by Bill Vidal
‘Aristides, you will no doubt render me an account for your admirably performed services.’ He emphasized the ‘you’ to differentiate the lawyer’s fees from the Mayor’s bribes, then added, for Romualdes’ benefit: ‘I always believe in paying my supporters well. That way,’ he chuckled at the preposterous idea, ‘they never need think they should go into business for themselves.’
He walked the two men affably to their car and waited until it had disappeared into the woods. Then he wandered off to look for his putter.
It was indeed a splendid evening on the hills of Medellín.
Not far from the Morales estate, Andres Alberdi was debating a moral dilemma. Julio Robles wanted to see him again but what Alberdi had to tell him would not please him. The previous weekend Alicia had gone to Bogotá with the Mayor. She had returned to Medellín full of life, clutching a bag full of clothes bearing the kind of labels you only saw in foreign magazines. She had stayed at a place called Hilton. Twenty-three floors high, Alicia said. And from its top, at night, you could see the entire city sparkling as if all the stars had been laid between the mountains. Their room had been covered in carnations and they had drunk wines that had come all the way from Chile. She said Romualdes had promised that one day, soon, he would take her for a holiday in Disney World, which was in Florida.
‘So, your lover has come into some money, eh?’ her plain, pious, older sister had asked over dinner, refusing to be impressed. For in her eyes, whatever the extravagance, Alicia’s was still a sinful relationship.
‘He is building six hundred houses,’ Alicia retorted defiantly. ‘For the poor people of Colombia! And,’ she added with uncharacteristic vehemence, ‘two of them are for us! One for you and Andres, and one for me.’
They were stunned.
‘What are you saying?’ asked Ana Alberdi in disbelief.
‘He promised. He gave me his word of honour. He showed me the maps and he let me choose them. Two houses, side by side, just outside the city on the road to Bogotá. There!’
‘Ha!’ exclaimed the older sister. ‘And how do you suppose we shall be able to pay for your lovely houses, silly girl?’
‘We pay only what we can. Miguel explained it.’ She hesitated a little here for she had been unable to fathom the explanation she was given. So she just repeated his words:
‘Each according to their means. If you have no work, you pay nothing. If you are more fortunate, then you pay more. But always you keep your house.’
‘Sure, they say that. Then the landlord’s agents will come with their guns and collect the rent.’
‘Not this landlord,’ she said doggedly. ‘Miguel knows. You know nothing.’
‘Which landlord?’ asked Andres, who had remained silent throughout the exchange.
‘He is called the Morales Foundation, and Miguel is what they call the trustee. That means it does what he says. So there!’
‘Holy Mother of God, girl,’ wailed Andres’ wife in horror, ‘you don’t know what you are saying. Morales is an evil man.’
‘He is not,’ replied Alicia with conviction. ‘You don’t know the half of it. Nobody knows, only Miguel. He will also build a free hospital for us and two schools! Two schools for our children, also free!’
‘Whose children?’ asked Ana, her voice cracking with the trauma.
‘My children,’ Alicia replied, suddenly softening. ‘When all this is done, he will marry me.’
Ana Alberdi burst into tears and went to her room. Alicia cried too, but for different reasons. She knew that in time her sister would learn to respect her.
And Andres was left to ponder his moral dilemma.
Six hundred houses could only mean one thing: not one tree would be left standing. Julio Robles would want to know that. But El BID was powerful. If they wanted to, they could stop anything. And Andres believed Alicia’s story. He looked around his old house and stared at the tin roof that made you boil in summer and failed to keep the cold and damp out during the rainy season. Ana wanted a new house very badly. With a garden. Imagine growing your own flowers. He too had heard the rumours about Morales: he sold cocaine to the Yankees. But so what? Andres’ own people did not use cocaine. It was the stupid gringos’ problem.
