The driver spoke very little English and it appeared that his main objective was to get to Cartagena and be back in Baranquilla as quickly as possible. He had tried Spanish on Kennedy but to no avail.
The distance to Cartagena was about 120 kilometres. There was a good toll road between the two cities and at 140 kilometres an hour he figured they would be there at about midday, if they survived. Cartagena de los Indias was the city’s full name, it was the Capital of the Province des Atlantico.
Dan who sat in the back had almost immediately nodded off; he was trying to catch up on his jet lag without much success. Kennedy was not about to wake him since once awake he would pull out another of his foul cigarettes.
The undulating countryside looked parched, it was the dry season but the driver explained it was due to the effects of El Niño. The hills were heavily wooded with low trees and they saw very little agriculture, just a few white hump back cattle that grazed on the parched land.
“No agua,” said the driver as he sped to the next bend where Kennedy hoped no stray horse or cow was lurking to send them flying into the shrub.
“The rain comes in autumn,” he tried again this time in Spanish to Kennedy who looked blank, not understanding a word.
“The rains come in autumn,” Oberman translated without opening his eyes.
Good, thought Kennedy, he had enough rain in Ireland and enjoyed fine weather, there were no clouds, just there was a little haze and the temperature hovered at around 28°C.
The guerrillas, a Marxist-Leninist movement called the Farc and the Guevarists of the ELN had developed a hostage taking industry with each of its divisions having a financial target set by leaders. Exorbitant ransoms were set for the victims on a scale relative to their financial means. In the case of foreigners it was high, they had recently demanded 600,000US$ for the release the German representative of Mercedes.
Ransoms not paid invariably meant death for the hostages.
Their technique was to set up roadblocks on a section of fairly isolated road, then to search the vehicles caught in the net for suitable hostages. Their targets were government officials, business people, foreigners, and even children and babies.
The result was a very low volume of inter-city traffic on the main highways, the wealthy travelled by plane when the links existed, the less wealthy travelled by taxi and the poor travelled by bus.
The guerrillas controlled an area, El Bloc Sur, the South Block, left to them by the Colombian government as a kind of official no-go zone, with its capital San Vincente del Calguan. The regional ‘commandante’ was Jose Delrios, a revolutionary intellectual and also the movement’s treasurer. One of his main jobs was to ensure that the money, which flowed from the drug traffic in his region and over the border to Ecuador, was safely placed overseas for the purchase of arms and services for the Revolution.
In the jungles in the south of the country the organisation of cocaine smuggling was a major operation requiring logistics on the scale of a large military operation. The rebels and the cartels had bought arms and aircraft, heavy lift M18 helicopters, artillery and 25,000 firearms including assault rifles from the Russian Army. When they had failed in an attempt to buy a hundred million dollar diesel powered submarine for a knock down price of six million from the Russian navy base in Kronstad, they bought plans from Russian naval engineers to build a smaller version themselves in Colombia.
As Kennedy had waited in the hotel he caught a glance at the headlines of the local newspaper on the lobby stand, it did not require a linguist to understand that ‘El Heraldo’ announced the heavy losses of the Colombian regular army in a battle against the guerrillas in the southern provinces of the country.
Cities like Baranquilla and Cartagena were far from the battle zones and were havens of peace in comparison, nevertheless they had a moving population of rich tourists and business people, potential targets for the guerrillas.
The Colombian army was omnipresent, stationed in front of public buildings and major hotels, at important crossroads and at the entry to cities and towns. The military was impressive, heavily armed with the latest American materials in arms, transport and communications with all ranks wearing smart uniforms in a military manner, which would have even impressed a Key West officer. They were far from the traditional image of the legendary scruffy South American soldier traditionally portrayed by Hollywood.
Oberman, awoken by violent bumps in the road, explained to Kennedy, why the driver drove so fast, accelerating whenever he saw a vehicle parked on the side of the road. He would not stop even for an accident. The Landcruiser was fitted with bullet-proof windows and armoured plating in the doors.
There was almost no traffic; the toll was no doubt too expensive for most Colombians. Kennedy figured that there must be a crowded road running parallel to the highway. From time to time he saw the sea that lay to the right and occasionally a few villas. The sea looked choppy and they could feel the wind that swept inland in gusts that rocked the Landcruiser.
The only thing that broke the monotony was a lone egret that stood in the middle of the road; taking off gracefully at the last moment as the Toyota Landcruiser sped towards it at 160km/h Kennedy could not help noticing the road signs that indicated the speed limit of 80km/h. It was good that there was practically no traffic and that the road was well maintained.
He thought that the region must be normally dry as he saw cactus trees here and there. The riverbeds were also dry and there were almost no leaves on the trees.
They passed a small village with one or two caballeros and a few small black pigs that scuttered for cover. The only thing that effectively slowed them down to the 40km/h limit at the entry to the village were the speed breakers, which the driver respected not wanting to damage the suspension which could cause him trouble with his boss.
They passed a lone holiday condominium that overlooked a beach, obviously for the wealthy. There was a sign in Spanish and English indicating that aid was near in the case of accident, a lot of fecking good that would be to me lying dead in a dry field, thought Kennedy.
Another sign showed two eyes half closed as a warning against falling asleep at the wheel. Maybe the driver would have liked to drop off for a short nap but Pat was very much wide awake watching the vultures standing on the road side that were probably weighing him up for a next possible meal.
