Three Minutes

by Anders Roslund

  Libardo Toyas opened the door himself before they even got there. Horde of bodyguards absent, as usual, he was unlike so many of his colleagues and liked to show how confident he was of his own invulnerability. He was turning the tables for a negotiation—El Mestizo was an underling, an upstart, someone who did not have the cojones to touch one of the real drug barons. Piet Hoffmann said hello to the man, who looked more like the hero of an old Western every time he saw him—straight, dark hair, furrowed cheeks, the slightly curved nose, starkly white teeth, wrinkles at his eyes, even his suede jacket was adorned with a fringe of long, dangling pieces of fabric, as if they’d been cut up. Manolito. High Chaparral. That was the show.

  “I told you last time. I don’t have the money.”

  “One ton. A thousand kilos. That’s what you owe.”

  “I don’t have the fucking money because my wealth was confiscated when the boat docked in Miami. They were waiting for it. Headed straight for the tube. Somebody squealed. And so, my friend, I’m not paying.”

  Piet Hoffmann already knew from their last visit, Toyas’s first warning, how this worked. That he—the man who would assist El Mestizo during this collection—was the one responsible for the confiscation three weeks ago of the container they were there to collect on. Now the same memories were flickering around them on the porch. While the dockworkers and harbor police had looked the other way, counting their bribes, Hoffmann had fastened a rope from a tube of a ton of plastic-wrapped cocaine to the bottom of the vessel, which was docked in Puerto de La Guairas. An hour later, it would weigh anchor and take a few days to cross the Caribbean, continuing up the Gulf of Mexico and the round tip of Florida, and then dock in Miami.

  That was how smuggling operations worked—the seller was responsible for the first half of the trip to the port or airport or submarine. And the buyer’s responsibility was the second half, beyond the border. This cargo had been protected by Hoffmann and his group of ten people all through Colombia and Venezuela. But twelve hours after the tube had been fastened to the ship, their mission complete, he, the informant, traveled alone to Bogotá, met with Lucia at number three, and provided her with all the details: the ship’s name, its route, and how and where the container was kept. The DEA had plenty of time to prepare to crack down the moment the loading ramp was lowered.

  “Toyas, you have plenty of fucking money. Many times that amount.”

  “Yes. But I don’t have that money.” The wealthy, arrogant man stood there smirking, convinced of his own importance and power. “I’m not paying for something just because you can’t get a handle on a snitch.”

  “One ton. Today, in Colombia, that price is three thousand US dollars per kilo. Right? But you bought a lot. You always buy a lot. So you got a good price from us. Twenty-five hundred a kilo for the first five hundred, twenty-three hundred a kilo for the rest. So cut this shit out! We delivered. What happens after we deliver is not our problem—that’s your problem. Your risk. And that was your last warning.” El Mestizo swept his striped blazer sleeve toward Toyas, his home, the large courtyard inside, and whatever stood outside the walls. “You’ve been in business a long time. You’ve got your hacienda, your herd of horses that cost seventy, eighty thousand dollars apiece, you have your garages full of Ferraris and Rolls-Royces and . . . yes, a ton, that’s a helluva lot of money—but you’ve got money!”

  “It doesn’t matter how much money I have, because you’re not getting a single dollar. I don’t owe you anything, because it’s your fault the shipment got fucked up.”

  “Listen, Toyas, you can send your shit to the US or Chile or Argentina or wherever the fuck you want, that’s your problem. You can send it to Spain. Or Gibraltar. I don’t give a shit, you were given a price, you accepted it, you received your product here in Colombia. If you put it up your mother’s cunt or your own ass, that’s your problem, not mine.”

  “What exactly is it you don’t understand? I’m not paying for something that’s your responsibility—making sure there are no snitches among the producers, sellers, buyers, suppliers. This conversation is over.” Toyas turned around and took the first steps back into his mansion. But El Mestizo grabbed his shoulder, his face red.

