Narcos

by Jeff Mariotte

  Probably with a bonus in his pocket.

  11

  TWENTY-EIGHT MEN HAD gone into the market.

  Eleven came out.

  Poison carried Costa’s head, holding it with his fingers twined in the banker’s thick black hair.

  Aguilar felt queasy, unwell, but he seemed to be alone in that. The others—despite the losses they’d suffered, and the wounds some bore—seemed almost jovial. Drunk with bloodlust.

  Aguilar had to admit that he felt some of that, too. Sick, but thrilled. And all the sicker because of the thrill. It was wrong, he knew. He would have much to confess, the next time he went into a church. He wanted to throw up, to cleanse himself from the inside out, but didn’t dare in front of the other men.

  He thought now that they were done he could go home, take a shower, and let Luisa hold him for the rest of the day. He wanted that more than anything.

  Instead, Montoya spoke with Blackie, and when they got back in the SUV, he said, “El Patrón needs to see you, brother.”

  “See me?”

  “That’s what I said. Blackie was really impressed with your knife skills. He wants Escobar to meet you.”

  “He has met me.”

  “I mean, really meet you. We’re invited over.”

  “When?”

  “This morning.”

  Aguilar looked at the sky. The sun had come up, and it was rapidly lightening to a pale, cloudless blue. “This morning? Can I go home first? I’m a bloody mess.”

  “Escobar’s version of morning isn’t the same as most people’s. Anyway, it’s a long drive. I’ll pick you up about nine and we’ll head over, okay?”

  It wasn’t perfect, but it would give him some time with Luisa. Maybe he could even squeeze in a short nap. “Sure,” he said.

  “Dress decent,” Montoya said. “Don’t look like a bum. And be sure you bring that knife. He’ll want to see it.”

  No problem, Aguilar thought. He didn’t think he would ever leave home without it. The thing had saved his life, several times over.

  Best money he’d ever spent.

  * * *

  They reached Hacienda Nápoles, Escobar’s hilltop finca, around noon. Aguilar had heard stories about it—who in Colombia hadn’t?—but they hadn’t prepared him for the reality.

  As they drove up the road approaching it, they passed what seemed like kilometer after kilometer of tall wire fence, topped with razor wire. The landscape was mostly rolling grasslands, dotted with trees, green on green on green. In the distance, Aguilar was sure he spotted a Tyrannosaurus Rex. “There’s a dinosaur.”

  “He’s got a bunch of them,” Montoya said. “Don’t worry, they’re not real.”

  “What are they?”

  “Sculptures, I guess you’d call them. Fiberglass, I think. But the elephants and rhinos and zebras and giraffes and shit, they’re real.”

  “Elephants and rhinos? I heard he had sort of a zoo here, but I thought maybe some horses, goats, that kind of thing.”

  “He doesn’t do things halfway. And he has so much money pouring in, why not? He lets the public visit his zoo, for free.”

  “A generous man,” Aguilar said. He almost believed it.

  At the gateway, they were waved through by guards who expected them, then passed underneath a small airplane. “That’s supposed to be the plane that carried his first load of cocaine to the United States, right?” Aguilar asked.

  “Some say that,” Montoya replied. “Others say that plane was wrecked, and this is a reproduction of it.”

  “Which do you believe?”

  “Whatever Don Pablo wants me to believe. That’s always the best idea.”

  “How well do you know him?”

  “I’ve met him five or six times. Not well, but a little. He’s always been kind to me.”

  “He seemed nice the time I met him.”

  “As long as you don’t cross him, I think he’s always nice. And the people who do cross him don’t usually live long enough to complain.”

  They drove up a long road, from which they could catch occasional glimpses of other structures, some of the many separate houses Montoya claimed he had on the vast property. The noontime sun glinted off lakes and swimming pools and showered down on kilometer after kilometer of fruit trees. Finally, they pulled up to the main hacienda, a massive house that Montoya said could sleep twenty or thirty people, if necessary.

  A mustachioed man in a flat snap-brim cap and sunglasses stepped out of the front door and met them as they exited the Nissan. Other men stood within eyesight, watching with hard eyes. “It’s not often we have police cars up here,” he said, grinning. “At least, not by invitation. Welcome to Hacienda Nápoles.”