They arrived in Cartagena after a little more than an hour’s drive and the tension Kennedy had fell away once he saw the town. It reminded him of Trinidad in Cuba, but in an infinitely better state of conservation, the buildings were well maintained painted in the preferred ochres, yellows and greens of Spanish colonial towns.
They arrived at the Hotel Santa Teresa which had surprisingly been a convent, now restored and transformed into a beautiful hotel in typical Spanish style. It had been built in 1617 facing the massive fortified walls that surrounded the city overlooking the sea. They entered through a pair of great wooden doors into the lobby area which faced a centre court planted with palms, an ornamental fountain spouted its jet into a small blue tiled water course that ran the length of the court.
Behind the reception desk, which was remarkably like an altar, hanging from gold plated chains was an impressively large oil painting of the Madonna and the infant Jesus in a massive gilt frame in the form of a cross, no doubt inherited from the convent.
Kennedy felt a twinge of satisfaction to know that he was in the company of good Catholics though a little confused as to the presence of such holy objects in a hotel.
The bellboy carried his bags to the room and proceeded to show Kennedy the installations, TV, safe box, air-conditioning, bathroom and bar.
“Have a nice stay Sir,” the bell boy said, adding, “if there is anything you need…anything…please ask me,” and just in case Kennedy missed the point, he discretely lowered his voice, “a lady, if Sir would like, just let me know.”
Cartagena de los Indias was a beautiful city surrounded by the original walls erec
ted by the conquistadores. The houses and buildings were fully restored to their original form with painted timbered balconies decorated with flowers and hung with flags, it was a true delight for visitors.
The beauty of the tropical city that had been the military and administrative centre of the Spanish Empire in the Americas dazzled Kennedy.
However, in the background a war without mercy was being waged with the guerrillas. The headlines of the morning paper had cried out the deaths of seventy soldiers, thirty wounded and eight prisoners, after a fierce battle the guerrillas.
Kennedy could not avoid seeing the heavily armed military personnel before the hotel and guarding all the key buildings of the city, in a state of permanent readiness against terrorist actions.
The guerrillas were fighting for what seemed a lost cause, La Revolution, what revolution, he wondered. Certainly to eradicate poverty, to redistribute the national wealth, who knew, evidently the legend of the Che lived on.
The population consisted of a mixture of Europeans, Indians, and the descendants of African slaves. Five hundred years of history had produced an astonishing mixture that was still incomplete. There were beautifully dressed and attractive women contrasting with the small dark Indians and black peasant women carrying manioc in baskets balanced on their heads to the markets.
Kennedy noted that the national parliamentary elections were due to be held that Saturday and for security reasons all bars and cantinas would be closed, it would not be a good night to celebrate his success with Ortega. In fact Kennedy would have preferred to be back in Havana with Lina rather than face any troubles that might arise. It would perhaps be better to delay his departure until Monday or Tuesday.
They left the hotel and turned into one of the colourful side streets passing a blind lottery ticket seller. It seemed to Kennedy that half of the population seemed to eke out a living by selling lottery tickets. Many of them were comparatively well dressed. ‘Mille miljones de pesos!’ cried the blind seller. Even Kennedy understood. It sounded an incredible sum of money, but sadly, that was what the dreams of the poor were made of.
They arrived in a small bar-restaurant, which was empty, it was too early for dinner, only one table was occupied. Dan pointed him towards that table where a thickset man was seated. In spite of the dim lighting he wore dark glasses.
“So Pat, this is my good friend, Jose Delrios!” Dan laughed as they embraced. Kennedy seemed to understand there was a complicity between the two men and perhaps a joke that he had somehow missed.
“Nice to meet you Jose,” he said shaking hands and thinking that he looked like a latter day Che Guevara except for the fact that the beard was neatly trimmed and he wore Ray-Ban dark glasses.
“Jose is a good friend of Señor Ortega, he’s in the export business in the south of the country,” Dan laughed again, this time Kennedy joined in, not quite knowing why.
“I understand you are also in business Pat?”
“Yesh, I’m in investment. Hotel construction, and IT….you know computers and that kind of thing,” said Kennedy, with a look of false modesty on his face.
“Jose is thinking about investing some money in Ireland!” said Dan
“Is that right!” said Kennedy perking-up, “what kind of investment would that be?”
“In the export business. My organisation has money that it would like to invest offshore. You know here in Colombia, there are problems, inflation, political difficulties, devaluation and other things. We’d like to have a shelter for our money.”
“I see, what can I do for you then?”
“Well first open a bank account in Dublin,” replied Dan, “then we will transfer the money from one of our banks, in Antigua for example.”
“I can do that, how much is involved?”
“About ten,” said Jose looking at Dan questioningly. He paused then added, “to start with.”
“Ten what!” asked Kennedy mentally trying to select a conversion factor for Colombian pesos.
“Ten million dollars.”
“That’s a lot of money!” said Kennedy a little taken aback.
“Is it a problem?” asked Jose.
“No….I don’t think so, I’ll just have to check one or two things….but I don’t think there are any problems.” His accountant’s thinking with its built-in calculator had taken control, he was working out what there was in it for himself, he could get five percent from that, five hundred grand he thought and unconsciously rubbed his hands together.
Jose, a fine observer of men, noted with satisfaction that he had his man, at the same time he wondered if it would not be more profitable to kidnap the naive ‘gringo’. They were plenty of other ways to launder drug money. On second thoughts no, the Irishman was a business friend of Señor Ortega and that would definitely not be a good move.
Chapter 54
In the Jungle
Offshore Islands Page 53
