Narcos

by Jeff Mariotte

  Amparo considered his request as she pulled on her blouse and tucked it into her skirt. She shuffled her feet into the sandals, lifting each foot one at a time to buckle them. When she was fully dressed, she said, “All right. To tell you the truth, he’s not much of a lover.”

  “Guys like him don’t need to be,” Montoya said. “You should try a man like me sometime.”

  She gave him a flirtatious smile. “Maybe I will.” She started for the door, then stopped beside Aguilar. Putting a hand on his chest, she said, “Or maybe this one. I like the quiet type. And I’ve never had a spotted one.”

  Aguilar felt himself blushing—at least, in the places where he could blush. Self-consciousness about that just made it worse. She tried to make eye contact, but he looked away. “You’re shy,” Amparo said. “That’s sweet. A shy killer.”

  “He’s married,” Montoya said.

  “So is Carlos Rodrigo.”

  “But for my friend here, promises matter. For me, too.”

  He gave her their phone number at the Hilton. “As soon as he calls you, call us. We’ll have the money with us when we come, and you’ll be considerably wealthier than you were before.”

  “Is that a promise?” she asked.

  “You’d better open that bank account,” Montoya said. “So you have someplace safe to put it all.”

  * * *

  Back at the Hilton, Aguilar called Luisa and tried to pretend he wasn’t taking part in a murder plot. Montoya called Gustavo Gaviria and explained the need for the cash, and Gaviria promised to have it delivered.

  The next day, they kept an eye on Rodrigo’s building in case a better opportunity presented itself. He only came out once, for what appeared to be a business lunch in the back room of an expensive restaurant. His sicarios were present, as were those of the men he met with. Montoya and Aguilar agreed that their chances of success were slim, so they didn’t try an attack.

  That evening, Poison and Shorty brought a suitcase full of cash to the hotel. “Nice place,” Poison said, looking out the window at the beach below. “Does El Patrón know where you’re staying?”

  “We’re paying for it ourselves,” Montoya said. “We’re covering all the expenses.”

  “Except one.” Poison kicked the suitcase.

  “That’s a special one. Unavoidable.”

  “I’m sure it’s worth it to him. He didn’t complain about the money.”

  “We’re just doing what he told us he wanted,” Montoya said. “The cheapest way we can.”

  “When’s it going down?”

  “Tomorrow,” Montoya said. “We’ll head back to Medellín right after.” As if suddenly realizing why Poison was asking, he added, “We don’t need any help.”

  “I wasn’t offering. Unless you wanted some. But I thought maybe we’d get a room for the night, sample some of Cartagena’s flavor. As long as we’re here, I mean.”

  “Help yourselves,” Aguilar said. “Like Alberto said, we’re cool.” He needed to back up his partner, and he still wasn’t over Amparo calling him the quiet type. Maybe he was, but around Montoya, who talked constantly, it was hard to be anything else. He wondered if he would be like Montoya someday, unafraid to say anything to anyone.

  “If you’re sure,” Shorty said. He weighed almost as much as any three of Escobar’s other sicarios. He didn’t seem like an athletic type, but he must have had some special skills or Escobar wouldn’t have kept him on the payroll.

  “We’re sure.”

  “Have a good night, then,” Poison said. He opened the door and waited for Shorty to exit, then added, “Spend that money wisely. El Patrón doesn’t like waste.”

  After the door was closed and the sicarios’ footsteps had receded, Montoya caught Aguilar’s eye. “Unless he’s the one wasting it. Giant dinosaurs? Sometimes I wonder if Don Pablo is truly sane.”

  14

  AMPARO CALLED AT twelve-thirty and told Montoya the date was at three that afternoon. Same hotel, same room; she’d just checked in. Montoya told her that if Rodrigo called back, she should act like she always did. They had the money, he said, and would be there soon.

  They checked out of the Hilton and threw the suitcase of cash into the Corvette’s trunk, along with their own suitcases and the duffel bag of weapons they’d brought with them from Medellín. By two o’clock, they were carrying the cash and guns up the stairs to the second floor and knocking on 210.

  Amparo opened the door right away and beckoned them inside. “Did anybody see you?” she asked.

  “Just the desk clerk, I think,” Aguilar said. “No problems.”

  “I just don’t know who’s on Carlos’s payroll,” she said.