He knew this because once, at the men’s club, Prats the barber, who had once worked in Sacramento, told him in subdued tones. Everybody had lots of money in America, and they only worked five days a week. They had several cars per household and a colour television in every room. They did not go to church and they could buy anything they wanted, whenever they wanted, and pay for it later. The problem, Prats explained conspiratorially as he flashed a gold tooth, was that they got bored. So they invented ways to pass the time. They bought sex over the telephone and paid fifty dollars for a tiny bit of coke. He had shown his disbelieving audience just how tiny, by taking a salt cellar from the bar and pouring the exact amount on the table.
And that was why Prats had not remained there. He had saved his dollars in America, and once he had enough to acquire his own shop he had returned to Medellín. California, he had stated with authority, was no place to bring up children.
Alberdi walked to the kitchen and returned to the front room with a bottle of aguardiente. He sat at the table and poured a generous shot. He had to concede he liked Robles. Admittedly he could be blunt and sometimes, when Andres tried to spin him a yarn, he became irritable. But he always paid, never quibbled. Once, when they first met, he had told Alberdi about the trees. Something called eco-systems. You chop the trees and the earth dies, Don Julio had explained. And as it dies it makes a hole in the atmosphere, up there in the sky. You cannot see it, but it is there, the scientists know that. It will not hurt us, Don Julio explained. We shall be long gone when the consequences are felt. But our children will not be able to grow a single vegetable.
Andres believed that – it made sense – and in any event he had noticed there were fewer flowers about today than all through his childhood.
So it was important to look after the trees.
He poured himself a second glass of aguardiente and it reminded him of the drink he had shared with Prats, when Alberdi tried to show off his knowledge of the eco-system. Prats had seemed impressed.
‘No doubt about it,’ he had agreed, which made Andres feel pretty good. ‘But also you could say: the gringos chopped down their own forests, and made themselves a fortune in the process. Right?’
Alberdi was in no position to disagree. Prats had lived in the North after all.
‘So now they tell us, in South America, we must not cut down our trees because it makes holes in the sky. Right?’
Alberdi agreed with that.
‘I say they should start new forests while we sell ours.’ Prats let that hang in the air long enough for Alberdi to work out that you didn’t create a rainforest overnight.
‘Alternatively, they should buy our forests from us, and leave them as they are. After all, they have the money.’
And Alberdi certainly could not argue with that. With the third and final glass of liquor he made up his mind. He heard his wife still sobbing in the bedroom as he took his hat from the peg. Quietly he left the house and walked down the lane towards the bus stop.
He would go into town and warn the Mayor.
In fact the information that Alberdi had decided to withhold was not of interest to Julio Robles. He already knew. In a city the size of Medellín it was impossible to keep the lid on a project of such magnitude. Robles wanted Alberdi to deliver something else and he was prepared to risk his cover if necessary by offering his informer a serious payment. For Alicia to obtain details of the project’s funding. That would give Red Harper the hard information he needed and perhaps a mandate to strike.
So Robles had been in his office all day, shredding papers and tidying up loose ends. He had to be ready to run for home at short notice if he was found out, but he would offer his informer up to five thousand dollars for the names of the companies and banks involved.
Romualdes was bound to have the details in his office. All Alberdi had to do was teach Alicia what to look for. Julio had already established that the woman could read.
At eight, Robles drove along the road to Cartagena and stopped at the appointed place. He waited ten minutes, then left. For the first time his informer had failed to keep a meeting. There could, of course, be valid reasons for the absence, but Julio was trained to always consider the less palatable option. That way one tended to live longer. Perhaps Andres was unwell, perhaps he had family problems. Or maybe he had been found out. If so, that was bad news. If his cover was blown, he would leave Colombia in a hurry. So the best thing was to find out pronto. He turned the car around and headed towards the Alberdi home.
