by John Moore
Chapter Twenty-Seven:
El Alacran
One of my new escorts jabbed his fist in the middle of my spine forcing me down the hallway toward the front door. Outside, they threw me into a waiting white panel van face first and I rolled onto my back. The van was one of those you see in the States used by cable companies and repairmen. The paint had scratches from the front to the rear, the kind of scratches made by tree branches and thorns while driving on through jungle trails. Inside the van on the floor, among discard food wrappers sat a Latin woman handcuffed just like me. We arranged ourselves with our backs against opposite walls, not speaking. She studied my face, and I did hers. Was she a prisoner like me or was she a cartel member trying to gain my confidence? I looked for tattoos on her and saw none. To the contrary, she was fair-skinned and elegant. At least she would have been if she wasn’t filthy and if her greasy and knotted hair were clean. She looked as if she’d been in that jail for a while. She was not the type you would expect to see in prison. She pissed someone off that was certain. She looked despondent and lost, her eyes red and puffy. As the van pulled away from the jail, bouncing us up and down as we moved along the pot hole ridden road, I decided to break the ice.
“I’m Alexandra. What’s your name?”
She looked up at me as if she understood what I said but didn’t dare answer. It reminded me of a whipped dog who wanted to grab food from the kitchen table but didn’t dare. Her eyes looked down at the floor of the van then up to my eyes and then back down. She was too scared to talk.
“Hey,” I said. “I’m scared too. Maybe talking about it will help. I’m Alexandra, and I’m from the United States, New Orleans.”
Once again, she looked at me through her tangled matted hair hanging in her face, fear penetrating her eyes. I didn’t break the eye-to-eye connection until finally she spoke, “I have family in New Orleans. I am Camila.”
“That is a beautiful name. So pleased to meet you, remembering my mid-western upbringing. Well, not under these circumstances. I wish we were in New Orleans eating gumbo now,” I said as I smiled at her.
Camila formed the most sincere smile she was capable of with her full Colombian lips parting to reveal her flawless white teeth. She didn’t look like someone who been living on the streets and it was clear that she had taken care of herself during her twenty-something years. Even completely disheveled and dressed in her blue prison uniform, she had a classy look about her. I wondered how she ended up in this van with me. Maybe she had a Bart Rogan in her world too.
“Do you have any idea where they are taking us?” I asked.
“These guys are members of Escorpion de Banda. In English that translates to scorpion gang or cartel. They are taking us to El Alacran, the scorpion, who leads the gang. He is a vicious killer,” Camila said.
“I thought we were arrested by the police? Why would they take us to give to a drug lord?
“Alexandra, you are in Colombia, not in the United States. The police were paid by El Alacran to kidnap us. You must have a rich family or have something they want,” Camila said.
“What did you do to them?” I asked.
“My father owns a bank in Barranquilla. He refused to launder money for the cartel. They kidnapped me to make him give in to their demands. If he still refuses, they will cut off my head and bring it to him,” she said.
Camila asked me why they wanted me. I told her the story of the sunken barge and Bart Rogan. She described her life in Barranquilla, Colombia, with her family before her kidnapping. Her family was close knit and spent most of their time together. She explained that she was taken by Escorpion de Banda a month ago and kept in a camp outside of town. She was only brought to the jail last night. Her father was negotiating with El Alacran for her release, but she did not know any details. Camila feared she would never see her family again and never get married or have a family of her own.
Once the van stopped moving, the back doors were flung open and more tattooed men gathered at the rear of the truck glaring at us. They laughed and said things in Spanish that would have wilted the ears of any sailor in any port had I been able to understand them. Four hands grabbed me and dragged along the ground to a tree in the center clearing. Thick vines wound around low limbed trees flush with green leaves. The smell of sour sweat and cigarette smoke penetrated the thickness of the air. They tied Camila and me to the tree with a thick rope, like you would tie a dog on a leash to a post. We sat next to each other with our backs against the tree, my eyes darting from man to man. Around us was a camp of sorts. This was not a permanent camp; it looked as though it could be gone within a few minutes without leaving a trace, with tents scattered around a central fire, cars and trucks parked in a random fashion, the sound of a distant waterfall splashing against rock cliffs. Twenty or so men busied themselves, passing whiskey bottles between them, circling like sharks, awaiting the arrival of orders from whom we did not know. Each looked like a stone cold killer, hard eyes, ruddy complexions, and sinewy, tattooed arms, who wouldn’t hesitate to kill on command. A scrawny man blindfolded both of us as sounds of men speaking Spanish reverberated around me.
