by Layton Green
“You don’t look surprised,” Fred said.
“I found the same thing. I don’t know what it all means yet, but I don’t think Palo’s the key. Or not the key. I think there’s a bigger game being played.”
“Really? Such as?”
“Like I said, I’m not sure. I’m going to call my partner and fill him in, see if he has any ideas.”
“And the Ganadors?” Fred asked. “You figure Daddy’s pulling the strings on Julio? Maybe delivers the money payments himself, after Julio brings them here?”
“That or he forwards them to someone else.”
“I’ve got the feeling the General’s about out of layers,” Fred said. “You send your money through too many channels, it might get lost. And while Medellín might be a good place for an ex-flunky of Escobar to hole up, I doubt the General’s home base is there, after the heat in the nineties. So, my friend, what we need to know is where Rolando delivers the loot.” He shook out a toothpick and then spread his hands, his grin cockeyed. “Looks like it’s just another follow-the-money-and-the-creepy-cult case.”
Grey chuckled. “Welcome to my world.”
“Let’s talk about Medellín. We’ve established that the General’s the bin Laden type, doesn’t do Internet or cell phones. Nor, I’m guessing, banks. Julio picks up millions a year in cash out of Tata Menga’s shed alone, for Christ’s sake. So we’re looking at more transport. The General’s far too careful to send the kind of money we’re talking any way except private plane.”
“I came to the same conclusion.”
“Private drug planes are incredibly hard to track. That’s a dead end, especially for the resources of our three-person squad. We can’t call it in yet because of the leak, and even if we could, I doubt we’d find it that way. So we have to get personal. And at this stage, that means a house call on Señor Ganador.”
“Unless he’s too well protected,” Grey said. “But if we could get a quick look . . .”
“We might find something before this all blows up, if it hasn’t already.”
Grey pursed his lips and bobbed his head.
Fred stroked his mouth as if his moustache was still there. “What if we’re wrong, the father’s not involved, and the connection we need is in Bogotá?”
“Then we’re wrong.”
Fred placed the toothpick between his teeth. “It’s gonna be risky as hell,” he said, gnawing on the toothpick, “and Medellín ain’t Palm Springs.” Still chewing, his forearms found the top of the table, and he leaned back in his seat. “It could, in fact, be the lion’s den.” He met Grey’s eyes and held his gaze. “But I really don’t like drug kingpins.”
Grey brought his coffee to his lips. “Me neither.”
They landed in Medellín at noon, a thirty-minute flight over the Western Cordillera. From above, the city looked to Grey like a giant concrete river, flowing through a valley surrounded by dimpled green slopes.
Grey didn’t like it, but they had to chance a car rental. Instead of a large international company, they went with the seediest local agency they could find, paying cash and hoping the agency’s computers weren’t linked to the global information network.
On the way to the address the coffee worker had given them, guided by Google Maps, Grey absorbed his surroundings. Medellín had the feel of a low-rent Miami: pleasant weather, ragged palms ruffling in the breeze, empanadas and sugarcane water and fruit in plastic baggies for sale on street corners. Unlike in Bogotá, the surrounding hills and peaks cradled, rather than smothered, the city. To Grey, Medellín’s sunny disposition made the dark forces lurking underneath even more ominous, lulling one into a false sense of security.
They skirted downtown, pestered by homeless drunks and street vendors at every light. The city center was a rotten core pimpled with a few examples of stunning public art that looked out of place to Grey. The porcelain spires of Plaza Cisneros and the genius of Plaza Botero didn’t begin to compensate for the bombed-out streets of the Prado, beggars bathing in fountains and sleeping on sheets in the middle of pedestrian walkways, the smell of piss and rotting fruit, little girls collecting filthy drinking water off the street.
Rolando Ganador lived in an area of declining colonial homes that looked as if it had once been the talk of the town. Iron gates and high walls shielded the properties, but the guardhouses sat empty, weeds had overtaken the sides of the roads, and most of the brick and plaster villas looked in need of a paint job.