At that moment Andres Alberdi was sitting listening to Romualdes. He had sought him out at City Hall but the Mayor, he was told, had already gone home. No buses ran between the city centre and the best residential suburbs, so he checked the money in his pocket and took a taxi. As he stood outside the large villa, safely tucked behind six-foot iron gates, he was overcome by fear and almost fled. But then he recalled Alicia’s account of the Mayor’s promises. When he rang the bell, dogs barked and a light came on above the gate. A few minutes later a craggy-faced old servant questioned him through a sliding port. Gauging that Alberdi was not the type of person the civic leader received at home, he suggested the caller should seek an appointment during office hours. He emphasized the word ‘seek’.
‘Please,’ said Alberdi firmly, still drawing courage from the aguardiente. ‘Tell the Mayor it’s important, and that my name is Andres Alberdi.’
The servant shrugged and locked the viewport.
Alberdi heard his voice receding towards the house as he shouted at the dogs to be still. He hoped that Alicia would have mentioned his name. Hers, after all, was not Alberdi. But if Romualdes had promised her those two houses, surely he would know Alberdi’s name. A moment later the dogs resumed their barking and Andres heard the keys turn in the locks.
He was escorted into the house and ushered into the Mayor’s study. The obese man sat behind his desk, sporting a casual shirt with the top four buttons undone, revealing the links of three gold chains spilling from his neck. He motioned to the servant to shut the door.
‘Is something wrong with Alicia?’ he enquired gravely at once.
‘No, Don Miguel, she is fine.’
‘Then why are you here?’
‘I have to tell you about a problem –’
‘I don’t conduct business from my home, Andres,’ the Mayor replied irately. ‘Come to my office’ – he looked pointedly at his watch – ‘at a suitable time.’
‘Yes, Don Miguel,’ insisted Alberdi. ‘But what I have to tell you, I think you will want to know right away.’
‘Very well,’ he said condescendingly, exhaling as if to signify that nothing in Alberdi’s possession could be of immediate interest to the most important man in town. ‘Keep it brief.’
Alberdi told him what he knew, with minor changes dictated by an instinct for self-preservation. Julio Robles, from El BID, was asking questions about the Mayor’s project. The schools and houses. Alberdi knew that Robles would oppose the development. He would ask the Americans to stop the cutting down of trees.
The Mayor was puzzled. ‘Why the hell would he ask you for information?’
‘He wants me to get Alicia to spy on you.’
‘Oh, really?’ fumed the Mayor. ‘And you think Alicia would do that, do you?’
‘No, sir,’ he replied quickly. ‘Never. Always she is loyal to you.’
Romualdes knew that, but he liked hearing it anyway. He remained silent for a while, the powerful man about to make a decision.
‘You did well to tell me,’ the Mayor pronounced in conclusion. He told Alberdi this conversation must remain just between the two of them. He was to discuss it with no one, not even his wife or Alicia.
Andres nodded. ‘But what shall I do if Señor Robles comes to me again?’
‘Tell him you know nothing. Then report to me. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Don Miguel.’
‘Good. Now,’ the Mayor said, standing up and dipping his hand in his pocket, ‘did you walk here?’
‘No, Don Miguel. I took a taxi.’
‘My driver will take you back,’ he said magnanimously, handing over fifty thousand pesos. ‘I always believe in paying my supporters well. You know? That way, they never need think they should go into business for themselves.’
Alberdi smiled appreciatively and the great man himself escorted him to the front door. When he had left, the Mayor returned to his study. His wife called him to dinner but he replied that he had a very important call to make first.
* * *
When Romualdes rang, Morales had already sat down to dine with his family. With his plans now well advanced, the cocaine baron was in an excellent mood. To his wife’s and children’s joy, he announced they would all take a holiday together. Where did they want to go? They could choose anywhere in the world except America. As debate raged between Paris and Singapore, the butler came in and whispered that Mayor Romualdes was on the telephone.
‘Tell him to call tomorrow,’ Morales said without hesitation. Turning to the children, he teased: ‘Now, my darlings, who wants to guess what Daddy is going to buy you when we get to Singapore?’
Alberdi asked the driver to stop on the main road. He would walk the last portion of the route, not wishing to arrive home in the mayoral Cadillac. Such was his haste that he failed to notice Julio Robles sitting in his car, parked unobtrusively to one side along the same road.