  “Thank you for inviting us,” Montoya said. “Gustavo, this is Jose Aguilar Gonzales. Jose, this is Don Pablo’s cousin and closest friend, Gustavo Gaviria.”

  “It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” Aguilar said. He’d been raised to be polite. He had put on an off-white silk shirt and Jordache jeans with elaborate white embroidery on the rear pockets, and his best ostrich-skin boots. He wanted to make a good impression on the gangsters, though he couldn’t have said precisely why. He did not intend—as Montoya apparently had—to swear allegiance to them. He didn’t mind taking their money—indeed, he didn’t seem to have a choice—but he was a policeman, first and foremost. And he intended to remain one, to rise through the ranks. One day, he might find himself looking down the barrel of a gun at any of Escobar’s people. It wouldn’t hurt to know their organization from the inside, if only to someday bring it down.

  “It’s good to meet you,” Gaviria said. “I’ve heard stories about your knife skills.”

  Aguilar wanted to tell him that they were exaggerated, but he reconsidered. Gaviria’s tone was admiring, and he didn’t want to shatter any illusions. Besides, although he thought he’d just been lucky, the truth was that he’d survived a bad situation. Maybe he was good with a knife, after all.

  “I’ve always liked knives,” he said. That much was true, at least.

  “Come in,” Gaviria said. “Pablo’s not up yet, but you can relax by the pool. Do you want something? Beer, wine, Coke?”

  A cola would have been fine with Aguilar, but considering where he was, and with whom, he wasn’t sure if he’d been offered that, or cocaine. “Pepsi?” he asked.

  “Beer would be great,” Montoya said, speaking over him. “For both of us.”

  Gaviria snapped his fingers at a waiting attendant Aguilar hadn’t even seen until that moment. There seemed to be an unlimited supply of men around, and they’d all mastered the art of being still and silent. Unless they were needed; Aguilar was certain that if they saw trouble, they would respond with swift ferocity.

  “This way,” Gaviria said. He led them through a luxurious home that opened on one side onto a swimming pool. The furniture looked comfortable, and works of art that Aguilar thought were expensive were scattered here and there. He thought he saw a famous Picasso on one wall that he recognized from art classes at school. He dismissed it as a mistake, at first, but then thought better of it. Why not? Who could afford Pablo Picasso more than Pablo Escobar? He knew that artwork sometimes was sold at auctions, and there were many reasons he wouldn’t have wanted to bid against El Patrón, even if he had the money.

  Gaviria showed them to some plush chairs beside the pool. The beers were already standing on a table beside the seating area; two sweating bottles, accompanied by elegant glasses. A gentle breeze stirred the water, sending glittering daggers of light into the air.

  “I have some business to attend to,” Gaviria said. “I’ll make sure Pablo knows you’re here. In the meantime, if you need anything at all, just ask Ernesto.” He nodded toward one of the hard men. Ernesto gave a slight nod in return, but his expression didn’t change. He was a big man, broad-shouldered, and he stood with his hands behind his back and his feet spread. Except for that nod, he could have been cast from bronze.

  Mon
toya sat back and took a long pull from his beer, directly from the bottle. “Ahh,” he said after he swallowed. “This is the life, eh? All that’s missing are some beautiful women in the pool.”

  “I haven’t seen any women at all,” Aguilar said. Sitting in a comfortable chair felt good—he was still aching from the fight the night before, and the long ride in the Nissan hadn’t helped.

  “Victoria, Don Pablo’s wife—he calls her Tata—is probably here somewhere. His mother, too. Unless they’re out spending some of his money. He’s a real family man. I mean, he has his fun, you know. But not when his family’s around. He makes sure to keep things separate. It’s only respectful.”

  Aguilar could imagine what Luisa would say if he suggested that kind of “respect.” He kept quiet, pouring his beer into the tall glass.