  “Not the bellman,” Montoya replied. “He sold Rodrigo out for next to nothing.”

  “I’ve found that it’s usually cheaper to buy men than women,” Amparo said.

  Montoya chuckled. “I’ve often thought that.”

  “Did he really?” Aguilar asked. Something about this plan had been bothering him, but he hadn’t been able to figure out what it was until just now.

  “What do you mean? Did who really what?”

  “When we asked the bellman what room Rodrigo had been in, he knew right away. He didn’t mind telling us—but Rodrigo was already gone. If we’d meant to harm him, we’d have done it before he drove away. He wasn’t putting Rodrigo in any danger by telling us then, only Amparo. He might have thought she was a prostitute, and we were her next clients.”

  “We meet here all the time!” Amparo objected. “At least once a month. He knows I’m not…”

  She let the sentence trail off. Montoya—his tone cruel, Aguilar thought—said, “Call yourself what you will, but we all know why you’re here. Why you see him.”

  “My point is, Rodrigo might be warned before he comes up,” Aguilar continued. “Do we even know who owns this hotel? What if it’s him?”

  “Well, we’re not going to find out in the next hour,” Montoya said. “Anyway, I didn’t even see that bellman down there. Just the desk clerk, and he didn’t see us the first time.”

  “That we know of. He might have seen us on our way out. Also, Rodrigo came out by himself—he must feel safe here.”

  “Do his men come to the room with him when he arrives?” Montoya asked Amparo.

  “They don’t come inside. They stop at the door. When I open it, then they go. They know I wouldn’t hurt him.”

  “I guess they don’t know you that well.”

  “How could they? I’ve never spoken three words to them. I act like Carlos is all I can see.”

  “I’m sure he likes that,” Aguilar said.

  “Who wouldn’t?” Montoya added. “Anyway, the plan is set. We’ll wait in the bathroom when he arrives. Once his men are gone and you two are alone, we’ll come out. It would be good for you to be well away from him at that point.”

  “Should I leave the room?”

  “I wouldn’t, if I were you.” Montoya unzipped the suitcase and showed her the cash. “When you leave, you won’t want to come back. And you’ll want to take this with you.”

  Aguilar briefly scanned the room. A big brass bed stood against one wall, perpendicular to the door. Across from it were a table holding a vase of fresh flowers, and a cabinet that doubled as closet and TV enclosure. To the left of the bed, a wall separated the room from the bathroom.

  He pointed to the corner at the head of the bed, nearest the bathroom. “This is the best place for you to be,” he said. “You’ll be safe there.” He didn’t add “out of the line of fire,” but he was sure she understood.

  “Can you get there?” Montoya asked. “Make up some excuse.”

  “He likes me to be nude when he arrives,” she said. “And ready for him. Once he’s inside, he wants to get right to it.”

  “Break away from him. Say you need to pee, and head for the bathroom. Then turn, as if you’ve forgotten something, and duck down in that corner. We’ll take care of the rest.”

/>   She took in their instructions. Aguilar saw her hands trembling, and a quiver in her lower lip. Now that it was getting real, she was afraid.

  He didn’t blame her. He was, too. Only Montoya seemed to be looking forward to it. When Amparo nodded her agreement, he unzipped the other bag and started checking to see that the guns were loaded and spare magazines were ready to go.

  At ten minutes to three, he handed Aguilar a shotgun and an automatic pistol. He took out a pistol and an AK-47 for himself, zipped the bag, and shoved it under the bed. “You have your knife, right?” he asked.

  Aguilar tapped his left leg. “Of course.”

  “Good.”

  “Time?” Aguilar asked.

  “Yeah.” To Amparo, he asked, “You okay?”

  “No,” she said. “I’m a wreck.”

  “Hold it together. Security for you and your mother is only a few minutes away.”

  “I know. I’ll be fine.”

  As she began to undress, Montoya and Aguilar went into the bathroom. Lights off, door slightly ajar, they waited. Aguilar could smell Montoya’s sweat, and his own, could hear the ticking of the clock on a little table beside the bed, traffic sounds outside, and the birds in the courtyard.

  Then he heard footsteps on the stairs. Several men, it sounded like. Heavy, unconcerned that anyone might hear.

  He breathed out, as quietly as he could. This would be over soon.

  Knuckles rapped on the door.

