Three Minutes

by Anders Roslund

  The young man sat down and stared down at the table, uncertain, vacillating.

  “Talk. You have to. About whatever you want. And you’d better smile too.”

  Grens waited while the terrified man raised his eyes, collected himself.

  “Eddy. I work as a satellite operator—at the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency. The NGA. A lot of people confuse us with the NSA. I’m one of four responsible for surveilling Colombia.”

  “Good. Now drink your coffee.” The detective superintendent pushed the tall mug, filled to the brim, across the table and closer to the young man, who was clearing his throat.

  “From what I understood, Sue Masterson says this has to do with Speaker Crouse? That this could help Speaker Crouse? That one of the DEA’s undercover agents needs data in their efforts to locate him?” The sweaty young man searched Grens’s face, perhaps for the first time. Searching for confirmation. Grens nodded.

  “Exactly.”

  “Speaker Crouse visits us often at the NGA. He sits next to me, takes part in the surveillance himself. He’s the only one who really calls me Eddy. A good man. I’m doing this for his sake—giving information to a foreign national, risking my future.” He didn’t care about the coffee. But the flash drive—he held on to it tight. “This has everything you asked for. The number of satellites—level of classification: Top Secret. Time windows worldwide—level of classification: Cosmic Top Secret Atomal. The specific location of a single long window where the satellites don’t overlap, starting at 00:37:01 going through 00:40:00. Exactly three minutes. I’m giving this to you now. Because Sue Masterson asked me to do it. And I trust her.”

  His knuckles had turned white as he looked at his wristwatch, and then decided to let go of the flash drive, leave it lying on the table.

  “It’s been fifteen minutes.” The chair scraped violently on the floor as he stood up. “We never met.” And then he left. Without turning around, and with steps just as determined as when he entered.

  Grens waited until that sweaty back passed through the door and disappeared into the cool darkness of the Georgetown evening. Before he stretched his arm across the table and grabbed both the flash drive and the untouched coffee—it would be a pity to let something so delicious go to waste.

  SIXTEEN CAMERAS PLACED throughout the stairwell, near the door, in the garage, and in a circle on the street with a radius of three hundred meters—all equipped with motion sensors. Nothing moved in light or darkness without being documented by those cameras. Piet Hoffmann quickly fast forwarded through the night’s recordings. Nothing deviated from the norm. Made a copy to an external hard drive—in case he ever needed to look through it again.

  So quiet. Alone in the temporary kitchen of a two-bedroom apartment. Zofia in one bedroom, the boys in another, both doors open, a chorus of heavy breathing in different tempos.

  He got up with the dawn, the same ritual every morning since his visit to the hostage and to the coordinates programmed into a private satellite—it was getting lighter over the jungle, he could see the cage, and the rest of the prison camp that hid and guarded Speaker of the House Timothy D. Crouse. The icon at the top right side of the screen was dubbed CAGE. He double-clicked and input the twelve-keystroke password, numbers, uppercase and lowercase letters, a semicolon, in the middle of it all a few digital snow crystals. And when that was approved he pressed his right thumb against a new box, which was waiting for his print.

  Two seconds. Then the program and the transmission opened.

  From something gray was emerging the black—or actually deep green, but still in that faint light and with limited resolution the nuances were devoured and lost—and he began to see other newly awake people moving around down there, a day about to begin. It was impossible to understand who and why, but that wasn’t his goal—he wanted to ensure that the thirteen-centimeter-long satellite kept capturing that yellow spot with a little black dot in it, that the cage that held the world’s most talked-about man, a man a nation started a war for, and whose geographical location they did not know, was still standing. His ticket out still existed.

  Hoffmann stretched his back and walked over to Zofia, so beautiful sleeping with open arms, safe despite the chaos. To the boys, both of whom were sleeping on their left side, but with their pillows and heads in different directions. One week. That was how long she promised to wait here. Under lockdown in the safe house he’d spent a couple of years turning into a fully monitored and secure bunker.

  A kiss on Hugo’s forehead and his eldest son woke up, mumbled something, then turned around and continued breathing slowly. A cup of coffee at the kitchen sink, and he returned to the computer screen, and to the camp now painted in brighter colors as the sun hurried up.

