Queen of the South

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  Impossible to go to the police, or back to the Cherokee with its leather seats—that ancestral Sinaloa taste for the all-terrain SUV—that was parked in the underground lot at the Plaza de la Marina. Think, she told herself again. Think, or you could die before the day’s out. She looked around, confused and feeling helpless. She was in the Plaza de la Constitución, a few steps from the Hotel Larios. Sometimes she and Patty, when they were out shopping, would have a drink in the bar on the second floor, a pleasant place from which they could look out over—keep under surveillance, in this case—a good bit of the street. The hotel, of course. Órale. She took her cell phone out of her purse as she entered the hotel. Beep, beep, beep. This was a problem that only Oleg Yasikov could solve.

  It was hard for her to get to sleep that night. She would jump awake, startled, and more than once she heard a voice moaning in the darkness, discovering when she came awake that it was her own. Images of the past and present mingled in her head: Gato Fierros’ smile, the burning sensation between her thighs, the blasts of a Colt Double Eagle, the half-naked flight through the shrubbery that scratched her legs. Like yesterday, like right now, it seemed. At least three times she heard one of Yasikov’s bodyguards knocking on her bedroom door. Tell me you’re all right, señora. Do you need anything?

  Before sunrise she got up and dressed and went out into the living room. One of the men was nodding on the couch and the other one raised his eyes from a magazine before rising to his feet, slowly. A cup of coffee, señora? A drink? Teresa shook her head and went to sit beside the window that overlooked the port of Estepona. Yasikov had put the apartment at her disposal. Stay as long as you want, he said. And avoid going home until everything blows over. The two bodyguards were middle-aged, heavyset, and quiet. One with a Russian accent and the other without any sort of accent at all, because he never opened his mouth. Both without identity. Telki, Yasikov called them. Soldiers. Taciturn men who moved slowly and whose professional eyes seemed to take in everything at once. They had not left her side since they walked into the hotel bar without attracting attention, one with a gym bag over his shoulder, and accompanied her—the one who talked asked her first, softly and politely, to describe the pistoleros—to a Mercedes with blacked-out windows that was waiting outside. Now the gym bag was open on the table, and inside it gleamed the bluing of a Skorpion machine pistol.

  She saw Yasikov the next morning. “We’re going to try to solve this problem,” he told her. “Meanwhile, try not to show yourself in public. And now it would be useful if you would explain just exactly what’s going on. Yes. What account these men are here to collect. I want to help you, but I can’t make enemies for no reason, or interfere in the affairs of people I might be doing other business with. Nyet. If this is just Mexicans, I don’t care, because I can’t lose anything there. No. But if it’s Colombians I need to stay on good terms. Yes.”

  “They’re Mexicans,” said Teresa. “From Culiacán, Sinaloa. My pinche hometown.”

  “Then I don’t care,” Yasikov replied. “I can help you.”

  So Teresa lit a cigarette, and then another and another, and for almost an hour told her interlocutor everything about the period of her life that for a while she had thought was over forever: Batman Güemes, don Epifanio Vargas, Güero Dávila’s off-the-books shipments, his death, her flight from Culiacán, Melilla, Algeciras.

  “That fits the rumors I’d heard,” Oleg said when she had finished. “Except for you, we never see Mexicans here. No. Your success in business must have refreshed their memory.”

  They decided that Teresa would go on living a normal life—I can’t be locked up, she had said; I spent enough time in a cell in El Puerto—but taking precautions, and with Yasikov’s two telki beside her night and day. “You should also carry,” the Russian suggested. But she refused: “No way. I’m clean and I want to stay clean. Illegal possession is all those assholes need to throw me in prison again.” After thinking about it, Yasikov agreed. “Be careful, then,” he said. “And I’ll take care of the rest.”

  Teresa was careful. During the next week she lived with the bodyguards as virtually a second skin, avoided being seen in public too much, and stayed away from her home—a luxury apartment in Puerto Banús, which around this time she was considering replacing with a house on the seashore, in Guadalmina Baja—and it was Patty who went back and forth with clothes, books, and other necessities.

