Incitement

by David Graham

  After a few seconds mulling over what he had read, Wallace reached for the intercom and buzzed the chauffeur. “Greg, any word on the plane?”

  “Fuelled up and waiting, Mr Wallace.”

  “Excellent. After you’ve dropped me off, there’s a laptop that needs to be disposed of in the usual fashion.”

  “Very good, Mr Wallace.”

  Mesi had spent most of the day working in the sweltering heat and reckoned there was only a couple more hours of good light left. She and the others working on the search were hoping to find signs of the attackers’ movements or ideally the site of a base camp. Over time, she had steadily worked her way further and further from the refinery. She stopped to take a drink from her canteen and tie back her hair from her face. Pulling out a handkerchief to wipe away some of the sweat, she turned to look back in the direction from which she had come. Her view of the refinery was now blocked by the hills she had walked over. A childhood memory sprang to mind, of being so absorbed in a treasure hunt at a friend’s birthday party that the parents had to send out search parties when she had not returned.

  Before they had split, Ruben had spent some time showing her and the other two team members how he conducted his search. He had explained what he was doing as he went and the logic he was using. As was often the case, it all seemed straightforward once it had been broken down. In the short time they had been with him, he had managed to identify three possible sniper points, two of which had almost certainly been the shooters’ locations. Given her lack of experience she found herself doubting her ability to replicate his success but she was determined to give it her best shot.

  Ruben had asked her to concentrate on a particular area, and rather than mechanically working her way over that entire section, she had decided to approach this as she would any other task. First, she needed a way to narrow the criteria. Studying a map of the area, she drew a circle with a seven-mile radius around the refinery. Given the terrain and the dangerous nature of the attack, this was surely the maximum reasonable distance the attackers would have wanted to march. Then she highlighted the part which fell into her search area. From there, she had tried to split the remainder into smaller parts, sorted in order of the security they would have afforded the attackers. She eliminated a section that lay toward Conchillo and another that lay alongside the compound’s entrance route. This had left about fifteen degrees of the original circle, mostly to the north and west of the compound. Ruben had told them not to try to cover every square foot, to scan and look for disturbances, but even so, it was time-consuming work and she could see that she was unlikely to finish before dark. Putting the canteen away, she resumed the search.

  While Mesi had been performing the repetitive work, she thought about what lay ahead in her new role. One of the things that impressed her most about Campas and his men was how well developed their sense of team spirit was. Individuals took pride in their abilities but there were no overbearing egos putting their own advancement before the larger objective. She had taken some courses in organisational behaviour at college and read quite a lot on motivational theory. The success of any team depended on more than just assembling a number of talented individuals. One of her primary tasks would be giving her team something they could be proud to belong to.

  As the light started to dim, she began to question herself. Had she been wrong in her estimate of how far the soldiers could have marched? Had her process of elimination been flawed? Had she already missed the signs?

  She was just about to stop when she saw the tyre tracks. There was no mistaking the relatively fresh imprints of the heavy tyre thread belonging to some kind of four-wheel-drive vehicle. It looked like more than one vehicle had intersected her search pattern. She decided to follow the tracks back towards the compound. After twenty minutes of tantalising pacing, the tracks converged near a slight rise. She was sure she had discovered the general location of the campsite. She quartered the area and began searching. Occasionally she would lie down close to the ground in a press-up position as Ruben had demonstrated and tried to spot any signs of an unnatural lie to the earth. She knew professionals would take care to cover any disturbance they made, but maybe ... However, each time she thought she had something, she was disappointed.

  The light had deteriorated significantly and while Mesi was confident that this was the campsite, she would have to return tomorrow with the others. She had just got out her walkie-talkie to radio back when something caught her eye. She walked toward it and as she got closer she realised there was more than one. She bent down and broke into a smile, before picking up one of the items with a tweezers and examining it. She placed it carefully in a zip-lock evidence bag.

