It took Jorge a minute to realize what the lieutenant wanted. He looked at Major Portillo. “Is this action really necessary?”
Major Portillo smiled. “I’m sure you would take similar precautions with any visitor not personally known to Don Gallardo.”
Jorge exhaled a long breath. He raised his arms slightly as the lieutenant stepped forward and ran his hands down his sides, feeling a twinge of embarrassment that his armpits were soaking wet. The lieutenant knelt down and ran his hands down Jorge’s legs, from his crotch to his ankles. Jorge flinched at the touch of another man. The lieutenant stood and looked Jorge in the eye for a brief second, a clear look of warning, that said, “I think you’re clean, but we’ll be watching.”
“This way, please.” The lieutenant turned and pushed through another set of double doors that led into a large office area partitioned off with glass enclosures. Two dozen sleepy-looking clerks in green uniforms clicked keyboards and shuffled papers. No one looked up as they passed to the rear of the room where two guards with machine guns stood at the sides of a solid-looking mahogany door. The guards snapped to attention and opened the door into a wide hallway that ran past rows of private offices on either side. Jorge looked down the long corridor to a set of double doors with yet another set of sentries posted, amused at the extent of the buffer between the colonel and the outside world. Something about it reminded him of a film he’d seen on American television about a group of bizarre characters going to see a wizard. As they walked down the hallway, Jorge glanced at the names on the private offices and noticed Major Portillo’s name on the office closest to the double doors. The doors opened into an alcove where a bullnecked sergeant with a shaved head sat behind a desk. The sergeant stood without coming to attention, seeming to ignore the two officers. He wore a pistol belt around his thick waist. Not your typical secretary.
The sergeant looked Jorge up and down before he turned to Major Portillo. “The colonel will be with you shortly.”
Jorge stood flanked by an officer on each side and glanced around the alcove, aware of the unwavering gaze of the sergeant. He noticed a red light on the telephone console. After a minute the light went out.
“You can go in now.” The sergeant nodded toward the door, not taking his eyes off Jorge.
The lieutenant stepped to the door and held it for Jorge and Major Portillo, then closed the door behind them, remaining outside.
Jorge stood quietly with Major Portillo, looking at the rear of a high-backed swivel chair. He could see a thatch of short, neatly combed gray hair over the top of the chair. Whoever it belonged to was staring out the window behind the desk. Major Portillo cleared his throat, and the chair swiveled around. Jorge tried not to smile. The figure in the chair bore a vague resemblance to the actor who played the wizard in the film: Medium height, dark gray mustache, short gray hair, sallow complexion, thick dark eyebrows, slightly paunchy, grandfatherly look. Without the well-pressed khaki uniform and the insignia on his collar, he would look like any other middle-aged man. So this guy was the great Colonel Julio Suarez. Jorge began to relax a little.
“Gentlemen, please come in.” Colonel Suarez stood and walked around his desk to greet them, his slight paunch straining lightly at his tailored khaki shirt. Jorge noticed that he was sweating in the cool room.
“Colonel Suarez, may I introduce Señor Jorge Cordoba, emissary from Don Augusto Gallardo.”
“Don Gallardo sends his compliments,” Jorge said, extending his hand.
The colonel nodded. “I trust your godfather is well.” They shook hands correctly.
Jorge blinked, startled that Colonel Suarez would know such an intimate fact about him. His estimation of the kindly-looking man went up a notch. “Quite well, thank you.”
“Please.” Colonel Suarez swept his hand toward a door on the side wall of his office. “I thought you might enjoy a decent brunch. Good restaurants are scarce in the Huallaga Valley.”
Jorge walked through the door into a formal dining room and stopped, taken aback with the display of opulence. A rectangular table, at least fifteen feet in length and covered with a glowing white Damascus cloth, dominated the room. Gold-trimmed place settings sparkled beneath a glittering chandelier. On the perimeter of the room, two servants in white coats stood staring straight ahead. The scene looked completely out of place in a military installation. This character’s living like a king on our money.
