by Todd Merer
I grunted affirmatively. We waited. The young woman appeared in the cathedral doorway. She looked at me, then withdrew.
I stood. “The client is here.”
We entered the cathedral.
I like churches. No better places to think. This one was dim and cool and smelled of incense. Its stone floors were worn smooth. Dust motes danced in sunlight shafting through a high window. No one was in sight. I thought maybe the young woman was kneeling in prayer, so I walked along the pews, but she wasn’t there—
There was a faint rumbling, and I looked through the church door: in the brilliant sunlight, the volcano, framed against the sky, was smoldering heavily.
Mondragon whispered: “Doctor, this client is a very serious man. More than you can imagine. Therefore, his fee is substantial. One million dollars.”
Right. I kept my hungry mouth shut.
“I don’t want a referral,” he said.
My jaw nearly dropped. One mil? With no kickback? No way. Guys like Mondragon don’t give ice in the winter. This was too good to be true. There had to be a kicker, but forewarned is forearmed, so I’d take the money and, if necessary, run later.
“I accept,” I said.
Mondragon raised a wolfish brow. “However, should things go well, there will be a very large bonus. Very. As to that, I would expect, say, forty percent?”
Aha. The name of the game was pay-as-we-go, and Mondragon would contend the balance was a bonus. A battle to be fought another day.
“Twenty,” I countered.
“Thirty.”
“Done.”
Of course, it wasn’t done. Right now, Mondragon controlled the source of money. Until I managed to. First order of business was getting money on the table. Second was waiting for the drug dealer to blink, then swipe it off the table. After which I’d do the dictating as to what constituted a fair referral.
The young woman peered from behind the altar. She withdrew as we stood. As we went down the nave, I felt like a sailor inexorably being drawn to disaster on the rocks. It was a recurring feeling, and I mumbled, “Siren ahead.”
Mondragon paled. “Siren?”
“I should hope not.”
We continued to the altar. Behind it a rectangle of daylight shafted through an opened door. Outside was a courtyard between the rear of the cathedral and a facade on the next street. It was littered with overgrown rocks and stones. The centuries-old remains of the quake-destroyed cathedral. Amid the rubble, the young woman was locked in an embrace with a stocky, balding older man.
“Dr. Bluestone,” Mondragon said. “Don Rigoberto Ordoñez.”
Don? Scumbag was more like it. I knew about Rigo Ordoñez all too well: boss of a cartel that had metastasized out of Medellín and was rapidly climbing up the narco ladder, an organization composed of former paramilitaries, autodefensa units gone rogue and ruthless. Los Hachos, they were called—the Hatchets—for reasons whose details you’d rather be spared.
There was a reason why I’d followed Rigo’s career.
His was an up-and-coming cartel in the group collectively known as the North Valley Cartel, the same thugs who’d murdered the only client I’d ever considered a friend: Nacho Barrera, my first and only Biggy. After killing Nacho, they’d killed his family. Colombians in the drug business tend to have large families. Difficult being a force without your blood protecting you. Nearly two hundred of Nacho’s family were hunted down. Cousins fifth-removed, three-generations-old family trees, women, a special little girl.
A man only known as Rigo had been among the suspected killers. Rigo, for Rigoberto, a lot of those around.
“Papi.” The girl clung to this Rigo. She could have been his granddaughter, but nothing was paternal in the way he held her, or the sweet, dirty things he was whispering in her ear. He needed for her to know that their separation would be brief. That it was the first step toward the new life they would share. Did she understand?
“Sí, mi amor. Yo entiendo.”
“Te amo, mi Estefania.”
I was thinking, if this guy was the same Rigo who’d offed Nacho, then I’m out. But was he the same Rigo? If not, I’d be walking away from a million-dollar score. The smart move was to wait and see. I could always—
From the church came sounds and movement. Then half a dozen guys—gringos, for sure—wearing jeans and sneakers and carrying handguns appeared.
“Nobody move,” one said.
Fuck me. I’d landed right in the middle of a freaking DEA takedown. I wasn’t doing anything illegal, but in the future, I’d be wearing a scarlet letter:
D for dirty.