Among the many sounds, one stuck in my ear and rang with a sense of familiarity. I heard a man, an American man, speaking in English. My worst fears were confirmed because it was the unmistakable voice of Bart Rogan. He was behind my arrest and in control of my fate, my stomach churned. Rogan conversed with a well-spoken Spanish man. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but I knew it had to be about me. Suddenly the conversation stopped and I heard a car door slam as a vehicle bounced its way along the choppy jungle road.
Camila and I were untied and brought to the tent where the voices had come from. The gang sat us down and removed our blindfold, my eyes slowly adjusting to the lantern light. A clean-shaven, fairly handsome man stood in front of me. His arm bore the now familiar scorpion tattoo. He looked Camila and me over as a cattle rancher might look at a pair of heifers he was considering purchasing.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone and placed a call, which made me think that we weren’t as deep in the jungle as I imagined. The conversation with the person on the other end of the call was in Spanish. Camila reacted to the conversation, so I guessed it was about her. The distress on her face seemed to worsen as the conversation progressed. Tears flowed freely down her face. The man in front of me became very angry and shouted what must have been obscenities to whomever he was talking to. He jabbed the phone in Camila’s face saying, something to her in Spanish.
Camila, crying uncontrollably, spoke to the caller on the other end, “No, Papa, no!”
That was all she was able to say before the phone was jerked away from her face. Two gang members dragged her from the tent, wailing with her feet kicking at them. I tried to grab onto her – though I knew it was hopeless – but the angry man held me back, chuckling. “No, no,” he said, his foul breath in my face. I could hear Camila’s screams starting to fade slightly as the men carried her away. Then her screams became more high-pitched and desperate – the sort of sound you can never forget – and I started to cry. The horror of it overcame my resolve to be strong, even my rage.
Soon, there was silence. No sound from her at all.
The man loosened his grip and said conversationally, “You see, Alexandra, Camila’s father and I have a little problem. He launders money for one of the other cartels. I gave him the chance to do business with me instead and save his daughter. He said he couldn’t so now, he won’t get her back. He’ll get her head in a box instead. But these matters don’t concern you. You and I have other business we can do together. Maybe you make a better decision than Camila’s papa, yes?”
It took me a moment to compose myself, to keep my voice from shaking. I told myself to keep it together and keep my wits about me, knowing the mortal danger I was facing. “What do you want from me?” I asked in a low voice, not looking
at him. I couldn’t bear to look at him, knowing what he had just done to Camila. “I have nothing to do with your business or any other business in Colombia. I live in New Orleans.”
“I know New Orleans,” he said. “I went to Tulane University to get my business degree. I have a friend who takes me there with him from time to time on his private jet. I think maybe you know my friend. His name is Bart Rogan. Do you know him, Alexandra? He knows you. He said you have something that belongs to him. Do you, Alexandra?”
“I have nothing of Bart Rogan’s,” I said.
“Oh, I think you do. You have a VCR tape that he very much wants back.”
Holy shit, I thought. They didn’t get the videotape that Sophia put in her purse when we were in court. I wonder what she did with it. He thinks I know where it is. If he finds out I don’t, he’ll just kill me.
“If you are talking about the VCR tape I got from Sarah’s safety deposit box, it’s in the U.S. I don’t have it with me. Who are you anyway?” I asked.
“They call me El Alacran. In English, that means The Scorpion. These men belong to me. Mr. Rogan is a friend, and I want my friend to have his property back. Tell me where you hid the tape and we’ll get someone in New Orleans to collect it for us. You and I can do other business together after that. You will help me in the U.S. when I need you.” He hesitated for a few seconds and continued, “Or we can finish our business today, just like Camila’s father and I did.”
