to warn the foremen to make sure they and the workers stay away from the plantation.”

  Josh was so cold and grim, my confidence suddenly evaporated. I stared at him, unsure of what to do.

  He spoke quietly, calmly. “Nash, you don’t realize what you’ve done. You haven’t just put yourself into danger. What do you think Escobar’s men will do when they come here? They’ll kill everyone in sight. Everybody knows that, except you. The only way these people can avoid being murdered is if you disappear.”

  “Cesar will be in danger,” Juana said.

  “I got a message to him; he’s on his way back. I’ve arranged for him to meet me rather than returning here. We have to figure out how to pacify Escobar.”

  I didn’t know what to say. It never occurred to me that Escobar might send killers to murder workers and their families. I felt like a rubber doll that had been deflated, all my courage and confidence gone.

  My God, what have I done?

  “Get packed.”

  Trying to keep my voice level, I said, “I haven’t unpacked.”

  I got my bag and slowly walked to the Olds. Josh and Jose were waiting.

  I paused in front of Josh with my head hung down. “I really made a mess of things, didn’t I?”

  “The hopelessly insane aren’t responsible for their actions.” He gave me a big hug.

  I started crying. Damn it, I didn’t want to, but I realized all my bravado did was bring hell down on the plantation.

  “I’m sorry, I’m so stupid.”

  He held me at arm’s length. “Just get out of Dodge before sunset. I’ll try to soothe things over with El Beneficiador. Who knows? Maybe the police or his enemies will get him before he gets even.”

  I hugged him, holding on tight until he pushed me back. “You have to go. And, please, go along with the program for once in your life. When you’re safely out of the country, let me know how to contact you.”

  I kissed him. “You know, if you weren’t a common criminal, I could grow to love you.”

  “I am not a common criminal.”

  * * *

  I WASN’T IN any mood for small talk on the way to Medellín. Josh made me wear a bandana and pair of sunglasses. I thought it made me look like an American woman hiding her identity from Colombian killers, but after screwing up everything, I wasn’t in any position to object.

  I spoke little to Jose as we drove. He appeared a bit nervous. I didn’t blame him—so was I.

  I got out in front of the airline terminal and had started toward the doors when a man approached me with a partially unfolded map.

  “Senorita, my eyes are too old; can you assist me?”

  As I turned to him, he stuck the map in my face and blew on it, sending a fine powder at me. I stepped back in surprise, gasping, my eyes burning. Strong hands grabbed my arms and I was propelled into a black SUV waiting at the curb.

  I wanted to say something, to scream, struggle, but thoughts swirled in my head like a tornado.

  * * *

  JOSE SLOWED DOWN and watched in his rearview mirror as Nash was hustled into the SUV.

  “Dios mio!”

  He crossed himself and hit the gas pedal.

  46

  Jorge rubbed the scar on his neck as he sat in the backseat of the SUV and stared at Nash beside him. The old wound itched during times of excitement and stress.

  Nash was dazed and submissive. Almost in a catatonic state, her body appeared awake but her eyes and face blank. She had inhaled enough of the drug to capture her mind—a little more and she would have lapsed into a deep sleep.

  Jorge hated her. She had humiliated him, causing Escobar and other members of the cartel to laugh at the way she had easily slipped away. But this time she wasn’t going to slip away. And he would get his revenge. He would kill her when Don Pablo was through with her.

  He placed a mobile phone call to Escobar, a quick call in which no names were used. “Bueno,” good, was all he said before he hung up.

  He didn’t know how much “boo” she had inhaled but knew it didn’t take a lot for it to take effect. Boo was the cartel’s name for burundanga. He’d never inhaled the stuff himself, but he’d been told it was tasteless and odorless. It was produced by trees that could be cultivated but grew wild around Bogotá. Mothers warned their children not to play under the borrachero tree, the drunken tree. The pollen was said to conjure up strange dreams.

  Processed in a laboratory, as the two chemists had been doing at the Café de Oro plantation, the drug scopolamine could be drawn from it. Scopolamine had medical uses as a motion sickness drug and in the past was used as an anesthesia. But its use to the cartel was in its resale value as a street drug. Because it caused unconsciousness, submissive behavior, and amnesia, it was used by Colombian criminals to gain control of victims. Drinks could be doped, the powder blown in one’s face and even put into food and cigarettes. Once victims became pliable, they were robbed, raped, or kidnapped, whatever evil the crook had in mind.

  The drug made one so compliant, it was used by intelligence and police agencies as a truth serum. And because it also created complete amnesia while a person was under its influence, it was used as a date-rape drug and by prostitutes to rob johns. Whores had been known to smear it on their breasts for men to lick.

  Boo not only made people submissive; it removed inhibitions, even sexual ones. Women put under its control were gang-raped without resistance and even placed in prostitution.

  As it was a potent drug, a tiny amount went a long way. Strapped for money, Escobar’s cartel saw it as a new cash crop, with a huge infusion of money from the Far East, where it would become the newest toy in the robbery—and blackmail—of tourists.

  A man in the front passenger seat turned and asked Jorge, “What do you think? Did she get a big enough dose of it to stay quiet for hours?”

  “There’s one way to find out, isn’t there?”

  Jorge unzipped his pants and pulled out his penis. It was already throbbing and inflating. He had been thinking about what he planned to do once he had her.

  He pulled Nash’s head down to his lap.

  47

  Josh sat in his Jeep and drank beer as he listened to the sound of the approaching vehicle. He was parked in front of a hut he used occasionally when he wanted to disappear and get a good night’s sleep and not have to worry about any enemies paying him a nocturnal visit. The hut had felt warm and claustrophobic, so he sat in the topless Jeep instead as he
pondered his next move.

  From the squeal of a vehicle’s new brakes going too fast over the narrow, rutted dirt road he knew Cesar’s Toyota Land Cruiser was approaching. Just in case Cesar wasn’t the only one in the SUV, Josh kept his hand on the trigger of an Uzi he had covered on his lap under a folded poncholike ruana.

  When he saw that Cesar was alone, Josh took his hand off the trigger and put it back on the beer he was drinking.

  Cesar flew out of the car, leaving the motor running and the driver’s door open. He stalked up to Josh, fists clenched, features dark.

  “That bitch will get us all killed. She better not—”

  “Pablo has her.”

  That stopped him. “How do you know?”

  “Jose saw her kidnapped at the airport.”

  He stared at Josh. “She’s dead, for sure.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then she’ll wish she was.” Cesar stared at Josh. “You like her, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, I like her. And she’s your sister; don’t forget that.”

  Cesar struggled with the statement, as if it were an accusation rather than a fact. “She brought it down on herself, on all of us.”

  “The fuckin’ system in this country brought it down on her and everyone else. And you’re part of it.”

  “I didn’t know; I thought they’d just cause her some trouble in Seattle, get her to sell cheap to me. It’s my place; I was born here; I worked here my whole life; that bastard didn’t have the right to give it to her; I earned it.”

  “So you sicced Escobar on her.”

  “Not deliberately. In return for Jorge getting her to sell, I said I’d cut him in for a piece of the sun farm I planned to put in. Next thing I knew, he brought Pablo around and the bastard staked a claim on the plantation in order to produce boo for the Asian gangs. He even made me go to Shanghai, almost got me killed.” He wiped sweat off his face. “I killed a man; did you know that? I killed a Chinese in Shanghai.”