Incitement

by David Graham

  “Now you don’t need to bother,” she smiled.

  “I wanted to say how sorry I am at how little I’ve done since the completing the dossier. I’m sorry things have been kind of crazy lately.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she reassured him.

  “I wanted to have more done by the time you started back ...”

  She placed her hands to his lips, silencing him. “Tomorrow’s soon enough for that; my mind is on other things right now.”

  They kissed again, this time with no restraint. He leaned back, pulling her to him, his hands stroking her body through the thin material of her dress. She undid the top buttons of his shirt, kissing his chest as he tried to pull her closer. They were virtually lying along the sofa now and its small size was making things a little awkward. Finally, after they had struggled pleasurably for a little while to make the best of the cramped space, she pressed her hand against him, freeing herself to stand up on unsteady legs. He came forward to the edge of the sofa, his hands reaching for her but she took a step back, beyond his reach.

  She stood there looking at him squarely and for a moment he wondered if he had done something to upset her. Then, she reached behind her neck, undid the clasp of her dress and unzipped it. The smooth, black material slid off her with only the slightest movement of her shoulders. She stepped out of the garment which had pooled at her feet and, reaching out for his hands, pulled him gently to his feet and led him into the bedroom.

  The non-descript office-block was ideal for his purposes. It provided him with somewhere to wrap up the last weeks of the operation. The occupancy level in the building was so low he probably could have paid cash for the time he needed and left it at that. But he preferred professionalism in everything. He had constructed a fictitious identity, used it to correspond with the letting agent and completed a twelve-month lease agreement. He sat in the middle of the empty office surrounded by a job-lot of cheap office furniture, laptop out, reading the latest gratifying report.

  They now controlled more than eighty-five per cent of Colombia’s drug-producing territories. In addition to the large revenues this would secure, payment had also been lodged from a major oil company for allowing resumption of work on their pipeline. The rebels had been looking to extort the company but were now fully occupied with their futile battle for survival. Plan Coca had distracted them and everyone else long enough to allow him to organise an effective coalition to move against them. Weakened by the drying up of their cash-flow from the cartels, it had not taken much, simply a combination of co-operative elements within the Colombian military and a series of attacks by his co-opted paramilitaries working on commission. And that was only the start.

  Looking to employ classic management practice of controlling outbound logistics when first developing his strategy, he had asked the question, why stop at controlling production? Why not retail and distribution as well? True, there had been a tolerable working relationship with Madrigal historically but as long as they had to deal through him there was a limit to what they could achieve. He had extended the strategy to not only target the rebels who competed with their interests for territory but to erode Madrigal’s power-base into the bargain. A hand-picked candidate, waiting in the wings, would assume control any day now.

  What had surprised even him was how easy it had proved to rein things in. He had successfully arranged for the Kosovars to back off and the Colombians had quickly fallen into line. Almost before anyone knew it, the conflict was over. He had worried that one of the agencies investigating the feud might uncover something, but the only one who had come close was the woman, Mesi, and, luckily, the lack of support she had received had addressed that worry. Every indicator was that she had resigned herself to letting her investigation die. Still, there was a contingency plan in place for her removal. Just in case.

  The crucial development had been the elimination of Larsen. None of the other players had the same potential to ruin things. Not even Mesi, for all her abilities and tenacity, could wreak as much damage were the Dane to discover the truth. He would not be bound by due process or any observance of law. He had worked with Larsen himself years before and despite his cultivated detachment, the mercenary had made an impression. Although he would not have admitted it at the time, he did not mind recognising, now that the reaction stirred was one of fear. Larsen’s combination of ruthlessness and focus had been unsettling to observe at close quarters.

  He remembered when Brewer had originally approached him with news of Wallace’s proposal. He had seen the opportunity and interwoven it masterfully with his own objectives. The key thing, on which everything else hinged, had been to carry off the sequence of attacks on cartel resources without discovery. Larsen had been the only person he had ever considered and he had ensured Brewer’s selection process singled him out. The way it had unfolded, while Larsen had been up to the assignment, inflicting damage and eliminating individuals effortlessly, he had never threatened the real objective. Ultimately, it had been child’s play to arrange for the unwitting Madrigal to eliminate him.

  The one blip had occurred when he had been compelled to kill Brewer. He had planned to have the arrogant CEO removed at some point in the future anyway, but his sloppiness had forced it to be moved up. When he had heard of the unsuccessful attack on Mesi by Brewer’s Cuban hitman, he had briefly feared it might all fall apart. Luckily, prompt and decisive action had ensured the problem was nipped in the bud. At least Brewer had been right about one thing: Wallace had been happy to walk away. He had kept a close watch on the industrialist but it had proved unnecessary. Even if Wallace had any desire to try and restart his campaign – and it was clear he did not – his two conduits to the worlds of mercenaries and intelligence were dead and buried. Surveillance pictures of Wallace over the past year, and particularly the last three months, had shown a marked deterioration. He would not be surprised if the business pages soon carried details of the demise of the founder of Diversified Holdings.

  Madrigal, Mesi, Larsen and Wallace; all successfully dealt with. It had been a long gambit, years in planning and execution and now the end was in sight.