He yelled to some of his guys outside of the tent in Spanish. One of them brought in a box, and El Alacran opened it and shoved it in my face. To my horror, there was Camila’s bloody head wrapped in plastic. Her eyes were wide and desperate, her mouth still agape in a frozen scream. I looked away completely terrified, knowing that my head would soon be in a similar box.
El Alacran sneered at me, laughing at my disgust at what he had done to Camila. I looked up at him as my eyes grew cold, resigned to a fate like Camila’s. My mother’s words sprang to my mind as I listened to his proposal. I thought: this devil wants me to make a deal with him. No way. If this is the way I was to die, then let it be with dignity. Fuck him and his deal.
“I don’t have the tape,” I said.
“Maybe your memory is bad,” he said. “I have a friend that can help you remember.”
He went to a corner of the tent and removed a cover from a cage fashioned from fine mesh chicken wire and wood frame. He placed the cage directly in front of me. I could see two scorpions ambling around in the vegetation placed inside. The cage had a hinged lid so it could be lifted up to gain access to the scorpions without allowing them to escape. He lifted the lid. His men forced my cuffed hands into the cage between the two scorpions.
Growing up on a farm in Indiana, I had never seen scorpions. But in Louisiana I’d encountered just about every kind of insect and reptile imaginable. I knew a scorpion’s sting might make me sick but if I stayed calm it wouldn’t kill me. I took my thoughts to happier times. I remembered my nights with my mother cooking in our small kitchen back in Indiana, listening to her stories and singing spiritual songs. I heard my mother’s voice in my ear saying, “Don’t worry, Alexandra, everything will be OK.” I felt a pain like a needle being stuck in my hand. One of the scorpions stung me. The men pulled the cage away and I looked up at El Alacran.
There was no fear in my eyes and it unnerved him. He asked, “Now do you remember where the tape is?”
“No,” I calmly replied.
Rage filled his eyes. He thrust the knife to my throat and yelled, “Bitch, I’ll cut your head off myself.”
Just then automatic weapon fire rang through the camp. A desperate voice said in Spanish, “Vamanos, Vamanos!” More guns firing pierced the silence of the night. Soon there was nothing but a steady barrage of gunfire and chaos broke out in the camp, the sounds of feet scrambling. El Alacran fled the tent, leaving me still tied on the ground. I heard vehicles crank and speed away, gunshots continuing erupt around me. As the gunfire ended, I thought: could this be a rival cartel sent by Camila’s father? Was I about to be a prisoner of another group of murderous thugs?
A man with an automatic rifle entered the tent and said, “Alexandra, is that you? Are you Alexandra?”
I looked at him. His face had a familiar look, but I was sure I did not know him. He didn’t look menacing like the scorpion-tattooed men, clean shaven, neatly combed hair and pressed slacks. Maybe he wasn’t a cartel member. Maybe he was a good guy if there was such a thing as good and bad in this jungle. How the hell did he know my name? But what did I have to lose by answering.
“Yes, I’m Alexandra,” I said. “Who are you?”
“My name is Juan Garcia. I am with the National Police Force. I believe you know my sister, Sophia.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. He was the police, not a rival cartel member. I was saved. I scanned his face again and it took a few minutes, but I made the connection, written in his wide set eyes like Sophia’s, the family resemblance becoming more apparent.
“How did you find me?” I asked.
“One of the men on the Armada Nacional vessel that arrested you was an undercover agent working for me,” Juan said. “He contacted his handler and told the story of two American tourists framed for drug smuggling and thrown in jail. Sophia had already told me that you were after Bart Rogan’s sunken vessel. So, when I heard that the two Americans had samples from a sunken barge, I just put two and two together and knew it was you. We went to the jail to take you into our custody, but were told you had been given to El Alacran’s men. We knew the general area where their temporary camp was located. When we intercepted the call he made to Camila’s father, we zeroed in on this location. Unfortunately, not soon enough to save Camila.”
“Oh my God, they cut off Camila’s head,” I said.
Juan looked down and shook his head and said, “Yes, I saw her body on the ground. These things happen all too often in our country. Her father made a deal with a rival cartel. He was too scared to help the Escorpion Ganga, so they kidnapped Camila to change his mind. The other cartel threatened to kill him and all of his family if he worked with Escorpion Ganga. He had no way out. To save the other members of his family and himself he must have refused El Alacran’s demands. Camila paid with her life.”