  “Bodyguards, just like in the movies,” Patty would say.

  She spent a great deal of time with Teresa, talking or watching TV, the coffee table dusted with white powder, before the inexpressive eyes of Yasikov’s two men. After a week, Patty turned to them and said, “Merry Christmas”—it was the middle of March—and put two thick wads of bills on the table, next to the bag with the Skorpion in it. “A little present. For you. To thank you for how well you’re taking care of my friend.”

  “We’re paid,” said the one who spoke, after looking at the money and then at his comrade. And it occurred to Teresa that either Yasikov paid his people very well or they had a lot of respect for him. Maybe both. She never learned what their names were. Patty always called them Pixie and Dixie.

  The two packages have been located,” Yasikov reported. “A colleague who owes me some favors just called. I’ll let you know what happens.” He spoke to Teresa by phone the day before the meeting with the Italians, giving the news no apparent importance, in the course of a conversation about other matters.

  Teresa was with her people, planning the purchase of eight thirty-foot rubbers that would be stored in a large warehouse in an industrial park in Estepona until they were to be launched. When she got off the phone she lit a cigarette to give herself some time, wondering how her friend the Russian was going to solve this problem. Patty looked at her. Sometimes, Teresa decided irritatedly, it’s like she can read my fucking mind.

  Teo was in the Caribbean, and Eddie, relegated to an administrative role, was overseeing the bank paperwork in Gibraltar. So besides Patty, two new board members for Transer Naga were present: Farid Lataquia and Dr. Ramos. Lataquia was a Lebanese Maronite who owned an import firm, the front for his real activities, which amounted to getting his hands on things that people needed. Small, charming, nervous, his hair thinning at the crown of his head but compensated for by a bushy moustache, he had made some money in arms trafficking during the Lebanese war—he was married to a Gemayel daughter—and he now lived in Marbella. Given enough money, personnel, and equipment, he could find anything. Thanks to him, Transer Naga had reliable transport for cocaine: old fishing boats from Huelva, private yachts or over-the-hill low-tonnage merchant vessels that before loading salt in Torrevieja would pause on the high seas to take on drugs that had entered Morocco via the Atlantic, and in certain cases act as feeder ships to speedboats operating off the eastern coast of Andalucía.

  As for Dr. Ramos, he had been a physician in the merchant marine, and he was Transer Naga’s tactical officer: he planned operations, specified loading and drop-off points, designed diversionary tactics, camouflage. In his fifties, with gray hair, tall and very thin, careless in his dress and, apparently, his personal hygiene, he always wore old knit cardigans, flannel shirts, and wrinkled pants. He smoked old pipes with burned-out bowls, filling them slowly and deliberately—he was the calmest man in the world—with an English tobacco he carried in its original tin, which, with the keys, coins, lighters, tamps, and other unpredictable objects he always had about him, made his pockets lumpy and deformed. Once, when he pulled out a handkerchief—embroidered with his initials, as in the old days—Teresa saw a miniature flashlight on a Danone yogurt promotional keychain fall out. He sounded like a metal-recycling truck when he walked.

  “A single ID,” the doctor was saying. “All the Zodiacs with the same registration and name. Identical, for all practical purposes. And since we’ll put them in the water one by one, there’s not the slightest problem. On each trip, once they’re loaded, you take the ID tag off and t
hey’re anonymous. To be even safer, we can abandon them afterward, or have somebody pick them up. Pay us for them, of course. So we can make back part of our investment.”

  “Isn’t it risky, all with the same registration?”

  “Like I say, they’ll go in the water one by one. When A is on an operation, we’ll put the number on B. That way, since they’re all alike, we’ll always have one tied up at the pier, clean. Officially, it won’t ever have moved from there.”

  “What about port security?”

  Dr. Ramos’ face betrayed only the slightest smile, of sincere modesty. That was also his specialty: harbor police, mechanics, sailors. He haunted the docks, parking his old Citroën Deux Chevaux anywhere, chatting with anyone he ran into, his pipe between his teeth and that absentminded, respectable, avuncular appearance of his. He had a little motorboat in Cabopino that he went fishing in. He knew every spot along the coast and every soul between Málaga and the mouth of the Guadalquivir.