That was, if I had a future, because for sure, Rigo would think I’d set him up. Didn’t matter that he intended for me to negotiate his surrender; that was in the future. This was now, and the lawyer who’d betrayed Rigo could never show his face in Colombia again.
Maybe not anywhere.
I was finished.
Fried.
CHAPTER 7
The agents surrounded us. One was a burly guy with Indian features. The badge around his neck was not DEA gold and blue, but the silver star of a Guatemalan federal.
A DEA agent winked at me, and in Nuyorican Spanish said, “How you doing, Counselor?”
How was I doing? Praying this was a bad dream was how. And processing the fact that if the agent knew I was a lawyer, then the DEA had known I was going to be here, and God only knew what else they might know about me, fee-category-wise. Fuck. I’d just taken a giant step toward a criminal tax investigation.
As Rigo was cuffed, Stefania wailed. The Puerto Rican agent turned to Mondragon. “Tell her to chill, Felipe.”
Felipe? Had Mondragon set up the takedown? That’d normally be kept secret, yet the agent was open about it.
Mondragon put a reassuring hand on the young woman’s shoulder—
“Take your fucking hand off her,” Rigo said.
Mondragon’s hand jumped as if burned.
“Make nice to your lawyer, Rigo,” the agent said.
“The señor is stressed is all,” Mondragon said.
“Welcome to the club,” the Guatemalan agent muttered nervously. The DEA agents had holstered their weapons, but his remained out. That bothered me. We were on his turf, and he knew it best.
Mondragon seemed nervous, too. “Sorry to put you to work during your Christmas, Gus.”
Gus was the Puerto Rican. He grinned. “No problema. Rigo’s my Christmas present.”
In my mind, a lightbulb came on. Rigo wasn’t being captured; he was surrendering by prearrangement. But arranged by whom?
“Our work is done,” Mondragon said to me. “Let’s go.”
I said, “Agent, a moment with my client?”
Gus handed me a business card that said Gustavo Romero, Special Agent, Drug Enforcement Administration, and below that, the Eleventh Avenue address of the Manhattan DEA office.
“Not now, Counselor,” he said. “Arraignment’s in the Southern District of New York, bright and early January second. Have a nice New Year—”
The air shuddered, and I heard a pop.
A pink mist erupted from the Guatemalan cop’s head.
Pop! Pop!
Gus shouted, “Down!”
Pop! Pop! Pop!
I hit the flagstones and rolled toward the cathedral, confused but aware of Gus and the other agents kneeling, guns out, firing—
Bam! Bam! Bam!
The Guatemalan cop lay next to me, the top of his head gone. I frantically crawled away from him, only to find myself entangled with Rigo doing the same thing—
Pop!
Bam! Bam!
Rigo and I lay face-to-face, blinking at each other distastefully, like the post-sex glances between a drunken slob and a disgusted whore.
“Clear?” Gus said.
“Clear.”
“Clear.”
“The package okay?”
“Alive and kicking,” an agent said, hauling Rigo to his feet.
>
No one helped me. Just as well, I was busy not puking.
Gus said, “Get the fuck out of here, Counselor.”
I didn’t have to be told twice. Up and out I went.
Outside the cathedral, a crowd had gathered. Weak kneed, I sat on the same park-side bench. The same man as before sat next to me; his face was drained of color.
“A terrible thing,” Mondragon said. “Terrible.”
“Fuck you, terrible. You knew.”
“Absurd. If I had known, I would never have . . . a bullet struck just inches from me. I was nervous, yes, because certain . . . people don’t want our client to cooperate.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you’d set up the surrender?”
“Gus said I shouldn’t tell anyone. Not even you. It’s all right. Apart from the federale, who probably was corrupt, and the assassins, no one was harmed. But not to worry. Your fee is, as they say, in the pipeline. I will see you in New York.”
A car pulled to the curb. Mondragon got in, and it pulled away, leaving me with a feeling that something had . . . changed.
I no longer felt in control. Too much I didn’t understand. Why invite me to Mondragon’s party? I didn’t know. Possible Mondragon had set up Rigo for a hit? Maybe. Options? Get paid, and decide later.