Through the dim light, Juan noticed the slight redness and swelling of my hand and said, “You’ve been stung by a scorpion. We need to get you to Bogota.”
“Yes, he wanted me to tell him were the VCR tape was located so El Alacran used the scorpion to torture me,” I answered.
My eyes welled with tears as my mind turned to thoughts of Tom. I hesitated to ask Juan about Tom’s fate for fear that he had been killed. But I had to know.
“Rogan is behind all of this, I’m sure,” I said. “I am lucky you found me when you did. A man named Tom was with me when I was taken from Carlos’ boat. He was injured. Did they kill him?”
I steeled myself for more bad news.
Chapter Twenty-Eight:
More Bad News
“You can relax a little, Alexandra. Tom is OK,” Juan said. “He has a nasty shark bite and won’t be playing football in the World Cup this year, but he’ll recover. Another agent took him from the hospital. He will be transported by ambulance to the U.S. Embassy. When he is well enough, he’ll be on a flight back to New Orleans.”
“Oh God, thank you! Juan, you have no idea how scared I was!”
He smiled slightly. ”I do, actually. I’m afraid this can be a very dangerous country.”
“Oh shit. What about Carlos?”
“Carlos is of no interest to the cartels. They think he was just chartered by you and Tom to go diving. They believe he is another innocent charter captain trying to scratch out a living in this troubled economy. Besides his sister is hot, muey caliente, and they all think they have a chance with her. He is in no danger.”
“The barge contained no chemicals. They couldn’t be after the samples Tom and I found in the submerged barge. They wanted the VCR tape from me. That is the only reason they didn’t kill me,” I said. “He put my hands in a box with two scorpions to make me talk. One stung me.”
“I saw the box with the scorpions. The venom will not kill you. You will experience a little swelling and that’s all,” Juan said.
“You are right. It doesn’t even hurt anymore. It was like a bee sting,” I said.
“I know about the barge. Your boat captain, Carlos, told his sister to bring me the samples you and Tom collected from the sunken barge,” Juan said. “We retested them in our labs. Our tests yielded the same results as yours, no chemicals of any kind. I wondered why would Rogan bring a barge full of water across the Gulf, dump it and hide its location. There is much more to this story. The Environmental Protection Agency completely banned the use of Agent Orange as an herbicide in the United States in 1985. Governments around the world followed suit. Rogan saw a business opportunity. The chemical companies manufacturing Agent Orange had to dispose of it in toxic waste dumps. Disposal was very expensive. Chemical companies paid Rogan to dispose of large amounts. Instead of disposing of it, he stored the dangerous chemical in barges. When the U.S. government started spraying herbicides on cocoa farms in Colombia, Rogan made a deal with El Alacran to spray Agent Orange on competing cartels’ fields. That way Rogan made double profits. He substituted Agent Orange for glyphosate to destroy some fields. Agent Orange is much more toxic than glyphosate. It not only killed the plants, it made our people sick. His drug cartel friends paid him huge sums for this deception. They didn’t care who got hurt.”
“Are you telling me that Rogan made a deal to sell glyphosate to the United States Government to spray on coca fields in Colombia and substituted Agent Orange?” I asked.
“Yes, El Alacran paid Rogan to spray his competitors’ fields with Agent Orange. But another part of the deception was that Rogan sold plain water as glyphosate and saw that it was sprayed on El Alacran’s fields. That way, El Alacran would have the most abundant supply of cocaine. His goal was to squeeze the other cartels out,” Juan said. “Rogan made huge profits by secretly selling the Agent Orange to the U.S. as glyphosate. Then he made even more money by spraying plain water on other fields when the government paid for glyphosate. And, he stayed on a drug lord’s payroll. Glyphosate is the active chemical in Roundup. The concentration sprayed on the coca fields was 10 times as potent as Roundup. Neither the U. S. nor the Colombian governments would have allowed Agent Orange with dioxin to be sprayed on the fields. It eventually seeped into the groundwater and foliage eaten by animals. It causes serious health issues in both. “