Colonel Suarez seated himself at the head of the table and gestured for Jorge to be seated at his right. Major Portillo sat opposite. Jorge took his seat and glanced around the room with a slightly bemused look, feeling out of place in his wrinkled suit, needing a shower and a shave.
“We don’t have many creature comforts here in Punta Arenas,” Colonel Suarez said, seeming to pick up on Jorge’s expression. “We indulge ourselves in small ways. Food, wine” - he smiled up at the young waitress who had entered the room carrying a tray - “and other harmless distractions.” He hoisted his wineglass. “Your health, gentlemen.”
“And yours,” Jorge said, raising his glass, thinking it a bit early in the day for wine. The acrid bouquet and the inky legs suggested a vintage French wine, probably very old. Perhaps a Rothschild. He took a polite sip and held it in his mouth, admiring the character of the wine. He nodded his approval and swallowed, igniting a pleasant glow in the back of his throat. He replaced the glass; there would be no more drinking until after the negotiations.
One of the waiters began pouring coffee while the other served bowls of chilled soup from a tray carried by the young waitress. Jorge waited for Colonel Suarez to begin, then sampled a small taste. It appeared to be a smooth blend of tropical fruit, icy and delicious.
“Our association with Don Gallardo has been long and mutually profitable.” Colonel Suarez broke open a muffin. “I’m sorry to see it come to such an abrupt end.”
Jorge stopped with his spoon poised in mid-air and looked at him. “Come to an end? You mean temporarily.”
“I mean for the foreseeable future,” Colonel Suarez said. “At least a year, perhaps longer.”
Jorge smiled to himself. A year’s gap in production would literally put them out of business, and the colonel knew it. The kindly-looking old gentleman was going to start out playing hardball.
“And why is that?” Jorge said in a controlled voice, playing the game, knowing where it would end. The outcome was foreordained; he had participated in these negotiations before via conference call, listening to the sob stories of how the government was bearing down, clucking their tongues in sympathy, then agreeing to pay what the colonel wanted.
“The situation is becoming unstable. My government has launched an investigation into drug trafficking in the Huallaga Valley and the Army’s possible involvement. We have learned that the American Drug Enforcement Agency, the DEA, has put pressure on the Peruvian government to bring a halt to the flow of raw cocaine paste coming through Peru, which is, as you know, the world’s largest source of paste.”
Jorge stifled a yawn. He’d heard all this crap before. The colonel would go on for hours about the difficult situation they were in before hitting him with the punch line. Wanting to cut to the chase and get back to Campanilla, he decided to open the negotiations. He would agree to anything to get out of here. If the ship were lost, they would be out of business anyway.
“We both agree you’re in a challenging environment, Colonel,” Jorge said. “In recognition of that, Don Gallardo has authorized me to grant a modest increase for the security services you provide, say $6,000 per flight.”
Colonel Suarez laid his spoon down and looked at Jorge for a long minute under his owlish eyebrows. “You would be well advised to curb your youthful impatience and listen carefully.”
Jorge felt something tighten in his stomach. He didn’t like the sound of this rebuke. Something told him to back off. “Forgive me, Colonel. It’s been a long trip, and I’ve forgotten my manners. Please continue.”
The colon
el went back to his chilled soup. “Within a few days, a raid will be conducted on your facility at Campanilla by the government of Peru in a joint effort with the American DEA. According to our sources, the government assumes that those arrested, under threat of life imprisonment, will be willing to make a deal and link certain Army officers to the trafficking.”
Jorge swallowed. “A raid? We’ve been able to avoid those before. There must be something we can do about it.”
“The situation has escalated to the level now where there is only one thing we can do.” Colonel Suarez glanced at the scrambled eggs being served. “We will beat them at their own game. We will conduct a preemptive raid of our own under the pretext of breaking the drug traffickers. We will give them a high-ranking official of Don Gallardo’s organization, along with enough lesser-ranked people to make it appear authentic.”