  “That’s under control. No one will give us any trouble. Of course, they might come in from outside to investigate, but I can’t cover that flank. Outside security is not within my purview.”

  Teresa took care of that aspect herself, through Teo and some of Patty’s contacts. One-third of Transer Naga’s income went to “public relations” on both sides of the Strait; politicians, government personnel, state security agents. The key was in negotiating—depending on the situation—with either information or money. Teresa never forgot the lesson of Punta Castor, and she had let some sizable shipments be intercepted—overhead, she called it—in order to throw good publicity in the way of the director of the Costa del Sol organized-crime section, Commissioner Nino Juárez, an old friend of Teo Aljarafe’s. The various regions of the Guardia Civil also benefited from privileged information and lowered operational security to make interceptions and boost their statistics. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours—and suddenly, you owe me one. Or several.

  There were a few lower-ranking officials, police officers, and Civil Guardsmen on whom this sort of delicacy was wasted; with them, a trusted contact would simply lay a sheaf of banknotes on the table, and that was that. Not everyone let themselves be bought, but even then, unit solidarity tended to kick in. It was rare for an officer to rat out a colleague, except in the most egregious cases. Besides, the line between drug running and fighting crime was sometimes not all that clear; many people worked both sides at once—paying informers with drugs, for instance—and money was the only rule that was never broken.

  With regard to certain local politicians, not much tact was needed there, either. Teresa, Patty, and Teo had dinner several times with Tomás Pestaña, the mayor of Marbella, to talk about the rezoning of several pieces of land they were interested in building on. Teresa had quickly learned that the more profits you brought to those you deal with, the more support they gave you. In the end, it was in the interest of even the guy in the corner store that you run drugs. And on the Costa del Sol, like everywhere else, introducing yourself as a person with a large amount of money to invest opened many doors. After that, it was all a question of ability and patience. A question of compromising people step by step, without scaring them off, until finally their well-being depended on you. Letting it happen easy. Vaseline. Like with the courts: You started off with flowers and candy for the secretaries and you wound up taking the judge to bed. Or several judges. Teresa had managed to put three on the payroll so far, including the presiding judge of a regional court, for whom Teo Aljarafe had just purchased an apartment in Miami.

  She now turned to Lataquia. “What about the motors?”

  The Lebanese man made an ancient Mediterranean gesture, the fingers of one hand together, then turning and swiping upward.

  “It hasn’t been easy,” he said. “We still lack six units. I’m making inquiries.”

  “And the accessories?”

  “The Wiseco pistons came in three days ago, no problem. The ball bearings for the connecting rods, too . . . As for the motors, I can complete the order with different makes.”

  “I specified,” Teresa said slowly, emphasizing every word, “two-hundred-twenty-five-horsepower pinche Yamahas. . . . That’s what I specified.”

  Lataquia looked to Dr. Ramos for support, but the doctor’s face remained inscrutable. He sucked at his pipe, lost in a cloud of smoke. Teresa smiled inside. They were all on their own in this game.

  “I know,” Lataquia said, still looking at the doctor, his tone somewhat resentful, “but finding sixteen motors all at once is not easy. Not even an official distributor can guarantee that many on such short notice.”

  “All the motors have to be identical,” Dr. Ramos reminded him. “Or else adiós, cover.”

  On top of it, he’s a collaborator, Lataquia’s eyes said. Ibn charmuta. You people must think we Phoenicians can do miracles. “What a pity,” he finally said. “All that expense for one trip.”

  “Look who’s crying over the expenses,” Patty chimed in, lighting a cigarette. “Mister Ten Percent.” She expelled the smoke hard, pursing her lips. “The bottomless pit.”

  She laughed softly, out on the margin of the conversation as usual. Enjoying it.

  Lataquia assumed his expression of a man misunderstood. “I’ll do what I can.”

  “I’m sure you will.” Teresa smiled.