  “You’re fucking sick, man, you’re a stupid bastard and you have only yourself to blame.” And then—he started giggling. “This was going to be your last warning. But I changed my mind. There are no more warnings. I’m not coming back here in a week. I want the money now. Nothing else. I want it on that table. Otherwise, Toyas, you know what happens. I’ll start with your youngest, and I’ll work my way up. I never eat from the top down, I eat from the bottom up, until I get paid. The little girl. The other girl. The wife, mother, brother, cousin, friends, until you give me my fucking money.”

  Toyas tore loose from El Mestizo’s hand and took a long stride forward.

  “I’ve been doing business with the guerrillas for seven years. Never missed a payment. Johnny Sánchez, you stupid little mestizo half-breed, you stand here on my property, my veranda, with your European escort girl, and you threaten to kill my children? When you’re the one with a traitor you can’t control. A traitor who cost me my whole shipment! One thing I want to make very fucking clear to you—next time they send someone to me I want to make sure I’m talking to the brain and not the asshole.”

  El Mestizo’s cheeks turned red now, and he giggled more loudly, more shrilly, an unpleasant sound. “Your daughter first. What’s her name? Mirja? Is that right? Pretty name.”

  El Mestizo shoved Toyas forcefully against the doorframe and forced his way into a hall that was as big as a ballroom—long, wide, high ceilings. Toyas had no time to react. Not before El Mestizo started shouting, Mirja, and moved even farther into the heart of the hacienda, little Mirja. Toyas started running and screaming too, but with a completely different pitch and fury, what the hell are you doing! He understood now. Piet Hoffmann could see and hear it. You leave my daughter alone! And Piet had no choice but to follow along, do his job, protect El Mestizo. Come here, little Mirja. El Mestizo continued to shout with a terrifying voice, which sounded calm but had the exact opposite effect, whipping up dread. At first Toyas ran straight toward it, but then turned suddenly, headed into the kitchen to a large island, where he pulled a revolver from a drawer. Mirja. He cocked it and ran back toward that monstrous voice, come here, little Mirja, while Hoffmann drew his own weapon from his shoulder holster. Drop your gun! Aimed. Drop your gun, now! Shot. Through Toyas’s arm and shoulder. And hurried over to the whimpering, kneeling drug baron. You better lie still and keep your fucking mouth shut from now on! And he shut it, his fucking mouth.

  El Mestizo’s last Mirja, and Toyas’s last leave her fucking alone, and the echoing shot—everything died away. Piet Hoffmann caught sight of El Mestizo’s back in the distance. Not once did he turn around after entering this unfamiliar, guarded home, so convinced was he that Hoffmann was protecting him.

  Complete silence. Until a little girl came running, as scared as she was breathless.

  “Daddy!” She came closer, her clear, fragile voice a few steps in front of her as she ran through one of the hacienda’s many living rooms. “Daddy, Daddy . . . I heard loud noises, and I . . .”

  Then she stopped. Her dark hair was held up in a ponytail, white sandals, green floral dress. And she tried to make sense of what she saw. At first there seemed to be a strange man squatting down, a wide and powerful man smiling at her. And behind that strange man, right at the kitchen door, her father was on his knees, and another strange man was aiming a real gun at him.

  “Tiny, little Mirja . . . so that’s what you look like?”

  “My daddy!” She looked at the burly man saying her name in that artificial voice, stretching out both his arms so that she couldn’t pass by. She sought a way around the giant squid arms and found a hole near the wall, but he was quicker, and there were arms in the way there, too, folded down like barriers at a railroad crossing.

  “Hello, l
ittle Mirja . . . you can call me Uncle Johnny. Why don’t you come over here? I won’t bite.” He folded up his arms and pointed at her. “We’re gonna play a game, you and me.”

  “That’s my daddy! I want my daddy!”

  He’d never seen El Mestizo act like this. His way of moving, his voice, seemed to belong to another person. And he brought down his arms without warning again, snatched hold of the girl, lifted her up, and carried her. And held her close even when he put her down in front of the now hysterical Toyas, like a beautiful statue that he was trying to find the best place for.

  “You fucker, you fucking pig, let go of my daughter!”

