Incitement

by David Graham

  He held the group he had met with earlier in secret contempt despite their perception of themselves as his peers. Greed was their only motivation. He had the same disdain for the agencies of the Western governments who lined up against him.

  Plan Coca was just another exercise in US imperialism. The reports of widespread sickness after the fumigation runs proved they didn’t care about the people of Putumayo. Coca and opium provided many people with the only way to break the cycle of poverty. These were downtrodden people. True, thousands suffered in the countries where the end product was consumed but these were weak, indulgent people whose hardships were self-inflicted. The suffering of these addicts was nothing compared to the struggles of the poor. Yes, it was sad to see lives wasted, but sometimes there was no alternative.

  The camera homed in on a close-up of the captives. They were herded by, each stolidly refusing to acknowledge the presence of this intrusion. They walked wearily, hands behind their head, faces downcast. In stark contrast, the guards clearly enjoyed the camera’s attention and barked commands incessantly. The picture panned to the right, focusing on Caroline Williams, an immaculately groomed reporter in a pressed khaki outfit.

  “A resounding success for Plan Coca. Three days ago, a main stronghold of FARC was successfully overrun by the Colombian army’s Counter Narcotics Brigade. The Brigade has received extensive training from US experts and has been equipped by the US military under the direction of the MILGP.” Williams’ voice and body language were upbeat, matching the content of her report. “Despite strong resistance, they were able to take control of the FARC base, capturing many of the rebels. The Colombian government has been quick to stress the importance of this development, particularly in the face of recent criticisms that, up to now, the Plan had achieved nothing more than a series of ineffectual fumigation strikes.”

  While she continued her introduction, the shot moved out to take in the man who stood next to her.

  “While there were no major coca crops close to the base, the government has identified it as a main distribution and coordination centre of the rebels, the loss of which will significantly hamper the drug traffickers. With me is Henry Maynard from the US State Department who was closely involved in planning this operation. Henry, is this only a short term blow to FARC or are we looking at something more?”

  “No doubt about it, this is a major success for the Brigade,” Maynard responded enthusiastically. “They’ve justified the time and effort we’ve committed to their training. This base was a prominent part of FARC’s distribution network.”

  “And what will its loss mean to the rebels?”

  “Without it, they need to rethink the distribution channels and replan future consignments. This doesn’t win the war in itself but it shows that we’re starting to get to grips with fighting the producers on their own turf.”

  “Some dissenting voices in Colombia have said this base had nothing to do with the drug trade and that the Colombian government is using the resources earmarked for Plan Coca to crush the Marxist resistance?”

  Maynard shook his head resignedly, leaving the viewers under no illusions regarding what he felt about this carping. “FARC is not a resistance movement, Marxist or otherwise. It exists solely for its own financial gain and has no real political platform. The sooner we recognise that we’re battling criminals and not revolutionaries, the sooner we’ll win.”

  “Critics have suggested those in charge of the plan could be more judicious in their target selection, concentrating solely on drug-related targets?”

  “It’s simplistic and self-defeating to assume that we can clearly distinguish resistance targets from those connected to drugs,” explained Maynard. “No such distinction exists for FARC and if we’re to defeat them we can’t create one either. We need to dismantle FARC totally. I don’t think anyone wants to see another instance where we state an objective and then seek to obstruct ourselves from realising it.”

  “The next step as you see it?”

  “Continue what we’ve started here. Now that we’ve shown our ability to win what were previously thought to be strongholds of FARC, we’ve got to press on. I think if we can combine this kind of success with continued fumigation runs, we’ll do permanent damage to the Colombian cartels’ production capacity.”

  “Thank you. So, Plan Coca overcomes an embattled start and begins to gather momentum. This is Caroline Williams for IBNC in Putumayo region, Colombia.”

  two

  The waves grew increasingly more powerful, sweeping the decks of the boats, which pitched wildly in the storm. The crew of the larger vessel were finding the footing difficult, constantly having to right themselves, but this was minor compared to what the four men who had just boarded the smaller yacht had to contend with. The line between the two boats had no sooner been released than a gap of forty feet appeared between the vessels. The men on board the yacht struggled through the violent throes as it was hurled one way then another, finally wrestling themselves to the boat’s cabin. Once it was confirmed that they had all made it safely off-deck, the signal was given on the trawler to start transmitting.

  Larsen and the other three men braced themselves in the yacht’s cabin, nobody talking while they waited for what was to come. The forecast had warned that the storm was on its way but they had only one shot at this and had to go. The weather was beneficial in that it helped their gambit appear more authentic, but that was only if they didn’t capsize. Despite all the rehearsals they had carried out, the storm had the potential to ruin everything. The boat rolled violently and Larsen caught himself just before he slid from the bench. He checked to confirm that the items secreted under his sweater were still in place and he visualised the expected sequence of events once more. Glancing at his companions, he searched for any hint of weakening resolve but found none.