I considered that and laughed aloud.
I was thinking of money again.
Nothing had changed.
Except that the volcano now belched ominously dark smoke. I heard a rumble like a subway train under a Manhattan street. A roll of distant thunder, and the ground trembled.
Ten minutes later, I split town. I figured to puddle-jump over to PC and usher in the New Year with Laura Astorquiza at Foto’s place. But because of the eruption, people were ditching Antigua, and the airport lines were long. I found myself staring at a TV screen. A news program. I blinked.
The footage was familiar:
The immediate aftermath of the cathedral shootout. The camera lingered over a body. A man wearing a blood-soaked white guayabera. I’d been right: the guayabera guys were hit men—sicarios in Colombian-speak—and no doubting they were Colombian—
I got a text from the Colombian lawyer Paz:
COME NOW.
I wrote back: Sí.
CHAPTER 8
It was raining when I emerged from the airport terminal and ducked beneath the umbrella held by Diego Castrillon, head of my Bogotá Department of Transportation, established when a satisfied customer gifted me a Caddy Escalade. Deal was, I let Castri use the Escalade as a hired car when I was away, so long as he and it were mine when I was in town. Castri was a wise old face who’d been around lots of places and people. The fact that he’d survived was a testament to his true grit as an hombre who knew how to keep his mouth shut.
We climbed into the Escalade, and its double locks snapped shut. The truck’s previous owner believed in double locks, triple-layered shatterproof glass, and four-ply-thick Kevlar bodywork. Like a tank, we sallied forth from the airport.
“You appear well,” Castri said.
“I am,” I said. “You?”
“Good, thank you.”
That was the extent of our conversation. Castri got that I wasn’t in the mood to talk and just did his job, dropping me at the hotel I favored: Casa Medina, a small, elegant place that catered to wealthy businessmen and bigwig politicians. I was the only American lawyer who stayed there. My competitors favored Bogotá’s flashy new hotels, the better to see and be seen, but I liked staying under the radar, conducting business in the hotel’s enclosed patio, where gas flames burned amid lush flower beds.
I had my bag sent up to my usual suite and went to the patio. The headwaiter greeted me warmly, and led me to a corner table where I could see but not necessarily be seen. I ordered a light dinner—not wanting to overwork my digestive tract while getting accustomed to Bogotá’s nine-thousand-foot elevation—adding a couple of aspirins for dessert.
A few minutes later, Paz appeared: small, dapper in a suit, starched white shirt, wide tie, and the square-toed shoes Colombian lawyers preferred. He was among the better Colombian lawyers, or at least not as bad as most.
Paz sat and handed me an envelope containing an Eastern District of New York—Brooklyn—indictment: bare-bones, three pages of legal boilerplate accusing a person of various narcotics crimes.
Paz leaned close. “You understand?”
I shrugged. “An indictment. So?”
“The defendant’s name,” he hissed.
“FNU LNU,” I said. First name unknown, last name unknown. Goddamned acronyms. “It might be a help if you told me the person’s name.”
“I don’t know it. No one does. He’s called Sombra.”
I just nodded, but my neurons were blinking like the Rock Center Christmas tree the Avianca flight attendant had dragged me to.
Sombra . . . aka Biggy.
“The gentleman is a pragmatist,” said Paz. “He believes someone will cooperate against him soon. Once his true identity is known, it is only a question of time until he is captured. He wants to negotiate from a position of strength while he still can. He can give up all the cartel chiefs and guerrilla leaders and corrupt officials in Colombia. All. And for the lawyer who can negotiate well for him? There is a large fee.”
“How large is large?”
“Millions. Many.”
Did I have any particular reason to distrust Paz? No. Did I distrust him? Of course. He was no different from Mondragon. Many was an open-ended number controlled by the man in the middle. Him.
“How many?” I asked.
“I want to clarify our arrangement. This case is so big, it will preclude future work. Putting it another way . . . after Sombra talks? No criminals will be left.”
Did Paz think he could con a con man? Oh sure, after a big bust, there’d be a shortage of clients for a month or two. But soon enough the hidey-holes would open, and the criminal underworld would reboot, a new class graduating to its top. No more criminals? Paz was inventing leverage to bargain.