  Madrigal lifted the canteen to his lips and drank deeply, letting the tension of the day seep out of him. He relaxed down into the canvas chair and lit a cigar. The men were bustling around the camp, getting things ready for the evening meal. He looked up and away from the campfire through the thick canopy of the jungle at the richly coloured twilight sky. The jungle sounds began to change around this time of the evening as nocturnal creatures emerged from their slumber. He had always enjoyed visiting Putumayo and now, with all that was happening, he found himself wishing he could stay longer. That option did not exist, he knew. His nature dictated that he not run away from whatever fate had in store for him. It had not been a bad run, he consoled himself. Born in a slum, he had gone on to build an empire.

  He had come south to Putumayo to negotiate the new production agreement with the commander of the paramilitary unit that now controlled most of the region. The commander had let it be known that he would view having to deal through a subordinate as a calculated insult. The meeting had centred on the price that the commander would demand per unit of raw or refined heroin and coca. The negotiation itself was a farce; Madrigal needed to get the supply lines back operating at their optimum level. The entire apparatus he had built had been so badly hurt by the conflict that only a speedy resumption of former production levels could stop it disintegrating altogether. The commander was well aware of Madrigal’s position and was quite prepared to stockpile his product if he was not happy with the price offered. To save Madrigal’s pride, the commander threw him a bone towards the end of the bartering, lowering the price slightly, but they both knew the concession was marginal. The only bonus to the whole deal was the fact the commander’s close ties to the Colombian Army meant he could guarantee they need never fear consignments being disrupted within Colombia’s borders. Once the meeting was over, Madrigal could not g
et back to his camp quickly enough. Even having to sit and conduct business with such a man sickened him. Many of the paramilitaries came from backgrounds similar to Madrigal but instead of trying to exercise some self-determination, they were content to let their natural blood lust be used by others. He had killed countless people on his climb to the top and most had not been spared a second thought, but the tactics of the paramilitaries were something else. They were savages employed by the ruling class and the military, to do their dirty work. They had pressed hundreds of villagers into service by threat of death and occasionally wiped out entire settlements for no other reason than to provide an object lesson. Things must be getting bad, he thought wryly, when a drug lord could feel so superior.

  The agreement he had reached was just the latest ammunition for his opponents within the Alliance to use in getting rid of him. Although he would continue to fight, he was a realist and knew that his days were numbered. A summit meeting between the main figures in the Alliance would happen in the next few weeks. It was at this meeting, he surmised, that he would be pushed aside. He tried to predict how it would unfold. He had realised only recently where the main danger lay; before then he had never seen Rodriguez as a threat. The Mexican’s aggression and enmity towards Madrigal had been almost reassuring. No need to waste time wondering what he might be thinking when he told you to your face. There were other experienced men whose subtlety and outward goodwill masked their real nature. You shook their hand and returned their smile, the whole time waiting for the knife. Lately he had discerned the change, which when he thought back had been gradually occurring in Rodriguez over the last couple of years. Yes, he still occasionally went off on vitriolic outbursts but much less frequently, and even then never with the total abandon of the past. Then there was the matter of letting him assume control of Zaragosa’s operations. He should have seen that he was helping a dangerous rival but he had been too preoccupied with his other problems.

  It was shortly after Zaragosa’s assassination attempt on Madrigal that Rodriguez had begun to make his move: a series of tactful approaches to senior members of the organisation. Whenever he encountered unhappiness or dissatisfaction, he worked away at it. Instead of coming straight out and suggesting Madrigal’s ousting, he would merely plant the seed. He would bring up recent reversals, regret their occurrence and wish they could have been avoided. Nothing more. He would let the other party point out decisions which should have been taken and then reluctantly agree. The memory of Rodriguez imploring Madrigal to strike hard at the Kosovars early on and his gracious unwillingness later to blame the Colombian made a powerful impression. Revenues had suffered enormously since the conflict began and history now vindicated Rodriguez’s stance. The fact that the Kosovars had finally backed off in the face of their strong retaliation proved it had all been an opportunistic grab for power on their part.

  Understanding the situation and knowing who presented the main threat had been enough for him to avoid disaster in the past but not this time. No matter how often he went over it, he could see no viable options open to him. He had considered trying to pre-empt events by breaking up the Alliance and pulling the Colombian element out, but his own success thwarted him there. People had seen how profitable a cohesive strategy could be and were not going to forfeit the astronomical rewards just because of some personal loyalty to him. He was fairly sure he knew the course events would take. A number of people, most likely the eldest members of their committee, would respectfully suggest he take things a little easier, share some of his duties with Rodriguez. If he refused, it would only speed up the process, but if he accepted, he would have to face his position being eroded over months until he was effectively only a figurehead. At some point, to consolidate his position and to remove the threat of a future challenge, Rodriguez would have him killed. No one would fault him for the decision.