  He reminded himself again of the bigger picture, how much it mattered and the part this would play in the overall progression. The small handheld radio sheathed in plastic crackled into life, announcing that contact had been made. His thoughts returned once more to what he had learned of the green, yellow and red all those years before.

  The Spirit of Marseilles, her decks heavily laden with cargo containers, made slow progress through the rough seas. The storm, however, was not the main source of the captain’s worry. Circumstances had required that Christophe Chanet agree to carry more cargo than the coffee listed on the manifest. He was in an unenviable position. If the ship was intercepted by the US Coast Guard and its illicit load found, it would be impounded and he would face charges. If the cargo was successfully delivered, another mission would doubtless await. Even here, on his own bridge, he could not put the predicament from his mind and lose himself in the rudiments of negotiating the storm. The guard who stood at his shoulder was a constant reminder of what he had committed himself and the crew to.

  Business had not been good in recent years. Chanet, as the owner-captain of the cargo ship, had handled affairs badly and fallen into debt. He had finally reached the point where it had been necessary to sell a share in the ship or face ruin. Surprisingly, an offer had materialised quickly once he had put out feelers. He knew that he should have questioned why a top-class legal firm, acting on behalf of a client, would have been interested in a share of the Spirit. At the time, though, he was in no position to examine any lifeline too closely. With the proceeds from the deal, he had been able to refit the ship in time to win a number of commissions on the Puerto Barrios-Miami route. It was obvious now that his new partner had been instrumental in arranging for the business to come his way and once again he cursed his stupidity.

  The last time they had been in port, the lawyers had informed him he would be required to attend a meeting with their client. Over coffee in the plush downtown offices, he had learned the extent of his indenture. The man he met had explained how, on her next voyage, the Spirit would carry something more than was stated in the official contract. Three thousand kilos of heroin was
to be hidden throughout the ship. To ensure there would be no difficulties, Customs in both ports had been taken care of. He had argued with the man until he was cut off and the consequences of refusal starkly spelt out to him. Chanet had enjoyed authority of some degree or other for almost twenty years but when it had come to dealing with this mystery man, he had been made feel completely inconsequential.

  He had been informed that three men would be accompanying the voyage to ensure there were no problems. Any chance that the entire crew might not have realised the extent to which the Spirit had been compromised disappeared when these taciturn men had boarded. Once out of port, they made no attempt to conceal their automatic weapons and swaggered around the ship, daring anyone to challenge them. A number of times headstrong members of the crew had been barely talked out of accepting this challenge by their shipmates.

  On the bridge the radio crackled. “... If anyone can respond, please acknowledge ... We are adrift. Our engine’s failed ... last known coordinates ... Repeat, this is the Marlin ... four crew ... situation dire ... ”

  The first mate, Tiozzo, looked at Chanet who nodded to proceed. “Marlin, this is the Spirit of Marseilles. Please repeat those coordinates. Over.”

  After a couple of attempts the complete coordinates were communicated.

  “We’re in your vicinity and proceeding to your location. Standby to fire a flare on our signal,” the first mate instructed.

  The guard on the bridge stormed over angrily and wrenched the radio from Tiozzo’s hands. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, cabrón? You don’t deviate from our course!”

  “It’s enough your people have commandeered my ship and undermined my command,” said Chanet. “But if you think for a second that we’re going to ignore a distress call in this storm then go ahead and pull the trigger.” He stared impassively into the furious gunman’s eyes. “Though you’d better be prepared to tackle the rest of the crew and then, if you should handle that successfully, you and your colleagues can look forward to crewing a thirty-man ship safely to our destination.” For a moment the man looked like he was seriously considering the plausibility of such an action. “No doubt, you’ll have a good explanation ready for the port authorities on arrival,” Chanet added.

  The gunman lowered the weapon with a petulant expression. “Okay, Captain fucking Samaritan, but you can be damn sure I’ll be reporting this shit and then you better fucking believe it’ll be you who’ll have to do the explaining.”

  It took an hour and a half in the treacherous conditions before they arrived at the coordinates. No signal flare was released and with radio contact having ceased half an hour before, Chanet feared the worst. At last, just as he was about to call off the search, one of the crew spotted a blinking light off their port side. Changing course swiftly, they came upon the Marlin. She was a recreational vessel by all appearances, listing badly, her hull half-exposed and ready to go under at any moment. From the ship’s rail, Chanet could just about distinguish four huddled figures perched precariously on the yacht’s stern. He wondered at the lunatics who braved these seas for fun and adventure.

  Despite the difficult conditions, they managed to get alongside and haul the men one by one off the stricken Marlin. Three of them appeared to be in their early thirties and the last, presumably their skipper, was a little older. Considering the ordeal they had endured, none of them looked too much the worse for wear. Chanet reckoned that, after some hot soup and rest, they would be fine. The skipper insisted on thanking him properly before he would excuse himself. In spite of all attempts to dissuade the man, he persisted and Chanet reluctantly agreed for him to come up to the bridge. Chanet was not happy about the armed guard there but figured that the yachtsmen would be with them until they reached Miami and were bound to see the gunmen at some stage anyway. He had not thought of the problems this might pose when answering the distress call but he would have to address it before they docked.