“It’s really true,” he said. “You have no idea.”
“No criminals? What would we lawyers do?”
“Precisely. Me, I will retire. Thirty percent.”
Twenty points was standard, but Sombra was a Biggy. We went back and forth before settling on 25 percent, then shook on it.
Then I said, “Now tell me . . . how many is many?”
His voice dropped an octave. “Twenty million.”
I drew a breath. “When do I meet the client?”
“Tomorrow,” he said. “In Cúcuta.”
Things were happening fast. Maybe too fast. The mere thought of $20 million was a drink spiked with knockout drops. Left you lustful but dull. I forced myself to examine the downsides:
No one ever paid that kind of money unless something far beyond the call of duty was expected in return. Cúcuta was a bad sign. The town was a shithole near the Venezuelan border, rife with cops and robbers and, most dangerous of all, cops who were robbers. Was I walking into a potential disaster? Maybe.
But the price was right.
I watched Paz leave, an unobtrusive man to whom no one on the patio paid the least attention. But he had just turned my life upside down.
I’d have to tread carefully.
If Sombra cooperated, big people on both sides of the law would be going down, and as his lawyer, I’d find it impossible to show my face in many places . . .
But after Paz’s cut, I’d have fifteen mil in pocket and no longer any need to go to those places. Fifteen mil meant I had a new normal. Freedom, travel . . .
I was getting ahead of myself.
Thus far, the only thing on the table was a possibility. A nibble. Could be there were other Colombian lawyers out there trying to match Sombra with other Mr. Rights. Could be Paz himself was shopping the case, looking to cut a better deal for himself.
CHAPTER 9
Paz texted in the morning: a ticket in my name would be waiting
at the airport counter servicing the flight to Cúcuta. The counter person handed me an envelope. There was no ticket inside. Just a note:
Look to your left.
I did. At another counter, people were checking in. Paz was among them. When I approached, he accidentally-on-purpose bumped into me, in the process palming me a boarding pass. Not for the flight to Cúcuta.
To Cali.
We sat in different rows. I kept my face turned to the window. The flight path from Bogotá to Cali crosses the Cordillera Central, the middle range of the three Andean spines that trisect Colombia. The view was otherworldly, the between-peaks flight path heart-stopping.
I was amped.
Emerging from the Cali airport terminal, by smell alone I’d have known I was in the Cauca River valley. Here, big-pharma smokestacks belched fumes that blanketed the valley floor between the facing peaks of the Cordillera Central and Cordillera Occidental. It was warm. Cali’s a mile lower than Bogotá, and only a few hundred miles above the equator. I followed Paz to the cab line, and we each got into one of the ubiquitous tiny amarillo taxis that buzz like flies in every corner of Colombia.
Before leaving the airport, the cabs turned into a deserted cargo area. Paz hustled from his cab into mine and told the driver to go, fast.
Outside the airport, the road was narrow, and we whizzed close by people and horse carts on the shoulder. We sped through tall cane and crossed a span over a muddy stream where a boy watered a cow. Ahead, a white city sprawled across the foothills of the Cordillera Occidental.
The taxi dropped us at the Ritz, but after it left, we crossed the street to the Intercontinental. Paz had reserved a room there. He didn’t speak in the elevator or the corridor. When we were in the room, he double-locked the door, then led me onto the balcony.
Even there, he whispered. “I’m waiting for a call. Maybe soon. You know how these people operate.”
I sure did. On Criminal Standard Time.
Paz didn’t reply. He was looking to the distance where the Cauca River was a silver thread weaving through the city.
Cali. I had memories here. In the ultraviolent period between the death of the Cali Cartel and the birth of the North Valley Cartel, the river became a favored human-waste disposal. Far as I knew, bodies no longer bobbed in the current. Southwest Colombia wasn’t as wild as it used to be. Outwardly. These days the DTOs settled their quarrels in private. But the civilians still clung to their old ways. In the distance, a line of ant-size people crawled up a hill atop which stood a huge Christ on a cross.