Jorge suddenly lost his appetite. He was the highest-ranking official of the organization they would ever be likely to get in this godforsaken place. He glanced around the room, felt a surge of blood rush through his limbs. He wanted to bolt for the door but knew there was no way out.
“You’ll never get away with it,” Jorge said, trying to keep his voice level. “Don Gallardo is a very powerful man, when he finds out what you’ve done . . .”
Colonel Suarez looked at Major Portillo, and they both laughed. He glanced at Jorge with an impish look. “Relax, my dear fellow. No one is talking about you. After all, you are a member of Don Gallardo’s immediate family, so to speak.”
Jorge let out a long breath and shuddered in the coolness of the room. That explains how the colonel knew about his relationship with Don Gallardo. The son of a whore had looked into it, with the idea of setting him up. It chilled him to think that he had been a candidate to take the fall, prevented only by the colonel’s realization that he was Don Gallardo’s godson. His face flushed at the thought of what might have been. The rest of his life in a Peruvian military prison. Sweat appeared on his forehead. He could see now that his parents had been right. When he’d accepted Don Gallardo’s offer over their objections, he’d never envisioned himself being exposed to this kind of risk.
“Then who?” Jorge slumped back in his chair, intensely relieved that it wouldn’t be him.
“The next-highest-ranking member of Don Gallardo’s organization in Peru is your acting director of security, Enrique Garcia Lopez, who has the added advantage of being a Peruvian national. He will do very nicely, if you agree.”
That was an easy decision. Jorge didn’t especially like the ugly little man with the scarred face and the “I’ve got a secret” look that he kept flashing at him. He was Don Gallardo’s oldest employee, his chief assassin, but the Don wouldn’t quarrel when he understood the circumstances. Besides, anyone who would murder women and children had no redeeming qualities.
“You’ve got him, but what’s to prevent him from implicating you in the drug trafficking? He might make a deal with the Peruvian government and the DEA.”
Colonel Suarez smiled. “You are familiar, of course, with the Sendero Luminoso, the Shining Path?”
“Of course,” Jorge said. “They’ve tried to overthrow every government in Latin America.”
Colonel Suarez nodded and forked a wet mound of eggs into his mouth. “Maoists. Misguided fools still following the failed policies of Mao Tse-tung down the ‘shining path.’ But it’s a large Communist organization manned with well-trained guerrillas intent on overthrowing the lawful government of Peru. And the government takes it seriously. Seriously enough to prompt it to issue an antiterrorist decree in 1992 establishing the crime of treason against the fatherland. Conviction carries the automatic penalty of life in prison.”
“I don’t see the connection,” Jorge said.
Colonel Suarez smiled. “The decree granted the Army broad powers to investigate, arrest, charge, and prosecute such crimes under a military tribunal.”
“So?”
“While conducting our preemptive raid on Campanilla,” Colonel Suarez went on, “we will find a significant cache of arms and military information. We will charge your acting director of security with supplying arms and military information to Maoist guerrillas of the Sendero Luminoso. He will be charged with treason against the fatherland, which takes precedence over the crime of drug trafficking. It also allows for a military tribunal and, if convicted, a penalty of life imprisonment. He will be held incommunicado and tried in a closed courtroom by an anonymous military judge, all allowed under the decree. After his conviction, he will be sentenced to life in a military prison and confined on the same Navy base where the head of the Sendero Luminoso is now being held.” The colonel smiled at Jorge. “He will not be in a position to talk to anyone.”
“The Army has this power?”
Suarez nodded. “Under the decree, the Army not only has the right but the responsibility.” He sliced into a thick slab of ham. “With the conviction of a high-ranking officer and the closure of your operation, the pressure will be off and we will return to play another day. But to make it look as though you had no advance notice, everything must remain in place; no more flights will be permitted for the foreseeable future except for one aircraft to take you out of here. Our raid will come tomorrow morning at dawn. You must leave before then.”