They rolled past their destination, a smaller lot fringed by palms and surrounded by a high wall topped with barbed wire. The address was painted on the wall, but they couldn’t see inside. A ¡CUIDADO CON EL PERRO! sign hung from the gate. Beware of dog.
Grey and Fred parked outside a bakery two lots down from Rolando Ganador’s house. From their table on the far left of the patio, they could just see the gate.
Fred stirred sugar into his coffee. “Nescafé. In Colombia. Can you believe that?”
“I suppose Medellín isn’t as interested in coffee as Bogotá.” Grey took a sip from his own cup and bit into a pastry filled with guava. The fried dough tasted stale. “Or maybe this bakery just sucks.”
“I don’t like the look of Ganador’s wall. Too risky without knowing what’s inside.”
Grey focused on the soft parts of the dough, around the edges of the guava filling.
“Don’t you think?” Fred asked.
Grey set the pastry down and rubbed at his stubble. “There’s an empty guard shack outside, and the streetlight is broken. No electric wire, no signs of a security system. Which either means it’s not that secure, or he deals with security himself. I’m guessing the latter.”
“You want to case it and go in at night?”
Grey kept his eyes on the Ganador residence, the coils of barbed wire crowning the gate, the thorny bougainvillea snaking atop the wall. He thought about the Walmart-type store he had seen a few blocks away, and the pharmacy next door. A plan started to form.
“Not at night,” Grey said. “As soon as we see him leave.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Day breaks are underrated. My guess is some of these guard shacks, probably his, are manned at night. Someone is always home at night. Houses are locked up tighter at night. It’s early, so unless he’s an invalid, he’ll go out sometime today. He doesn’t have a nine-to-five. If he’s already out for the morning, he’ll come back and leave again.”
“The dog? The barbed wire? Internal security?”
“My problems.”
Two hours and three espressos later, Rolando Ganador’s gate slid open and a blue Mercedes from the Reagan era pulled out. The car drove right past where Grey and Fred were sitting. Grey shielded his face with a local paper, but was able to make out a burly driver and an older man in the back seat, his long patrician face punctuated by a nose like an eagle’s beak. He had short black hair with gray at the temples, lined skin the color of sandpaper, and one of those thin moustaches that lifted his face into a sneer.
When the car was out of sight, after waiting for the proprietress to finish sweeping the sidewalk in front of the café, Grey grabbed a paper bag from his backpack and pushed away from the table. “Be right back.”
He walked down the street, quickening his pace once two commuters on bicycles sped past. When Grey reached the corner of the Ganador residence, he reached into the paper bag and grabbed a ball of raw ground beef wrapped in aluminum foil, then tossed the package over the wall.
The ground beef was stuffed with sleeping pills, which Grey had bought down the street and prepared during the wait. Still in stride, he heard a deep bark at the sound of the package hitting the ground. Paws scrabbled on concrete as a rottweiler rushed to investigate.
Grey returned to the bakery. It was midday and Fred was the only person sitting on the patio.
“Any dogs?” he asked, as Grey reclaimed his coffee.
“Just one. He’ll be out soon.”
They sat in silenc
e for a few minutes, giving the sleeping pills time to take effect. The air between them was pregnant with the sense of danger. After another fifteen minutes, Grey grabbed his backpack.
Fred grabbed his arm. “I won’t bore you with a pep talk. Just remember that if shit goes down, you need to remember who these people are. Escobar ran one of the most ruthless criminal organizations this world has ever seen.”
Grey shouldered the backpack, an amused smile on his face. “After what we’ve been through, you’re worried I won’t pull the plug?”
“Look, I know you’ll pull the plug. I’ve seen you. But I’ve also seen the look on your face after it’s done. I’m thirsty for more, and you look like you just kicked your dog and feel bad about it. You want to believe there’s an ounce of goodness in the human soul, and the people we’re dealing with trade in human lives like other people purchase bananas.”
“I’m glad you have such a high opinion of me,” Grey murmured.