  While the noisy humming of the dilapidated air-conditioning units drove many of the hotel’s guests to distraction, there was no complaint from this room. The occupant lay on top of the bedspread, clad in shorts with a damp towel draped across his face. He had expected the lethargy. For as long as he could remember, the aftermath of any operation or manoeuvre had always been accompanied by this strong feeling of anticlimax.

  Larsen thought of his earliest days in the Corps, coming back after completing the diving to the wrecks scattered around the torpedo station at Kongsøre. The exercise involved the recruits being subjected to gunfire while explosives were set off all around. Most of them were elated to successfully negotiate it the first time. The adrenaline firing through their systems manifested in raised voices and boisterous horseplay. Larsen had smiled and played along with his comrades, joining them later for copious amounts of beer, but even then he had always felt somehow apart, removed.

  He could understand what most other people went through before, during and after such an experience, the tension and release, but it was not like that for him. He had found that his release, his ‘high’, came during rather than afterwards. For a long time, the sense of purpose he felt during an operation had provided him with everything he needed. He trained to a fine edge and then applied that training. When the mission was over, the mood would recede rapidly and he would feel himself coming down. It was different now of course; action in itself had long ceased to be enough but the familiar descent afterwards still ensued.

  A few hours passed before he removed the towel to stand and idly perform a series of gentle stretches as he assembled his thoughts. The refinery at Conchillo had constituted a major step up as far as the scale of target was concerned and everything was in place for the next phase. It was dangerous to linger in Mexico City after the attack but he wanted to monitor the cartel’s reaction, to ensure it played out as predicted. Their targets should be aware of the incident by now and Larsen anticipated a flurry of activity; the early beginnings of a slow process of deterioration. Nothing too obvious yet, though. One attack, even one as significant as Conchillo, would not be enough to push them all the way. Moving through to the bathroom, he showered quickly then dressed. He grabbed the keys for the rental car and headed out.

  “Cigarette butts?” Albert Sandoval repeated in puzzlement. “I don’t understand.”

  Minister for the Interior Richard Mayorga expanded on exactly what had been found so that his chief political advisor might grasp the significance. “The ends of a particular brand of cigarette, Classic, manufactured by ...” Looking at the report in front of him, he mangled the pronunciation, “... by Duvanska Industrija Nis. It’s a company based in the former Yugoslavia. The brand is popular in the region but rare elsewhere.”

  “So what, one of the gunmen smoked some foreign cigarettes?”

  “Campas thinks it’s relevant, based on a discussion he had at a conference in Europe a few months ago. He was told that Kosovar organised crime figures weren’t happy that they were getting a fair share of the proceeds from their joint venture with the South Americans. That was the term that was used: South Americans. He didn’t attach any significance to it at the time but with this ...”

  “What would their unhappiness have to do with Conchillo?” Sandova
l asked.

  “The Alliance: Zaragosa and Madrigal, the Colombian, have been working together closely for the past few years. To hostile eyes, there might be no distinction between Mexican or Colombian targets.”

  “Has Campas got anything else?”

  “The investigation indicates a mercenary-style attack, and mercenaries are in abundant supply in the Balkans. That’s about it so far. Needless to say, this is speculative and highly confidential but we need to be prepared should more corroborating evidence be found.”

  “Surely no one’s crazy enough to directly challenge the cartels or the Colombians? It would be suicide.”

  “My reaction exactly but according to Campas, the Kosovar mafia are an explosive cocktail of traditional gangsters, Islamic fundamentalists and ex-military. They’ve emerged as the dominant force in Europe, pushing out the Italian, Pakistani and Lebanese gangs. He says they’re renowned for their savagery.”

  “Well, if he’s correct, we’ll certainly need to keep an eye on things.” Sandoval rose from his chair. “Anyway, I think we’ve covered all of the topics on the agenda. Would it be okay if I finish a little early today? Millie’s parents are coming over and I’ve been told to be home on time for once.”