  He reprimanded himself for wallowing in self-pity and walked over to the fire to remonstrate with the men over how long it was taking to prepare the food.

  eleven

  It was for the best. That was what Mesi kept telling herself as she prepared for the open-ended period of leave. Ostensibly, the reason was her continuing discomfort with her shoulder and the need for intensive rehabilitation to address the problem. Arthur Marshall had been the epitome of the concerned boss when she had brought it up. There was no problem taking as long as she needed. They both knew they were using her injury as a convenient excuse.

  After only four weeks back, she had taken stock of her position. All pretence of backing for her investigation had been dropped. Her dogged insistence in trying to resurrect the subject had rendered her a pariah. Even Alan, her ex-husband, had called and advised her that she was ruffling too many feathers. That in itself had been illustrative. How had a political lobbyist who represented a range of causes and interest groups, none of which were connected with illegal narcotics, come to know what was happening within the DEA? Pressure was being brought to bear, too much to ignore. She had asked who had talked to him but could not get an answer – he simply reiterated the caution.

  In the end, she decided to acquiesce. She had been doing a lot of thinking recently. Thinking about what her career was costing her, not only in terms of time, effort and stress, but in relation to what she had to sacrifice in other areas. Up to a few months ago, she had been willing to place the job before everything else, not even seeing it as an imposition, but now? Whether the uncertainty was due to the shooting, the enforced period of reflection recuperation had brought or the developing relationship with Tom, was not clear. She needed to figure it out, to get some perspective, and she rationalised, since the investigation was plainly over, it was not a difficult decision.

  Tom had been brilliant throughout. He had offered to support her regardless of what she decided. If she wanted to persevere, he would back her, but at the same time he recognised how the investigation’s momentum had been squandered during her convalescence. He was concerned that she could put her health at risk by fighting for a cause that might already be lost. They had agreed that he would take some vacation time he had coming and they discussed getting away to a far-flung sunny beach, where they would place a ban on all work-related discussion.

  She had been requested to clear her work area so it could be used when she was away and had almost finished – only two more drawers to get through. She opened the first drawer and dragged two wastebaskets over, one for rubbish and one for material to be shredded. She followed the procedure she had perfected that morning, taking out documents, deciding their sensitivity and disposing of them appropriately. Occasionally, she came across a noteworthy item and put it to one side for a particular colleague. She had almost finished the first drawer, working faster, eager to finish the repetitive task, when she came across the report.

  When she had originally discovered the connection to Brewer she had asked one of the junior agents if he could find out who the main corporate investors in Spartan were over the last five years. The results hadn’t come back before her visit to Kates’ and with everything that had happened in the meantime she had forgotten the request. The listing had been placed in the drawer and had remained there since. On a whim, she flicked through the first few pages. The area of military consultancy, contracting and arms provision had not experienced the downturn the rest of the market had seen. For that reason they represented a good investment for many corporate institutions. Her thinking when requesting the list had been that the threat of approaching these shareholders might have given the DEA some leverage with Brewer. The report contained a few surprises, including mentions of blue-chip companies she would not have readily associated with a company like Spartan. She had placed the file in the shredding basket and moved through another two documents when it struck her. Reaching into the basket, she retrieved the report and flipped to the next-to-last page. There it was: Diversified Holdings. She had almost missed it due to its position so near the end of the document. The report was sorted in re
verse order and Diversified’s involvement in Spartan had ceased more than three years ago. It wasn’t long before then that she had first become acquainted with the corporate group.

  She had been with the DEA four years when the organisation had entered one of its most challenging periods. Inexplicably, its performance became the hottest of political subjects. Representatives from both sides of the house began asking questions. Difficult questions, intelligent, well-thought-out, well-researched questions. And they had kept asking them. Senior people had been put under intense strain as planned strategies were scrutinised and either scrapped or radically redesigned. New committees had been put in place to monitor effectiveness. Extreme stress permeated every level of the DEA. Still relatively fresh at the time, Diane weathered it fairly well, but she was the exception. Morale plummeted; some people quit while many others reached the stage where they simply stopped trying.

  And then, abruptly, it subsided. As if some huge object had moved into their orbit, wreaked havoc and then moved on. Some months later, she learnt the reality. The occasion was a retirement party for one of her bosses who had taken a shine to her. A combination of too much alcohol for the retiree and an attempt to impress had resulted in him sharing what he knew. That year, Carol Wallace and her daughter had been the victims of a drug-related killing. An addict seeking the means to satisfy his habit had sought to rob Carol and events had gotten out of hand. Tragic but unremarkable, except for who Carol’s father happened to be. Lawrence Wallace, former chairman and founder of the Diversified Holdings group. Apparently Wallace had set politicians and Senate committees on the DEA like a man sets his dogs on an intruder. She had barely believed that one individual could wield so much power. No one knew why he had decided to back off. Nothing good had resulted from his meddling. She had wondered if he might have realised the damage he was doing but was not sure that someone so used to seeing his wishes made reality would have accepted failure so readily. Subsequently, she saw a small article mentioning how Wallace was ploughing money into a newly established foundation which aimed to pioneer the field of drug rehabilitation. She had taken it as a sign to avoid summary judgements of people. The man she had pegged as obsessed with personal vengeance and as being equipped with an unhealthy amount of influence had used both to create something positive.