“I know I’ve seen too much and can’t seem to find that balance anymore, or maybe I just stopped caring. But when it comes to this job, there’s what’s right and what’s necessary, and they ain’t always the same thing.” He pulled out a toothpick and held the two ends between thumb and forefinger. “Anyway, I’ve got a weird feeling about all this. I just wanted you to remember that these monsters, they swallowed their ounce of goodness in a pint of blood. They’d gun down a Girl Scout troop if the den mother swiped a gram of coke.”
Grey appreciated the sentiment, but Fred was wasting his breath, and the knowledge made Grey sad. He had dived into the darkness of the human soul so many times it had become like a warm blanket, one Grey had to constantly shuck off to keep himself shivery and alive. He stepped away from the table. “See you in a bit.”
“Be careful, brother.”
DER HEILIGKEIT DES LUFT SANATORIUM
Viktor paced his room the next morning, waiting for the reply from Interpol. He had been enjoying his long walks in the Alpine woods, but it was no longer prudent to go trekking alone. Whoever had let Glen out could do so again, and this time they might put a gun in his hands.
He made a wry face. He hadn’t expected to need a bodyguard in a sanatorium.
After refreshing his email for the umpteenth time, he took a break for lunch. When he returned to the room, he had his reply.
He read the two-page report carefully, summarizing in his mind what Interpol knew about Glen von Reisenberg:
Soon after the death of Paul Schaefer, a splinter group from Colonia Dignidad bought a compound in Barranco, a wealthy seaside neighborhood in Santiago. The founder of the sister cult was unknown, but a few of its members were picked up on drug trafficking charges in 2010. The splinter group distributed Peruvian coca paste to refining factories in the lesser markets of Argentina, Brazil, and Asia.
Glen von Reisenberg had been involved in the 2010 bust, serving as an enforcer during the transaction. He shot one undercover police officer and knifed another. Lucky for him, both had lived.
Shockingly, the original Colonia Dignidad was alive and kicking, though by all accounts the criminal activity was now conducted by the Santiago splinter group. One of the mysteries of the investigation had been that no one could, or would, name the leader of the Colonia Dignidad spinoff. Before the bust, the undercover officers heard talk of someone who “had known Schaefer” and who still “carried out their leader’s will.” Who that person was, they had no idea.
The undercover officers also heard talk that Glen von Reisenberg was mentally unstable and a liability. He was the only cult member who had been convicted of a felony after the bust. Other cult members had fingered Glen to save themselves; Glen had refused to talk.
Viktor stood and clasped his hands on top of his head. He peered out the window, then paced as he put the pieces together.
The Alianza made payoffs to Tata Menga for spiritual protection. Tata Menga in turn made payoffs to an unknown entity, presumably the General. Why did Tata Menga do this? Perhaps for protection from rival cartels or cult leaders, perhaps for the governmental influence wielded by his shadowy partner, perhaps because the two of them had orchestrated the entire scheme from the beginning.
One thing of which Viktor was relatively certain: he did not think Tata Menga made payoffs to another palero. He thought that when it came to Palo, Tata Menga was the end of the line.
Toss in Colonia Dignidad and Glen von Reisenberg. Two pieces with no ties to Palo Mayombe. Had the General known Paul Schaefer, the original leader of the colony? Had they colluded together from the beginning?
Whoever the General was, the old guard at Colonia Dignidad must have known about him, and after Schaefer’s downfall, Viktor assumed the General took control of the colony, probably making an initial visit and leaving the day-to-day to a few trusted lieutenants, leaving no evidence of his own involvement. Yes, that was his method.
Thus, the General used the leaders of both Palo Mayombe and Colonia Dignidad, two completely unrelated organizations, to exert influence over a criminal network.
Viktor stopped pacing, standing as still as fallen snow. He was using cults to control his empire. Not just one cult, but different ones.
He resumed pacing, this time faster, back and forth in the small room. He had never seen cross-cults utilized before. How many others were in the network?
