Incitement

by David Graham

  A series of operations. Their brutality calculated by him, seen as vital to achieve the goal, not at all wanton. Each step of the way, he had decided what was necessary to progress the conflict and had seen to it personally. But as events had progressed, his actions began to sit less easily. The latest of these had been the attack on the young Mexican, Zaragosa. There could be no doubt of the suffering Zaragosa had caused and that he deserved little sympathy. The drug lord should have been aware that there might be consequences for his choice of life. Why then, did he keep coming back to those final moments before the injection? Did Zaragosa warrant this degree of soul-searching? In Larsen’s mind, the Mexican’s worst offence had been his ability to disassociate himself from his actions. If Larsen couldn’t examine his own actions, he would be guilty of the same transgression. The fact that this scrutiny brought so many doubts was immaterial.

  He was tiring quickly now, blows rained down. Kicks and knees to his legs, elbows and palm strikes to his body. The room was beginning to swim. The instructor grabbed his T-shirt, ignoring his feeble attempts at counters and lashed out with a head-butt. Just in time, he pulled his head back and avoided the brunt of the blow. Despite this, his cheekbone, which had been struck earlier, cried out from the impact. He tried to break free but his remaining strength was ineffectual. Knees from his opponent bombarded him, striking his upper legs as he twisted to block against a decisive groin strike. There was no way he could escape from the grip, he had no option but to surrender to it. Let it happen; some pain and then it would be over. Larsen stopped struggling, as he knew he must.

  He knew that the doubts would only grow but he had committed to this assignment, he needed to see it through to the end. Its successful completion would be a final testament to his ... career? Life? One of these. It was not about redemption – he had slid too far for that – but there would be some measure of redress. This would make a difference. He knew he had to force a culmination quickly. His growing uncertainty could not be allowed to ruin everything. If he was to have any hope of achieving the peace he had recently glimpsed, he needed to see this through. This time, his last, he would determine how it played out. This time, he would determine what his work accomplished.

  Sensing the change, the instructor released his grip to make room for the finish. Pushing back with one palm against the exhausted mass, he threw his whole body into an elbow aimed to strike upwards under his defeated foe’s chin. There was no question of hesitation, this was a place for the elite only. Full-blooded combat had been requested and paid for, all necessary waivers signed. Standards had to be maintained; the reputation of the gym among its exacting clientele was the issue. His blow never made impact, sailing past the intended point with no resistance. The instructor felt a blow to his face and his vision clouded with blood. Strikes, too quick to count, assailed his ribs and his defences deserted him. He felt his feet leave the floor, swept from beneath him. Falling heavily, he landed on his back with bone-shaking impact. The momentum whipped his head into the mat. His sternum groaned under a tremendous blow and consciousness danced in and out of reach. The pressure around his neck mounted and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Darkness engulfed him, and then receded.

  The client smiled and reached down to pull the instructor to his feet.

  The opening graphics disappeared and a distinguished face filled the screen. Leonard Boswell had been the presenter of Behind the Headlines, IBNC’s flagship current affairs magazine, for the past ten years.

  “Good evening, everyone. Let’s get straight to it,” he began in an introduction that played to his no-fuss reputation. “First up tonight we’re going to be looking at Plan Coca, and we’ll start by going over directly to Colombia to speak with Caroline Williams about the deaths earlier today of five US civilians.”

  The picture split to show a tired looking Williams, reporting from a small village in Putumayo, on the right side of the screen.

  “Caroline, earlier reports were that the US contractors died during a scheduled fumigation mission, has this been confirmed?” asked Boswell.

  “Yes Leonard. Our latest information confirms the initial report and gives us a more detailed account of what occurred. So far, though, no comment from the US embassy in Bogotá or the State Department.”

  The first reports had come in thirteen hours earlier and competition to be first to give the full story had been fierce between the news stations. Williams had been growing more desperate when it appeared a number of her rivals had pulled off surprising coups by convincing individual contractors to go on the record. She had been ready to admit defeat when help arrived from an unlikely source. A contractor she had met only a couple of times and had always found to be particularly uncommunicative had approached her, saying he wanted to talk. With the clock ticking she didn’t have time to dwell too much on his change of attitude. She had only finished talking to him thirty minutes before this live link-up to Atlanta. With no time to verify what he had told her, she had decided to gamble, and use it as the basis for her report, rather than allow her competitors to steal the march on her. Taking a deep breath, she started to read from her hand-written notes.

  “We’ve learnt that three aircraft were brought down during the exercise. There were four in total taking part in the mission, three HUEY II helicopters and a fixed-wing fumigation craft. Two of the helicopters were heavily armed escort aircrafts whose function is to act as a deterrent to any anti-aircraft artillery. One of these was hit by a shell and the pilot quickly lost the battle to stay airborne, crashing down into the forest. The third helicopter, which had search-and-rescue responsibilities, flew over the crash site to determine if there were any survivors. Subsequently this aircraft was also hit. The attack appears to have been carefully planned with the onslaught coming simultaneously from multiple locations. There were literally only seconds between each aircraft being downed.”