Jorge shifted in his seat, his mind racing. Everything had changed. If the flow of coca paste was going to be shut down for a year, it was even more important to recover the ship if they were going to survive as an organization. What if the storm didn’t pass until morning? If the ship survived, he would need both helicopters and crews to recover it and sail it to a friendly port. Survival of the organization without the ship had been questionable; with the added blow of the shutdown of Campanilla, it would be impossible.
“If we’re going to have the capital to resume operations in a year, Colonel, there is something I must do before I go,” Jorge said. “I can’t be specific, but I must have the two Blackhawk helicopters and their specialized crews available to me.”
“I have plans for those helicopters,” Colonel Suarez said, sipping coffee. “You can do with your crews what you will.”
Jorge looked across the table at Major Portillo for support. The major seemed to sense that his Swiss bank account was on the line.
“Colonel, with all due respect, would it not be in our own best interests to ensure that Don Gallardo’s organization has the capital it needs to resume operations when this crackdown is over?” Major Portillo said. “Surely we should do nothing that would jeopardize that activity, for whatever reason.”
Colonel Suarez looked at Major Portillo for a long minute, fingering his coffee cup. He looked back at Jorge. “This . . . operation that you don’t want to talk about, does it involve any activity in Peru?”
Jorge shook his head. “No. You have my word. There’s a possibility we won’t need them at all, but if we do, it will be on an assignment out of the country.”
Colonel Suarez nodded. “Perhaps you’re right, Major. Perhaps it would not be a good business decision to do anything that would deprive our Colombian friends of their livelihood.” He looked at Jorge. “Out of respect for Don Gallardo, I will allow you to keep the helicopters. However, the raid will come early tomorrow, just after dawn. My advice is for you to be well clear of Campanilla by then.”
Jorge sat in the back seat of the Humvee as it bounced its way back to Campanilla, feeling strangely elated by his narrow escape from being railroaded to a sentence of life in a Peruvian military prison. He breathed deeply, savoring his freedom, and congratulated himself on his negotiating skills. Don Gallardo would be proud of him. Not only had he escaped being the sacrificial lamb, but he had also saved the critically important helicopters. The shutdown of Campanilla was a serious setback, but they were not out of the game yet.
He stared at the back of the young soldier fighting the wheel over the rutted road, his elation giving way to a deep sense of anxiety. He had saved the helicopters, but
from now on, timing would be everything. It was unlikely the ship would survive, he reminded himself. Still, it was possible. The raid on the camp at dawn tomorrow was another unexpected complication, but if the storm passed before then, if the ship survived, if they found it quickly and got the helicopters launched, they would still have a chance. All he needed from this point on was luck, something he’d always had in abundance.
The Humvee pulled into the compound at Campanilla, and Jorge starting walking toward the Command Center to see if there had been any change in the weather. He glanced around as he walked. The Learjet was still there, parked under the makeshift hangar, and no other flights had been allowed to take off, so the treacherous bitch of a flight attendant had to still be there too. Stepping around the building, he saw her walking down the path from the commissary toward him, eating a mango. She started to turn away but then walked toward him.
“Señor Cordoba,” she said, smiling nervously. “How nice to see you.”
“I missed you when I woke up.” Jorge returned the smile.
“I had to do something. I hope you’re not mad.”
“Of course not.”
“I asked about you. They said you had gone to Punta Arenas. I didn’t expect you back so soon.”
Or at all. “It was nothing, just a little business to take care of. I see you’ve had breakfast.”
She flashed an embarrassed look at the half-eaten mango and shrugged. “I’m not very hungry.”
“I have some business to take care of in the Command Center,” Jorge said. “Wait for me in my bungalow.”
“You’re sure you’re not mad?”
Jorge brushed her cheek gently. “How could I be angry with someone as beautiful as you?”
She flushed and looked down. “Don’t be long.”
Jorge watched her walk down the path to the bungalow. She turned at the door and waved. Jorge smiled and waved as she disappeared inside.
Point of Honor Page 24