The more he thought about it, the more respect he had for the General. It was genius, really. Somewhere along the way he had decided to study and employ the power of coercion, and no one manipulated the mind of man better than charismatic politicians and cult leaders—often one and the same.
The genius was that the General didn’t even need to start a cult, though Viktor knew the personality type, and was guessing he had tried his hand at one or two of his own. But for his network, he only need utilize existing superstitions and belief systems. Join up with the cult leaders, teach them how to exploit their influence, offer or strong-arm the benefits of partnership, and collect the payoff money.
It was a cult mafia. A meta cult.
With respect, however, came fear. This General, he knew how to manipulate on a scale Viktor had never before seen. This Guiñol character and the blue lady kept the cartels in line, and Viktor had no doubt the General orchestrated cult hits every now and again to show that his juju was stronger.
Viktor felt a chill at the import of his discovery. He had a sudden thought, and returned to the report, skimming until he found what he was looking for: the date of Glen von Reisenberg’s transfer from the Chilean jail to Der Heiligkeit Des Luft.
Viktor saw the date, and the chill expanded, running in waves of gooseflesh underneath the sleeves of his dress shirt. Glen von Reisenberg had been transferred to the sanatorium three days after Grey had disrupted the Alianza hit in Miami.
Viktor had been wrong; Glen wasn’t from a wealthy family. And while he might have been a liability in Santiago, a use had been found for him.
The General had moved a chess piece.
Viktor reached for his cell. He had to inform Grey, and warn him that Palo Mayombe was a wild goose chase in Colombia. The General would be using a different cult there.
His people could be anywhere, he was a master strategist, and there was no time left to study his moves.
Grey approached the Ganador residence again, reaching into the backpack for the two rubber doormats he had purchased, also at the megastore down the block. No one approached from the opposite end of the street, and he had to trust Fred to watch his back.
When he reached the gate, he placed one doormat on top of the other, then slung them atop the razor wire. He tossed the backpack over, then used the bunched doormats to vault the fence. Eying the sleeping rottweiler sprawled near the gate, Grey stuffed the ripped doormats in the backpack and absorbed his surroundings.
A six-foot wall covered in thorny bougainvillea protected the property. Palms and fruit trees sprinkled the garden, and the main house was an L-shaped villa with a trellis-covered
courtyard. A stand of bamboo shielded a cottage in the far right corner.
The cottage gave him pause. He didn’t want to be surprised by someone waking up from a nap and wandering into the main house.
Slipping into the bamboo, he observed the closed doors and shuttered windows of the detached bungalow. On a small patio there was a motorcycle draped by a canvas sheet, with a covering of twigs and pollen. Grey guessed the cottage was Julio’s when he came to town.
Back at the main house, wondering if Señor Ganador had left for the day or for a quick lunch, Grey picked the lock on the rear door and scurried inside. No dogs in the house. No sign of cameras or a security system.
His nerve endings vibrating like plucked guitar strings, Grey cased the house of Rolando Ganador. Took in the aging but fine leather furnishings, the Botero prints and oil paintings of coffee country hanging on the walls, the three out of four bedrooms that looked unoccupied, the bar stocked with brandies and single-malt scotch, the humidor room, the photos of Julio at all ages, the stacks of car magazines. He noticed a couple of multihued textiles used as wall hangings that didn’t look Colombian. Other than that, nothing out of the ordinary.
In a bedside drawer in the master suite, he found a Glock and a spare magazine, both of which he took, wiping his prints as he went. Behind an enlarged photo of Rolando and Julio at Machu Picchu in one of the guest bedrooms, he spotted a wall safe. A typical two-foot by two-foot fire safe, not as formidable as either the solid-cast steel behemoths or the expensive modern composites.
Grey could crack almost any safe, especially this one, with the right tools and time.
He had neither.
It would have to be an old-school job. He hustled to the garage, scrounged for a hammer and a chisel and a circular saw, then returned to the bedroom. After kicking through the drywall around the safe, he pried it out of the wall and lugged it to the middle of the room.
He put his hands on the safe and checked the time. Four p.m. This was taking far too long.