  She stopped for a moment, having to search her notes briefly before finding what she wanted. “The next bit is sketchy but it seems the remaining escort helicopter then split from the fumigation aircraft which, now totally unguarded, abandoned the mission and returned immediately to base. Additional support aircraft had been scrambled once the first reports came in, but by the time they reached the area the wreckage from the three helicopters was plainly visible. A check confirmed that there were no survivors.”

  A group of children had congregated in the background, shouting and jostling for the camera’s attention, and Caroline tried to move away a little while continuing her report.

  “I’m sure a lot of people will be surprised at the involvement of US civilians in this kind of operation on foreign soil. How did they come to be there?” enquired Boswell.

  Williams had known about the heavy presence of foreign contractors from the little research she had done even before arriving in Colombia. They had been there for years in steadily increasing numbers. In fact the foreign journalists and contractors often socialised together when off-duty. There was an unwritten agreement that their presence here would never constitute a significant part of any of the news reports. She had once raised this curious omission with one of the main news editors. All he had said was that some feathers should not be ruffled and to leave things as they were. Well, all that was about to change. The death of their colleagues and the downing of the helicopters had struck a chord with many of the contractors and convinced them to talk to the media. They could not be ignored and consequently the disastrous mission was set to become a major news story.

  “Well, although the State Department has yet to comment officially, some people have been at pains to point out that the involvement of US civilians here significantly pre-dates the Plan. These civilians typically work for large companies and are ostensibly here only to provide training.”

  “But surely training wouldn’t extend to participation in actual missions?” the host of the current affairs programme probed sceptically.

  “It’s a grey area. There’ve b
een repeated categorical statements that the US military will not be directly involved in any engagements down here. Special Forces instructors work closely with the counter-narcotics battalions of the Colombian army but they maintain that this is in an advisory capacity only.”

  “But we’re talking about civilians here,” interjected Boswell, “civilians who certainly can’t be classified as advisors.”

  “Exactly,” agreed Williams, feeling rushed by the host’s habit of interrupting her planned presentation of the situation. “In the case of civilian contractors, the policy isn’t as clear-cut. Guidelines are implied rather than spelt out and may vary from company to company. In relation to Plan Coca, the intention has always been to reduce the high incidence of contractors but that’s not an easy thing to do.”

  “Because?”

  “Well for the simple reason that the Colombians rely on their expertise. According to the contractors themselves, it’s been a common occurrence for years for them to be present on missions.”

  “Earlier there had been some speculation over whether the number of five US citizens was accurate; has this been confirmed?”

  “Not officially, DefenCorp AeroSpace, for whom it’s believed the dead contractors worked, refuse to talk to any reporters but as far as we know the figure is accurate.”

  “Okay, Caroline, no doubt we’ll be hearing a lot more from you in the coming days but for the moment, thank you.”

  six

  The database query Diane Mesi had kicked off was likely to take at least half an hour. It was only when she started looking for something to do while she was waiting that she realised how hungry she was. She had arrived at the office before seven after skipping breakfast, over six hours earlier. She walked down the hall to the vending machine and on the way back picked up a newspaper that had been lying on a desk. Campas had said that he would drop by around two o’clock, after his meeting.

  She scanned the paper while she ate. Her eyes were immediately drawn to an article on the front page, a report from a news conference in Detroit chaired by the police commissioner. He had been commenting on a fire-fight which had occurred the day before in one of the city’s most notorious areas. A cab company had come under attack by a group of gunmen. The company was subsequently discovered to have been used as a distribution point for a notorious drug gang. Four Jamaicans were found dead on the premises while two other men, believed to be Russians, were in hospital receiving treatment for their wounds. The commissioner had conceded that the attack marked the latest in a spate of similar incidents in Detroit in recent weeks. He defended the police department’s record, saying that the attacks were virtually impossible to predict and, by extension, prevent. The article ended with speculation as to whether the department was as committed as it might be, given how many of its members were privately expressing satisfaction at seeing these elements wipe out one another. Mesi knew it was a popular sentiment.

  She opened the paper to read the editorial comment referenced at the end of the article. The commentary dealt more with the ongoing political battle raging on Capitol Hill than the specific Detroit incident. It bemoaned the opportunistic sniping that was being directed at the administration and argued that too much was being made of the escalating violence in the inner cities. An analogy was drawn with a painful purge which would benefit the patient in the long term. The writer pointed out that as Plan Coca squeezed the drug supply, people who traded illicitly would become more and more agitated in their struggle to control the remaining scraps. If the public could just harden themselves and see this difficult period through, it would all come right eventually. He went on to condemn the theorists who tried to promote the idea that something other than Plan Coca was in motion. If there was an international battle for supremacy between the drug powers, he argued, it was a by-product of Plan Coca’s successes and was nothing to be overly concerned about.

  She envied the author his certitude.

  “Diane?”