Earlier, Robles had been to the house and Alicia had answered his knock. Her brother-in-law was out, she said. She did not know where he had gone. She was prettier than in Andres’ description, Robles thought. He told her it was not important, that he would call again, then went back down the footpath to wait in his car. When he saw Alberdi’s transportation, he accepted the man had turned on him.
So Julio drove back home and packed a bag with his few valuables. He had a last look around the apartment, then went out and locked the door. It would remain so until the next Forestry Specialist arrived; all BID premises enjoyed diplomatic status. He then called briefly at his office and wrote out two notes. The first was to his BID boss, explaining that he had to go home urgently for family reasons. The second was a fax to his head office acknowledging the sad news about his sister and confirming he would be on his way that very night.
He double-checked that he had not overlooked anything, sent the fax to Washington and went to visit Romualdes. The Mayor was still having dinner with his family when he heard the doorbell and the dogs. He was not expecting anyone, but rose from the table anyway and went to investigate. He was surprised when he saw Julio Robles being walked towards the house unannounced, but even a servant knew that one did not leave a BID official standing in the street.
‘Mayor Romualdes,’ said Robles extending his hand, ‘I am extremely sorry to trouble you at this time but something most urgent has come up which I must bring to your attention. May we speak in private?’ he enquired before the flabbergasted Romualdes had uttered a single word.
In the Mayor’s study Robles took command of the impromptu meeting by shutting the door.
‘Sit down, Mr Mayor. This will not take very long.’
‘Who the hell do you think you are talking to?’ Romualdes had started to recover.
‘Just hear me out.’ And in no uncertain terms Robles told him: that he knew all about the Morales Foundation and the drug dollars behind it. And that Romualdes was trustee to blood-soaked money. Those, said Robles, were the facts. His people in Washington would deal with them as they saw fit. That would happen no matter what the conclusion of this conversation might be, given that the Mayor should by now have figured that he, Julio Robles, was not just a Forestry Specialist with the BID.
‘Why are you bothering to talk to me, then?’ asked Romualdes, sensing tha
t some kind of deal might be in the offing.
‘Because when I leave this house I am driving straight to the airport, and you will never see me again.’ He let that sink in and then continued: ‘However, before leaving, I might just make one phone call. To Carlos Alberto Morales, your most illustrious citizen.’
Romualdes swallowed hard.
‘And when I call him,’ Robles continued, ‘I shall tell him that we know all about his grandiose schemes. Thanks to the big mouth of his trusted Mayor –’
‘He won’t believe you!’ retorted Romualdes.
‘He will when I tell him that you took your mistress to Bogotá and blubbered your big mouth all over the place. And I’ll quote you as saying how nice it was that all that drug filth should end up doing something good for your people.’
‘I never said that, you son of a whore!’ protested Romualdes, sweating profusely and instinctively putting his right hand on his heart. He would kill Alicia, he decided.
‘I know that, Mr Mayor,’ said Robles softly, now smiling. ‘But what will Morales believe?’
‘What do you want from me?’
‘I want to know where the money came from. How much, when, who sent it. From what I hear, your Foundation will need a hundred million.’
Romualdes mumbled that the money had not yet arrived and that it was only fifty million. Robles stared at him and remained silent until the Mayor told him. It was expected any day now. Two transfers: twenty-five million from Banco Nacional in Montevideo and the same again from Banesto in Seville.
‘Thank you, Mr Mayor,’ said Robles politely as he stood up to leave. ‘I’ll see myself out. Oh, one more thing,’ he said in a deliberate tone. ‘Alicia never told us a damn thing. For what it’s worth, she seems to be totally loyal to you. We had you followed and we bugged your phones,’ he lied. ‘However, you should know that in Washington we keep very close tabs on Medellín. If, for whatever reason, anything untoward should happen to any of the Alberdi family, I might just make that phone call after all. Remember that.’