  They waited. For a while, they made small talk, and Montoya filled him in on what he knew about Escobar. Every now and then Gaviria came out to check on them. More often, Montoya summoned Ernesto to ask for refills. Aguilar worried that by the time Escobar came out, they’d be too drunk to carry on a conversation. He tried to sip his, making it last. But the day was warm and the pool was pretty and it was easy to forget. Montoya dozed off once, but only for a few minutes.

  Finally, he heard a small commotion inside, and glanced up to see Escobar coming toward them. A couple of men hovered around him, but he dismissed them and came out alone. Aguilar and Montoya both jumped to their feet at his approach. Even Ernesto seemed to stand a little straighter.

  “Alberto, Jose,” he said. “Thank you for gracing my home with your presence. I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

  “Not at all, Don Pablo,” Montoya said. “Thank you for inviting us. It’s beautiful here.”

  “Yes, it is,” Escobar said. “Sit, sit.” He took a chair for himself, gazed at the pool for a few moments. Aguilar could smell weed on him; he’d smoked some before coming out. “It’s peaceful, that’s what I like about it. The mountain breeze, the trees, the water. It’s not like the city, anyway. Sometimes I can lose myself up here, forget about all my troubles, all the demands on me.” He chuckled. “I’ve been very fortunate. I’m a successful businessman, and sometimes it sounds like I regret my own success. I assure you, that’s not the case. It’s just nice to be away from it once in a while.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Montoya said. “It’ll be hard to go back to Medellín, after this.”

  “We need you there, though,” Escobar said. “You’ve been doing good work. Important work. Both of you.”

  Aguilar felt an unexpected flush of pride. The first time he’d met Escobar, he had just accomplished a very simple task. Now, though, it sounded like Escobar was aware of what they’d been doing, keeping up with their efforts. For such a busy man to take notice was a high compliment.

  “We do what we can,” Montoya said. “We’re happy to serve.”

  “I trust we’re taking good care of you?”

  “Very good care, Don Pablo. We’re very grateful.”

  Aguilar had never seen Montoya so deferential, even when he talked to the colonel in charge of the police force. The worst the colonel could do would be to fire them, though. From what he’d heard of Escobar, his version of firing them would be a very different process, possibly involving actual flames.

  Escobar turned to Aguilar. “I hear you’re handy with a knife.”

  “I like knives,” he said. It had been enough for Gaviria.

  Not for Escobar, though. He held out a hand. “Let me see it.”

  Aguilar hesitated. He’d considered leaving it at home. Now he wondered if he should have, after all. What would the men watching them do if he reached under his pants leg and pulled a knife? They were close enough to see, but not necessarily to have heard Escobar’s request. He regretted having so much beer—what if he accidentally dropped it and cut El Patrón?

  He caught Ernesto’s eye as he reached for the cuff of his jeans. Once again, Ernesto gave that briefest of nods. Aguilar took it as permission, and with broad motions, obviously not disguising his intentions, drew the leg up to reveal the knife. He tugged it from its sheath and gave it, handle first, to Escobar. “Here it is.”

  Escobar gave a low whistle. “Nice. It looks deadly.”

  “It is.”

  “I wouldn’t want to mess with you, if you had this,” Escobar said with a laugh. He handed it back, and Aguilar gingerly replaced it in the sheath, then pulled his jeans back down to cover it.

  “I’m glad I had it last night,” he said.

  “I heard all about it. Blackie was most impressed. And lucky you were there.”

  “It was an honor to be asked to help.”

  “I’ll see that you’re taken care of,” Escobar said. “But you could make more money. Much more. Serious money. Would you be interested in that?”

  Montoya perked up at that. “Absolutely,” he said.

  Escobar shot him a withering glance that made it clear he’d been addressing Aguilar. “Both of you, of course,” he said when Montoya shrank back into his seat.

  “We’d be glad to do whatever we can,” Aguilar said.

  “It’s helpful to have police officers in Medellín,” Escobar said. “But there are additional tasks you could handle for me. If I could rely on you two, I wouldn’t have to have so many people in the city. I don’t know if you can be spared from your official tasks, but—”

  “That’s not a problem,” Montoya cut in. “Whenever you need us, we’re allowed as much time as necessary.”

  “Yes, well, your colonel gets his cut, too. And the captain.”