  Mesi turned around, greeted Campas delightedly and then brought a chair over for him from the empty desk next to her.

  “How are you doing?” he asked.

  “Fine. So how does it feel being on a diplomatic junket? Big time now, huh?”

  “Yes, this is what I’ve always wanted, to be a security blanket for a minister who’s afraid of embarrassing himself,” he replied. “I tried to insist I could brief him adequately before he left but no, I had to drop everything and accompany him on his visit here. An entire three days between the State Department and the DEA.”

  “Don’t knock it; at least you’re valued!”

  Mesi knew she must appear very subdued to Campas, different from the enthusiastic person he had worked with in Mexico. They made small talk briefly, exchanging pleasantries, before the discussion turned to work and issues related to the cartel war.

  “I received a report this morning regarding Francisco Zaragosa. You remember we talked a couple of weeks ago?” he asked.

  “Yes, any word on when he plans to return to California?”

  “Try never. At first, we thought he might have fucked up and was being called back for some kind of reprimand. We couldn’t have been more wrong. From what we’ve learnt, playboy Francisco is now a vegetable. Result of some kind of poisoning and the prognosis is that it’s permanent.”

  “Christ, there’s going to be major repercussions, isn’t there?”

  He nodded.

  “Up to now, Esteban Zaragosa could usually be counted on as a voice of reason. His attitude was: as long as Madrigal made money, he was content to be number two. He provided a stabilising influence on Caesar Rodriguez.”

  “And that’s all changed now?”

  “I think so. Word is he blames Madrigal for what happened to his nephew. I think he’ll make a move.”

  “And Rodriguez will back him?”

  “I can’t see why not, he’s been yearning for this. He’s never been strong enough to challenge Madrigal himself but with Zaragosa on side, there’s no reason to hesitate. I think Madrigal, for the first time in a long time, is in real danger. It seems like the Kosovars have succeeded in creating the dissension you talked about.”

  “It’s a continuation of the pattern, more in-fighting, more instability. It makes you wonder who gains,” Mesi remarked.

  “What do you mean? Rodriguez and Zaragosa obviously, if they succeed.”

  “Do they? Can they sustain what Madrigal has built? Maybe briefly but in the long run, I think they’ll suffer financially. Who really wins?”

  “The Kosovars? A fractured alliance with new leadership will be easier to supplant?”

  “I know that’s been the assumption, but if I look at the individual attacks ... I don’t know, they just seem wrong somehow.”

  “Well there have certainly been some puzzling inconsistencies,” he agreed.

  “Exactly. Take Conchillo, a perfectly executed operation followed by sloppy covering of their tracks, almost as if they went out of their way to ensure they were found.”

  “Maybe they didn’t care. We know now it wasn’t the first attack, maybe they figured Madrigal and Zaragosa already knew who was responsible?” he suggested. Mesi knew Campas did not really believe his answer but wanted to see where she was going with this by playing devil’s advocate.

  “Go back two years,” she said. “Everyone’s doing well. Why would the Kosovars or anyone else instigate a war? Even if they could seize a greater share of the global heroin market, the risks were astronomical. I know one of the suggestions was they’d saturated their current markets and needed to expand because of their commitments to various militias but ...”

  “I thought we agreed that Plan Coca could have convinced them to act. Seeing the Alliance engaged on one front already?” he offered. Again, she could see him resisting the urge to leap ahead, wanting her to step through her thought process.

  “Did you have great hopes for Plan Coca when it was launched?” she asked.

  He shook hi
s head.

  “Neither did I and we were in the majority. I’m convinced, despite what’s coming from certain quarters, that we were right. I think the Kosovars would have held exactly the same opinion as we did.”

  “Okay, let’s say they did; where does that leave us?”

  “Well, if neither party stood to gain, maybe,” she hesitated, then, after a deep breath, continued, “maybe someone else instigated the war. Maybe someone else benefits if the two tear each other apart.”

  “Someone else?”

  “If it’s true, there are two candidates – another crime syndicate or a government-backed agency.” Mesi shook her head. “This sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”

  “Maybe not. No harm in talking it through! It’s just the two of us throwing ideas around.”

  “Maybe you should tell Samuels that!” The weariness in her tone was evident.

  “You’re saying he wouldn’t be willing to look into it?”

  “Not if it came from me. I doubt he’d even give me enough time to present an argument.”

  “Why? Now that we’re on the subject, I was surprised to see you weren’t asked to attend any of the meetings over the last few days.”

  “I’m barely on the periphery of the investigation. I only get to attend internal strategy meetings.”

  “You’re still on the investigation, though; he hasn’t re-assigned you?”

  “More because of historical involvement rather than any contribution he thinks I can make. It would be a bit obvious to remove me but I’m convinced Samuels is assigning me to tasks he believes are irrelevant to the main threads of the investigation.” She held up an air ticket. “Case in point, he gets me out of his hair for three days while I head to France. I have to interview someone trying to bargain their way out of an assault charge by claiming he has information regarding the Kosovars’ past operations.”