  That’s when his phone rang. His Colombian mobile phone, a single ring, and he responded immediately, because his family needed their sleep.

  “Yes?”

  “Peter? You’re awake.”

  El Mestizo. His voice was full of energy. He was feeling good, almost beaming.

  “I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes. We have an assignment.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’ll tell you when we get there. Wear what you usually wear.”

  Standard equipment. Radom, hunting knife, Mini-Uzi.

  “In nineteen minutes, Peter. Outside your house.”

  El Mestizo hung up. Nineteen minutes. That usually meant ten. Hoffmann rushed down the stairs with packed bag in hand, toward the garage and his car. At this time of day, no traffic, he should be able to make it.

  Northeast Cali, just over four kilometers from the apartment in the poverty-stricken Comuna 6 to the middle-class neighborhood Los Guayacanes in Comuna 5. A truck blocked one intersection and forced him to back up several hundred meters, a few vegetable carts rolled into the middle of the street, but otherwise the streets were just as empty as he’d hoped. Eight minutes. And he was standing outside an empty house with its blinds rolled down, waiting.

  He had a plan to continue living—and his former employers, who once waited for his information, were now waiting to take his life. But he had to keep going. To keep El Mestizo from becoming suspicious and turning into another life-threatening enemy. A little while longer. Until this was over. Until they could do what Zofia had demanded and what they both wanted, to get out of here.

  “Morning, Peter.” El Mestizo had stopped almost at his feet. And looked just as alert as his voice had sounded.

  “Good morning.” Hoffmann climbed into the car and waited for El Mestizo to start driving. But he didn’t. He looked toward the house, pointed.

  “It looks dark.”

  “They’re sleeping.”

  “A teacher? And two young schoolboys?”

  “A couple more hours. You forget how it is? I guess it’s been a long time since you were in school, Johnny.”

  El Mestizo smiled, he was in that kind of mood, and started driving. A total of four times over their three-hour trip Hoffmann asked about their assignment, what and where, and every time was met by silence. Until he didn’t have to ask anymore. Until they passed Cartago and approached an iron gate with a tight grid and arrow-shaped tips that pointed to the sky. Until they rolled into a courtyard with spraying fountains and fiery red flowers in clay pots on marble floors.

  Then, while they sat in the car just a few steps from fan-shaped stone stairs and a railing with round ivory knobs, El Mestizo grabbed Hoffmann’s arm, not hard, not threateningly, more like he wanted to create a moment of unusual and unexpected closeness.

  “I know you don’t like this. We might have to threaten that same kid today. If we do, Peter, we do it because we have to. Because her father made a decision. Because he chose not to pay. Do you understand?” El Mestizo’s hand stayed there, just below Hoffmann’s elbow. “Whatever we think, Peter, we gotta do what we gotta do. But it won’t happen today. Toyas is as dumb as a post, but he loves his girl like I love my girl, and if he pays, the little girl k
eeps on playing. She’s useful in a negotiation, and we’ll go home with the money the guerrillas have already waited too long for.”

  “Only a negotation?”

  “Yes.”

  Hoffmann knew, like last time, that he was going too far. That by questioning his boss he was risking his own safety. But sometimes you do what you have to do.

  “And nothing is going to happen to the girl?”

  El Mestizo lingered, as if he hadn’t yet decided if he needed to draw a line.

  “Peter, what’s so hard to understand? Now listen to me—nothing is going to happen to the girl.”

  They got out. And at the same time the hacienda’s massive door opened and the owner stepped out, a gun tucked inside his black, tight-fitting trousers, his arm in a sling, and this time an additional bodyguard just a few meters away. Not more, just one—an indication that this was someone who didn’t think spilling blood was good for business.

  “Señor Toyas? Good morning!” El Mestizo clapped and laughed as he walked toward the entrance, that giggle again. Hoffmann was careful to always position himself, like a human shield, between the man he was protecting and the bodyguard. All the way up to the veranda with its beautiful bulging plants and golden chairs and its shiny marble table. El Mestizo stopped a few steps from Toyas and didn’t offer his hand, he wasn’t invited.