  Never show doubt in public, Yasikov had said. Surround yourself with advisors, listen carefully, take your time giving orders if necessary, but afterward, never hesitate in front of the people working for you, never let them debate your decisions once they’re made. In theory, a boss is never wrong. Oh, no. Everything you say has been carefully considered beforehand. The most important thing is respect. “If you can, make them love you. Of course. That ensures loyalty, too. Yes. But if you have to choose, it’s better to be respected than loved.”

  “I’m sure,” she repeated.

  Although even better than being respected is being feared, she thought. But fear can’t be imposed all of a sudden; it has to come gradually. Any psychopath can scare people. What’s hard is making people fear you little by little.

  Lataquia was thinking, pulling at his moustache.

  “If you authorize it,” he said, “I can make inquiries elsewhere. I know people in Marseilles and Genoa. . . . It will take a bit longer. And there’s the question of import permits and so on.”

  “Just do it. I want those motors.” She paused, looking down at the table. “One more thing. We have to start thinking about a big boat.” She raised her eyes. “Not too big. With all the legal cover in place.”

  “How much do you want to spend?”

  “Seven hundred thousand. Seven-fifty, tops.”

  Patty wasn’t following the conversation. She was just watching Teresa from a distance, smoking, saying nothing. Teresa avoided looking at her. Bottom line, she thought, you always say that I’m the one that runs the business. That you like it like that.

  “For an Atlantic crossing?” Lataquia, who had caught the connotation of the extra fifty thousand, wanted to know.

  “No. Just to be able to be more mobile, out there.”

  “Something up?”

  Dr. Ramos allowed himself a frown of censure. Too many questions, said his phlegmatic silence. Look at me. Or at Señorita O’Farrell sitting over there, quiet as a mouse.

  “Could be,” Teresa replied. “How long do you need?”

  She knew how long she had. And it was not much time. The Colombians were on the verge of a quantum leap. A single shipment, everything at once, that would supply both the Italians and the Russians for months. Yasikov had approached her about the possibility, and Teresa had promised to think about it.

  Lataquia pulled at his moustache again. “I don’t know,” he said. “A trip to look around, the formalities, and the payment. Three weeks, minimum.”

  “Less.”

  “Two weeks.”

  “One.”

  “I can try,” Lataquia sighed. “But
it’ll cost more.”

  Teresa laughed out loud. She loved this cabrón’s act. One out of every three words was money with him.

  “No me chingues, Lataquia. Not a dollar more. And get a move on, your beans are burning.”

  The meeting with the Italians was held the next afternoon, in the apartment in Sotogrande. Maximum security. Besides the Italians—two men from the Calabrian ’Ndrangheta who’d arrived that morning at the Málaga airport—only Teresa and Yasikov attended. Italy had become the main European consumer of cocaine, and the idea was to ensure a minimum of four shipments of seven hundred kilos a year.

  One of the Italians, a mature man with gray sideburns and an impeccably tailored jacket that gave him the air of a sporty, fashionable, prosperous businessman, spoke for the pair; the other man was silent the entire time, except for when he leaned over once in a while to whisper a few words in his colleague’s ear. The spokesman explained the plan in detail, in acceptable Spanish. The time was ripe for establishing this connection: Pablo Escobar was being hunted down in Medellín, the Rodríguez Orejuela brothers had suffered reverses that severely limited their ability to operate directly in the United States, and the other Colombian clans needed to make up in Europe for the losses they had suffered from being elbowed out of the U.S. by the Mexican mafias. They, the ’Ndrangheta, but also the Sicilian Mafia and Neopolitan Camorra—all on good terms, and all men of honor, he added very seriously, after his companion whispered to him—needed to guarantee themselves a constant supply of cocaine hydrochloride with a purity of ninety to ninety-five percent. They’d be able to sell it for $60,000 a kilo, three times as much as in Miami or San Francisco. They also needed coca paste to be sent to local underground refineries. At this point, the other man—thin, with a close-cropped beard, dark suit, and an old-fashioned look about him—whispered something else in his colleague’s ear.