  Chanet called for some brandy to be brought up and guided the man to a chair. While they waited, he studied the skipper. He was a lean man, perhaps five-eight or -nine and appeared to be recovering rapidly, his shivering subsiding noticeably as the seconds passed. Chanet could see his puzzlement at the presence of an armed guard on the bridge but there were no immediate questions.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go below?” he asked after the man had drained his mug.

  “No, no, we owe you our lives, if you hadn’t arrived ... I’m responsible for endangering my crew and yours. I have an obligation.” He spoke English with what sounded like an Eastern European accent.

  “If you insist. May I ask, what in God’s name were you doing so far from shore in a storm? Had you no warning of the weather?”

  “We were –”

  One of the crew from the Marlin appeared at the door, momentarily drawing their attention, and the skipper launched himself from his seat at the distracted guard. The gunman registered the movement and tried to react but before he could do anything, the skipper had grabbed him under the chin and pressed a knee into the small of his back. The skipper produced a knife and plunged it into the guard’s exposed neck. Blood spurted from the deep wound over the floor of the bridge. Letting the body drop, the skipper straightened up and retrieved a small plastic package, secured by tape, from under his sweater. He opened the package and removed a handgun. He exchanged a few words with his crewmate, and although Chanet didn’t recognise the language, the gist was clear. A progress report had been given and from the sounds of it things were going according to plan.

  “Captain Chanet, you have been under duress for some time and I apologise that it must continue for just a little longer. If I may?”

  The skipper took the radio, changed the frequency and began transmitting. In the same language as before, he issued instructions to whomever was at the other end.

  “In a few minutes, a ship will pull alongside,” he said, replacing the radio. “We’ll relieve you of a portion of your cargo then dump the bodies of this one and his friends overboard.”

  “And after?”

  “You’ll be free to continue on your way. I realise you’ll be facing a difficult situation with the owners of the cargo when you reach your destination.” A smile touched the corners of his mouth. “If you prefer, I can sink your ship while you and the crew take to the lifeboats?”

  “You’re taking the drugs?” Chanet asked incredulously.

  “Yes.”

  “And leaving us unharmed?”

  “We’ve no quarrel with you. The abuse of the mayday signal was unavoidable and we regret any danger you were placed in.”

  Chanet could not take it in. With difficulty, he assembled his thoughts enough to ask another question.

  “The ship, it won’t explode after you depart, will it? I mean, we’ve seen your faces.”

  “Who would you describe us to?” he shrugged. “The authorities? I can’t see it. As for the owners of the cargo, feel free to be as descriptive as you like.”

  A short time later, a smaller cargo ship pulled alongside and the crew of both vessels set about transferring the drugs. Within hours of the distress call being raised, no trace of the Marlin or its crew remained. Chanet could almost have convinced himself that he had dreamt it all.

  After slamming the door then throwing her keys on the hall table, Mesi hurried through the apartment into the bathroom. She had hoped to return more relaxed from her 2,000 metres at the pool. She had been so nervous about what lay ahead today that she had hardly slept, and starting the day with some exercise to take the edge off had seemed a good idea. And it would have been if maintenance had fixed the showers in the workout area as the residents had repeatedly requested. Living in the well-appointed apartment complex involved sacrifices. Besides the steep rent there was a daily two-stage commute involving car and train. The only way she could justify these to herself was if all of the complex’s amenities were working properly. Stepping hurriedly into the shower, she glanced at h
er watch again – fifteen minutes to get dressed and out the door. She would have some strong words for the building’s service contractor the next time she spoke to him.

  She lathered the shampoo through her hair while her mind raced. Director Marshall had come to her late afternoon the day before. In light of the latest incident, he had told her, they needed to revisit one of her earlier predictive reports. While he may have discounted it at the time, he thought it was prudent to take another look in light of the Miami incident. It had been gratifying to hear but then he had gone on to tell her about the meeting he had called for first thing the following day. He had invited an array of heavy hitters and he expected her to provide the main presentation. He had given her a rough outline on what she should and should not concentrate on and while it all sounded straightforward enough at the time, it had entailed an enormous amount of work.

  The first thing she had done was call Jean, an old friend from college, to say she couldn’t attend her dinner party that evening. That had not gone well at all. Despite the fact that ten others were expected, Jean’s primary reason for the party had been as an excuse to get her together with one of the other guests. Jean had decided that Diane’s total of just two serious relationships since the divorce eight years earlier was pitiful and that it was time for her to get her love life sorted before it was “too late”. Diane wasn’t opposed to the idea, quite the contrary, but for one reason or another their efforts had met with failure so far. Twenty minutes later, after having listened dutifully to the obligatory lecture about making time for a personal life, she had been able to concentrate on getting the material together.