  “Your debt, Toyas. One ton of cocaine. I’m here to collect on it. Twenty-five-hundred dollars per kilo for the first half and twenty-three-hundred per kilo for the second. That comes to two million four-hundred thousand dollars. Plus some interest. So we’ll say . . . two and a half million dollars, even?”

  El Mestizo leaned closer and stared, just like he always did, into the debtor’s eyes. Stared. But nothing. Because Toyas didn’t meet his gaze. The man with the deep furrows in his cheeks and shiny white teeth stared hard everywhere except at El Mestizo. Not because he was afraid—but to show his contempt.

  “I don’t owe a fucking thing. As I explained to you the last time you were here. Right?”

  “And I explained to you that it wasn’t my problem. I don’t give a shit if you hid the money in your father’s scrotum or put it up your mother’s pussy, it’s still your fucking problem.”

  His long hair, bluntly cut, swayed along with the dangling fringe of the suede jacket. Libardo Toyas looked like he did last time. Argued like he did last time.

  “One of your people squealed. What I ordered never reached its final destination. And like I said, I don’t negotiate with the ass.”

  El Mestizo couldn’t lean any closer. So he pushed his neck and chin forward, and because he was the significantly taller of the two, his breath soaked Toyas’s forehead. And at the same time—just as fast, just as unexpectedly as usual—he pulled out his gun and pressed it against Toyas’s right temple. “You ordered and bought through me. So you talk to and pay me.”

  Now he turned—his revolver still pressed against Toyas’s temple—first to the bodyguard to show he’d better not try anything, then toward Hoffmann.

  “Peter, you go get . . . ummm, what was her name again . . . Mirja. Little Mirja!” And then back to Toyas, his breath now on his cheeks, as El Mestizo bent down slightly. “And here’s where we get to my little problem, Toyas. If I kill you, I get no money. So I have to solve this in another way—I have to kill your family. One member at a time.”

  Hoffmann stood there, motionless, remembering the last visit. A little girl, slightly younger than his boys, turning into a beautiful statue, a scene like a mock execution.

  “Peter?” El Mestizo nodded toward the house.

  It won’t happen today. Toyas is as dumb as a post, but he loves his girl like I love my girl.

  “Peter? Do it now!”

  In the kitchen. That’s where Hoffmann found her. She had climbed up on the kitchen island, was sitting there in a yellow dress overlooking the sink and stove. She’d pushed away the knives and cutting boards to make room for three meticulously dressed dolls—he wasn’t quite sure but it looked like the dolls were baking something, rolling out dough.

  If he pays, the little girl keeps on playing.

  She never saw him coming, not until he’d slipped behind her and grabbed hold of her, lifting her and carrying her out of the kitchen. She protested, but less when he turned around and grabbed her three dolls. Then she didn’t fight as much, and he didn’t have to keep his hand as tightly across her mouth.

  “Mirja?” El Mestizo stood exactly where Hoffmann had left him, on the veranda and with a gun pressed to Toyas’s head. “Little Mirja, do you recognize your Uncle Johnny?”

  Now she screamed. “Daddy!” Dropped her dolls, tore at Hoffmann’s arms, sobbing.

  El Mestizo reached for her with his free hand, toward Hoffmann, stroking her cheek.

  “Toyas? What do you say? Pay? Or the girl?”

  Libardo Toyas didn’t answer. Or, he did—by spitting at El Mestizo, hitting his shoulder, that was his answer.

  “Very well, Toyas. It’s your decision. Peter? Drop the girl.”

  Hoffmann put her down gently on the floor, now a statue again. But a statue that moved, ran. Not away—as she should—but toward her father and his hand. Just as El Mestizo expected. And then everything happened fast—again. Suddenly he had his .357 Magnum against her forehead.

  “Little Mirja. Do you remember this? You do? Good. Very good. Cuz now we’re going to play a game again. You and me. Do you remember? You close your eyes, and we’ll have a little fun with your daddy.”