  “Of course, please say hello from me and that I’m glad we can accommodate your in-laws.”

  Albert’s laughter quickly disappeared once he had left the minister’s office. He climbed into his car and, instead of heading home, pointed the car towards the upscale Colonia Roma area. Soon he was driving down the wide tree-lined streets, flanked on both sides by vast mansions. He pulled the car up outside the gates of a classic Barragán residence, pressed the intercom and announced himself, looking up into the closed circuit camera. The high gates swept open and a familiar feeling of unease suffused him.

  After the frisking from the guards, he was shown into the drawing room where Caesar Rodriguez waited. Unease gave way to palpable discomfort when he came face-to-face with one of the most powerful figures of the Mexican drug scene. It was not just the man’s position but also the coiled tension he exuded. After his meetings with Rodriguez, Albert would feel drained and grateful to have just gotten through. How he had come to be in the service of this barbarian tormented him. It was unfair that a few gambling debts should jeopardise the career he had worked so hard at for the past fifteen years. True, he continued to gamble and accept further credit, but now that he was committed anyway, who could fault him for making the best of a bad situation?

  “Albert, you have news?” asked Rodriguez, whose physical characteristics – tall and powerfully built with a leonine head – complimented a naturally imperious manner.

  “Yes, I think so ... I mean maybe ... if Campas is correct.” He hated how he always lost his composure in Rodriguez’s presence. Damn it, he had handled foreign heads of state better.

  “Continue.” Caesar indicated for Albert to take a seat on the deep leather couch, while he remained standing.

  “They found cigarette butts at the campsite of the raiders, foreign cigarettes not sold here. Apparently they’re a Balkan brand.”

  Rodriguez said nothing and when Albert lifted his gaze, it looked as if the drug lord had entered a trance. He stood frozen, gazing into mid-distance. The silence was uncomfortable and Albert was unsure whether he should break it, terrified that whatever he did would be wrong. One of the few times he had talked with Salvador Campas, the policeman had observed that being head of a cartel required intelligence, organisational skills and personal charisma. To think of their adversaries as mindless savages was to woefully underestimate them. Already in Rodriguez’s grip at that point, Albert had enquired about his blackmailer specifically, wanting the investigator’s opinion. Campas smiled and said Rodriguez was an exception, in that he was an equal blend of intelligence, charisma and mindless savagery.

  “Albert, is there anything else?”

  “Anything else?” he repeated, startled by Rodriguez’s return to the land of the living.

  “Regarding the raid?”

  “No, no, nothing else.”

  “Okay,” he said, nodding to the door.

  Albert levered himself out of the deep couch onto unsteady legs and exited quickly.

  They preferred to communicate using a dedicated secure satellite link, purchased and maintained at great cost. However, on rare occasions, when one of them felt it was warranted, they would meet face-to-face at Madrigal’s island fortress. It was an assembly of the most powerful figures in the world of international narcotics production and trafficking. The meeting had been going on for an hour now and most of them were content to look on silently as the conversation between their leader and the agitated Rodriguez grew more heated. It had been difficult for Madrigal. Rodriguez, who was even more volatile than usual, was resisting all measured and logical argument.

  “We can’t let this attack go unanswered,” the Mexican repeated. It was clear to Madrigal that he was trying to stir up the room and, in doing so, force Madrigal to change his position.

  “Normally I’d agree but before we can retaliate, we need to be sure who to retaliate against.”

  Madrigal had to be careful; he wanted to be firm without appearing dictatorial. Things ran more smoothly when there was the appearance of consensus.

  “The report I received yesterday contains definitive fucking evidence. The Kosovars are behind the attack, and if we don’t retaliate they’ll be encouraged to go further. We have to act now to show them that this time they’re not dealing with a bunch of putas.” The veins on Rodriguez’s temples distended while his voice rose.