  “We can do whatever you ask us to, Don Pablo,” Aguilar said. It was the beer talking—beer and adrenaline, from knowing he was sitting here at the Don’s finca, negotiating a business deal with Escobar himself. He wasn’t even sure what he was volunteering for, but he had an idea it was more of the same sort of thing. “You have only to tell us what’s required.”

  “Very well,” Escobar said. He held out a hand, and Aguilar shook it. Then, almost as an afterthought, Escobar reached out to Montoya. Montoya pumped his hand like he was trying to draw water from a well. “We have a deal, then.”

  “We have a deal,” Aguilar repeated.

  “Here’s the thing,” Escobar said. “This bastard Carlos Rodrigo is a pain in my ass. He’s from Cartagena. It’s an easy trip to Jamaica or Panama from there, even Cuba, so he’s using boats to carry his product. I don’t have a problem with that; there’s so much demand in the U.S. that we can all make some money. But he’s moving so much that he’s having a hard time with supply, and he’s trying to cut into my supply chains. I can’t allow that.”

  “Of course not,” Montoya said.

  “You guys helped take Costa off the board, and eliminated some of Rodrigo’s men. I appreciate that. But Rodrigo is still out there. I’m not even sure now if he’s still in Medellín or in Cartagena. I need him found, and I need his head on a post somewhere, as an example to anyone else.”

  He was soliciting murder. If he’d been almost anyone else in Colombia, he could have been arrested for that alone. But Aguilar knew that not only would Escobar never make it to trial, but if he tried to arrest him, he would never leave this hillside retreat. He’d be buried up here somewhere—or else his head would decorate a post in Medellín, maybe alongside Rodrigo’s.

  Anyway, he’d already killed for Escobar. No sense in pretending he was innocent. He would carry the guilt of what he had done for the rest of his days, and pray for forgiveness at the end of them.

  12

  AGUILAR AND MONTOYA had left Hacienda Nápoles with a hundred thousand pesos each. Aguilar felt rich, but soon learned that he would have to share the wealth to get the information he wanted. A contact working for the telephone company could provide phone numbers for Carlos Rodrigo Muñoz. Another could tap Rodrigo’s lines. But both cost money. With those arrangements made, he and Montoya visited every luxury hotel in and around Medellín, asking if
Rodrigo had been or was currently a guest there. Through a friend of a friend, Montoya acquired Rodrigo’s addresses in Cartagena. There were six of them, but nobody knew for sure if that was all—those were just the homes that he owned legally.

  He wasn’t as rich as Pablo Escobar—few people were, in Colombia or anywhere else. But he had the resources necessary to disguise his whereabouts.

  As he spread money around in return for information, Aguilar realized that he was replicating, in miniature, the economy of so much of his country. The drug lords sucked vast fortunes from markets elsewhere, mostly the United States. They spent some of their profits on their employees—servants, sicarios, sources, government officeholders and judges and police officers and lawyers—and more buying goods—aircraft and boats and cars, guns and bullets, homes, furniture, artwork, LaserDiscs, clothing. Still more went to entertain themselves, to the nightclubs and restaurants they frequented, the musicians and florists and decorators and caterers for the lavish parties he’d heard about. All those people made money indirectly from the cocaine trade, and they spent it on their own goods, on their groceries and cars and electricity and schooling. Drug money permeated society, from top to bottom. He wondered if there was a single peso in Colombia that didn’t have cocaine residue on it, at least metaphorically.

  They took a few days off and drove to Cartagena in a rented Corvette convertible. Aguilar had never been there, and what intelligence they’d been able to gather indicated that Rodrigo was in one of his houses in town. Montoya drove fast, where the roads allowed, and they reached the city late in the afternoon.

  Hot and hungry, they grabbed some paletas and walked the weathered stone walls around the Old City, on fortifications put in place to defend against pirates, among other dangers. The sun set while they were looking out toward the Caribbean, so after they descended from the walls, they found an outdoor café and ordered dinner and drinks. Their fellow diners were mostly tourists and young couples making eyes at each other. At one point, Montoya reached over and gently stroked Aguilar’s hand, then started giggling uncontrollably.