  She looked at her father, her small head tilted gently upward. Libardo Toyas shook with rage and humiliation but nodded first toward his bodyguard to remain calm while his daughter was threatened, and then smiled as best he could at her. She smiled back weakly and did as she was told, her eyes closed.

  “Toyas, you stupid fucking ass. Listen to me now! You should have paid up ten days ago. But you didn’t. So I came here and gave you a final warning. And you didn’t pay then either.”

  The little girl cried and Hoffmann wanted to lift her up in his arms again, carry her to the kitchen and to the games she’d been playing. He’d do that soon. When the debtor agreed to pay.

  “You got to know how this works, Toyas.”

  El Mestizo did like last time, pulled the gun across the girl’s head, stopped and sank it down into her hair.

  “I’ve got my orders and you’ve got yours. Only you can stop this. Now.”

  “So says a little half-breed?” The drug baron had Hoffmann’s gun pointed at himself and his youngest daughter had a gun to her head, but he was so convinced that he was right, that he knew exactly where the line was, how this kind of extortion ritual worked. “A half-breed who stands there hiding behind his tiny, little European chica compañera?” A wide and narrow sneer on his very taut lips.

  “Oh, yes, that’s right—you didn’t much like it when I called you that? Mestizo. Half-breed. The harvest of a white man’s seed. But that’s what you are! So shoot. Shoot for fuck’s sake! We both know this is theater. That your leadership would never allow . . .”

  Time froze.

  Hoffmann knew immediately that this moment would continue on and on and on.

  When El Mestizo shot.

  When the bullet pierced her head.

  When Toyas held her tight and she hung there in her father’s hand like a little rag doll, lifeless.

  HE COULDN’T REALLY remember. How he got here, what happened in the hours between seeing a little girl hanging like a doll in her father’s arms, to this, a dirty staircase overlooking a marketplace where adults sold their wares: vegetables and fruit and fish and meat and bags and belts. And where children sold death.

  Piet Hoffmann was sitting on that staircase. A cup of hot coffee in his hand. He’d been sitting there for a while now, watching the boys waiting at the wooden tables at the edge of the market. Their role in this society was simple, to be given a gun and an address, tools that lacked any human dignity—in this world all value derive
d from drugs and the money drugs made.

  He probably remembered a few houses. And the white silhouette of a cathedral. And a sign that read CARTAGO. He remembered that, and he remembered the rag doll. And he—with those extinguished eyes surrounding him, pursuing him, demanding his attention—sank into the car and instead of driving them both to the south to Cali, he told El Mestizo he had an errand in Medellín. He was going to climb out and go find another car. And when he did, he drove the two hundred and fifty kilometers north. Here. To a strange place he’d only visited once before.

  He looked at the boys, most were around the same age as his own boys, who they resembled and yet didn’t at all. And he wondered how a man could be two people. How could the man who shot a little girl be the same man he and Zofia spent the afternoon with at one of his two haciendas—where El Mestizo lived with his slightly older woman. The hacienda lay west of Cali, and El Mestizo met them at the gate with Zaneta and their daughter—relaxed, humorous. He had acted lovingly, had seemed almost gentle when he dealt with his daughter and Hoffmann’s boys. Vulnerable, soft. That love was no facade. He had kissed Rasmus’s and Hugo’s foreheads, lifted them up, suddenly took all three out into the sun for a little while, which turned into an hour then two hours, to the stables, that’s where they’d gone, said hello to the horses while Piet and Zofia and Zaneta had talked and laughed and drank the dark Colombian rum Hoffmann had become so fond of. And when El Mestizo returned, the three children around him, he had seemed so happy. Hoffmann had never seen that in his eyes, not before or since. Genuine happiness.

  And then that moment. That child hanging motionless in her father’s arms.

  The same man who had taken a child’s life had treated his own child, and Hoffmann’s children, and the children of the prostitutes in the brothel, with sincere affection. The same man had rebuilt one of the rooms in the brothel, took out the bed with red sheets and the cabinet filled with dildos and gagballs, and moved in a playpen, high chairs, boxes of toys intended only for children, and hired an older woman to take care of them and put aside money for a daycare in a brothel.