  “Cigarette butts are hardly justification to potentially start a war that could set us back years. Let’s wait to see what else this policeman, whom you rate so highly, comes up with.” Madrigal was well aware of Campas’s pedigree but this was not the time to acknowledge it.

  “We’re not in a fucking courtroom, we only need to satisfy ourselves. I told you months ago that the Kosovars, whom you were so happy to approach with talk of closer partnership, represented our biggest fucking threat. Now they’ve done business with you and plainly evaluated you to be weak and vulnerable.”

  Madrigal was somewhat surprised. He knew Rodriguez harboured resentment at what he felt was the subordinate role of the Mexicans generally and himself specifically but he had never gone this far before. Clearly, his rage was directing him now.

  “And you Caesar, do you agree that I’m weak and vulnerable?”

  Something had changed in the shorter, stockier man’s voice and those in the room began to shift uncomfortably in their chairs. Rodriguez, lost in his fury, ranted on obliviously. “You’re vulnerable if you don’t see the threat! When enemies perceive you to be weak then you are weak!”

  Only when the last word had tumbled out did Rodriguez appear to realise the implication of what he was saying. He glanced around the room. Madrigal had ruthlessly clawed his way to the top of Colombia’s drugs elite then, against all the odds, pulled the many widely divergent Central and South American drugs cartels together to form the Alliance. It was suicide to challenge his strength so directly. “Luis, forgive me, I’m not expressing myself properly. There’s no question that you’re more than capable of dealing with any threat. It’s just I appreciate the great number of demands made on you. A possible danger might be easily averted now with swift action but it will be more difficult if left to fester until later.”

  Madrigal took a moment, letting the silence underline Rodriguez’s retreat for the others, before replying. “Here’s what I think. The operation, as you pointed out, bore all the trademarks of a mercenary attack. Many mercenaries operate in Central and South America and, in recent years, some have probably gained employment in the Balkans. So, the cigarettes don’t necessarily indicate someone in the employ of the Kosovars and can hardly justify an attack on an organisation that provides such a profitable sales channel.”

  “Luis, I agree that we should not rush to conclusions,” interjected
Cabieses, an elderly Peruvian. “Equally, we cannot just ignore the matter.”

  “No, Tomas, we will stay on top of it. I suggest that as well as monitoring the official investigation, we pursue one of our own. Our network runs throughout the continent. If mercenaries from this part of the world were used, we should be able to find out.”

  “Perhaps we could also extend our investigation to Europe?” suggested Cabieses.

  “Of course, we can also use our sources there to make discreet enquiries,” agreed Madrigal before adding a caution, “but we must be careful that the Kosovars get no inkling of this. If they are responsible, we do not want to put them on their guard. If they’re not, then we don’t want to risk offending them.”

  He could sense that some of them still had misgivings but knew they would not voice them. He warned himself not to become complacent on this issue and made a note to take time with some of them later, one-on-one, to smooth any ruffled feathers. No position was unassailable.

  Later, when the meeting was over and the others had left to return home, Madrigal sat alone in the conference room with the lights dimmed, thinking about the meeting and its main topic. Something else bothered him about the attack but he was unable to put his finger on it. He put the matter from his mind, knowing that a little distance might help. He was used to this and could not remember a time when there was not a myriad of problems to contend with. Under his direction, the cartels had prospered beyond all reasonable forecasts. From assassination squads to investment houses and extremist militias halfway across the world, he had managed to blend divergent assets to create an impressive synergy with their core businesses. From his humble beginnings, begging and stealing on the streets of Bogotá, to where he was now, he had never experienced contentment. He felt that there must be a purpose to his single-minded pursuit of power and he was confident it would become clear someday. He remembered hearing once how a senior DEA official had said he was like Alexander in the breadth of the empire he had built. Apparently, the official had added that, unlike Alexander, he was unlikely to ever weep. He knew how his enemies, both internal and external, regarded him. He could hardly complain. Many times he had used their fear to his advantage. But it was not as simple as they believed.