  “Toyas, this isn’t your last warning—it’s your only warning. The money—now.” And he pulled his revolver out of his holster, a .357 magnum, his favorite, and pressed it to the girl’s forehead. “Now Mirja, we’re gonna play a little game. You and me. You’re gonna close your eyes. We’re gonna have a little fun with your dad.”

  “I don’t want to!”

  “Just some fun. If you close your eyes.”

  “I want my daddy!”

  El Mestizo was holding the child, who tried to break free, tearing at his arms with her nails.

  “This time, Toyas, I’ll shoot her right away. Now. And if you don’t pay after that—I’ll take your second youngest.”

  It didn’t make sense. There was always a final warning. But El Mestizo’s gaze, when Piet tried to meet it, slipped away.

  “Johnny, what are you doing?”

  El Mestizo didn’t look at Hoffmann. He looked at Toyas. And at the girl.

  “Dammit, Johnny!” Hoffmann was shouting now. “We agreed—no kids!”

  “I do my job. You do yours.” And then everything happened very fast.

  El Mestizo shoved the girl a little more, she had to stand right in front of Toyas. He cocked the hammer of his gun. They all heard the double click, the cylinder rotating one notch to the right. A new location for the mouth of his gun, he moved it from her forehead to the top of her head, the pressure now came from above and the barrel sank into her hair.

  The trigger back into firing position.

  Toyas during this whole production continued screaming uncontrollably, words of fear and helplessness, and though unintelligible they said everything about a parent’s despair.

  “Toyas, fucking hell, you bawl a lot. Mirja, right?” He kicked at Toyas’s shoulder to make sure he was watching. “She had a beautiful name.”

  The trigger, and now, all the way. The hammer hit the firing pin’s back side.

  But there was no bang of a bullet firing.

  “Oh fuck . . . I must have forgotten to load my gun.”

  El Mestizo lowered his gun until it was caressing the girl’s right cheek, then spun out the whole cylinder, pressed the ejector, and six cartridges fell to the floor. Hoffmann saw it, Toyas saw it. Five live shots. And one empty case. That was what stood in the firing position when he took aim. A previously fired and now harmless shot.

  “The money. In one week. Otherwise I’ll come back here. And I’ll make sure my gun is loaded.”

  He released the girl and she ran over to her father, lay down beside him.

  “Listen little Mirja. You know what?” El Mestizo switched to that voice again. “Next time I come back to you, if your daddy doesn’t pay me, this revolver will be fully loaded . . . and then you won’t exist anymore. Weird, huh?”

  He caressed her cheeks with both hands and headed back to the hallway and entrance. Hoffmann stood there, looking at a girl, who was slightly younger than his two boys. Who lay next to her father, curled up in a ball.

  THE THIN LEATHER gloves held on to the steering wheel lightly. He was driving too fast down highway 25, but they were late, and El Mestizo hadn’t let up on the gas since their first stop just after La Estrella for a piss break behind the sun-bleached cactus and some tired mimosa bushes.

  They’d traveled in silence. That wasn’t unusual. But it felt unusual. It was the kind of silence that meant you didn’t know what might happen.

  “What the hell were you up to back there?”

  The sort of silence that threatened to end everything for an informant whose cover couldn’t be blown.

  “Excuse me?”

  The kind of silence he should just leave alone.

  “We don’t kill little children.”

  “I didn’t kill her, Peter. I threatened to.”

  “And we don’t threaten to. Not that way. It’s not kids we’re supposed to scare.”

  He’d never done this before. Openly questioned El Mestizo’s methods. He’d confronted him before, but only when he had no choice, when confrontation was necessary for survival. He had never questioned his methods because it wasn’t his job to question them.

  “Sorry, Peter, that’s the way we do it here. We use children when we do business. You still have a lot to learn.”

  You should record and expose, but not be exposed. Never, ever shift the focus to yourself, then he might see you, and if he sees you, really sees you, you might die.

  “So explain to me, Johnny, again . . . what the hell was all that?”

  The leather gloves tightened around the steering wheel, as El Mestizo slowed, stopped in the middle of the road, blocking the lane completely. The car behind them, a minivan, slowed abruptly, and the car behind that one, and a truck realized too late that the traffic had stopped and slid to the side of the road, half of its heavy metal frame ended up in the sparsely vegetated landscape. When he turned to Hoffmann, he seemed unconcerned about the cars piling up and honking behind them.

  “You didn’t do your job back there. You even defied me in front of a client. I let that pass! Your questions—I’ve answered them. But you keep on asking! Normally, this would be when I would kill you. But you’ve saved my life, Peter, several times.”

  He shifted gears from first to second and straight to fourth, as fast as before.

  “That’s the only reason I’m letting you live.”

  Hoffmann wasn’t listening. He was thinking of a father. In an almost empty hall in his own brothel, lifting up his own five-year-old daughter just as he’d lifted up Toyas’s daughter, caressing his daughter’s cheeks just as he’d caressed Mirja’s.

  “What about Alejandrina?”

  “What about her?”

  “She’s lovely.”

  El Mestizo stared straight ahead, but it was clear he was smiling. “She is.”

  “You’ve done a good job with her. The kind of daughter I’d be proud to have, if I didn’t have my boys.”

  “Everything.” The smile was still there. “She’s everything.”

  Alcalá, a small town with a busy entrance (or was it an exit?), and then just open road again. Hoffmann tried to collect his thoughts, or was it El Mestizo’s thoughts he was after, this ingrained behavior that snapped out sometimes and scared him more than the threat of violence and death. Behavior he didn’t want to be part of, imitate, copy, the behavior of those without emotions—the kind of person he was not yet and now risked his life not to be.

  “Mirja. She’s everything, too. For Toyas.”

  El Mestizo lowered his voice, and neck, like always.

  “I know what you’re trying to do.”

  “He holds her, plays with her.”

  Jerky steering and the gear lever whined as El Mestizo drove past the gray wall that would lead them to Montenegro, a small tired town it was impossible to avoid.

  “I’d strongly encourage you to stop talking.”

  “A daughter. Just like your daughter.”

  “That’s enough, goddammit!” El Mestizo slammed on the brakes. Again. On a narrow street with a bombed-out droguería on one side and an empty heladería on the other. And pulled out his gun. Didn’t turn off the safety, didn’t aim. Just held it.

  “Fuck. Fuck! I explained it to you. Didn’t I? You saved my life. And that’s why you’re alive now!” He fingered the gun, put it in his lap, started the car again. “B
ut we’re even now. You’ve wasted your debt.”

  He increased his speed, a short interruption surrounded by the town and people and houses reverted back to endless countryside.

  “And you won’t be able to call it in the next time you need it.”

  ANOTHER LONG HOUR, silence inside the car and the countryside outside, if one of them had rolled down their window and let the wind in emptiness would have been traded for emptiness. It was then that El Mestizo for the fourth time—after another piss break and two stops to block traffic out of anger—slowed down and changed direction. Route 40 led to the back roads south of Ibagué, and to a helicopter hidden in a clearing among sprawling mahogany trees. Already staffed with a pilot who was ready to go. Traveling by air saved time in a country of long, monotonous distances—but it was a solution they rarely utilized. Neither the guerrillas nor El Mestizo, long distances by small aircraft didn’t meet their security requirements—too easily tracked and detected by radar, or satellites, or even visually from the ground stations. A helicopter was a last resort. Like now. When they needed to be at their next assignment, a man in a cage deep in the jungle, in four hours and a car trip there would take them three times that long.

  So now they hovered high above winding roads and small villages. And the occasional rich finca with lush, extensive orchards.

  “Do you see that? And that? Really expensive properties that belong to the super wealthy.” El Mestizo pointed through the glass wall toward the landscape unfurling far below. He looked happy, like this morning when he’d been swimming with his daughter. There were many versions of the man sitting on the seat next to Hoffmann—the giggling El Mestizo who pushed his gun into a little girl’s hair, Johnny who trusted and talked to you, the father who swam with his socks on because his beloved daughter expected him to, the guerrilla who stopped in the middle of the road and threatened the life of his own bodyguard. Now he was cheerful, and Hoffmann didn’t yet understand why. But he followed El Mestizo’s arm and stated that he was right, the estates seemed to be amazing, endless properties.