  Barefoot, Amparo crossed to it. It swung open, hinges squeaking.

  “Mmm, baby,” Rodrigo said. “You look good.”

  “You look delicious,” Amparo replied. There was a moment of rustling, probably her pressing against him, kissing him. Then: “I just have to pee, love. I’ll be right back.”

  Aguilar tensed. It was time. Montoya stood at the door, waiting to hear Amparo move away. Then she said, “Oh, there it is,” and touched the wall nearest the bathroom.

  Montoya yanked the door open and rounded the corner, AK in his hands, already squeezing the trigger.

  Three men fired back.

  Montoya took a round in his left arm and fell back against the wall, still firing. Aguilar unleashed a blast from the shotgun and one of the men exploded into a gruesome red rain. The other two turned their weapons toward him, but Montoya’s AK-47 raked across them and their shots went wild. Aguilar pumped another shell into the chamber, fired again, then again.

  The third man hadn’t made it all the way into the room when rounds from Montoya’s gun stopped him; when Aguilar’s shot slammed into him, he staggered back against the railing, then went over, landing with a splash in the fountain below.

  The room door stood open. When Aguilar went to close it, a bullet crashed through the big window beside him. He looked out and saw the bellman standing in the courtyard, firing up at them with what looked, from here, like a .22. Aguilar yanked the automatic from his pants and fired five times. At least two of his rounds hit the bellman—center mass; Aguilar’s range instructor would have been proud—and he sat heavily against a tree.

  “We have to get out of here,” Aguilar said. “Now!”

  “Give me your knife!” Montoya demanded.

  “What?”

  “The knife! Hurry!”

  He was holding up the head of one of the dead men, and Aguilar could see by the white suit and blond hair that it was Rodrigo. Then he understood: Montoya wanted the head.

  Reluctantly, Aguilar handed over the knife. “Be quick, though.”

  Montoya started sawing with it, blood and stringy flesh splashing around his hand. His own blood ran down his arm, mixing with Rodrigo’s. Aguilar turned to Amparo so he wouldn’t have to watch. She was already getting dressed. “You said his men wouldn’t come inside.”

  “Someone must have tipped them off. The bellman, maybe.”

  “Then Rodrigo wouldn’t have come in.”

  Montoya stopped what he was doing, rose to his feet, drew his pistol and shot Amparo twice in the face, spraying the wall behind her with gore. She sank to the floor, leaving a trail behind her.

  “What the fuck, man? She didn’t rat us out! If she did, you think Rodrigo would’ve come up? He would have sent an army!”

  Montoya returned to his task. “She lied to us. She wanted Rodrigo and the money. She knew his sicarios would come in with him.”

  “She probably thought you were going to kill her.”

  “Well, she was right about one thing, then.”

  “What happens to it, now? The money?”

  “Do you have her mother’s address?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then I guess it’s ours.”

  “We can’t just keep—”

  “Worry about it later!” Montoya interrupted. “I’m really hurting here. Can you finish this?”

  Aguilar risked a quick glimpse of the grisly sight. Everything he’d eaten for breakfast and lunch threatened to return. “No way.”

  “Fuck,” Montoya said. He pressed harder with the knife and finally the last bit of tendon snapped. He held the head up. Drops of blood pattered to the floor like light rain. “Where can I put this?”

  Aguilar scanned the room, saw Amparo’s purse. It was big, leather or fake leather, with fringe hanging from the bottom seam. He grabbed it, dumped its contents, and held it open as wide as he could. He still got blood on his hands when Montoya shoved it in.

  “Let’s get out of here, man,” Montoya said. “Grab the money and the guns.”

  Aguilar zipped the money case closed and tugged the duffel bag out from under the bed. It still had a couple of guns in it. He started to put the shotgun back in, but Montoya said, “Better hang onto that until we’re out of here.”

  Hearing distant sirens, Aguilar agreed.

  The money case was heavy, but it had wheels and a handle, so he slung the duffel over his shoulder and rolled the suitcase. It made carrying the shotgun awkward. Montoya only had Amparo’s purse, which was already discoloring at the bottom.

  Montoya in the lead, they descended the stairs. Onlookers had gathered on the walkways, looking down at the bodies in the courtyard and the armed men, but nobody tried to stop them.

  In the lobby, the desk clerk studiously avoided so much as glancing at them. “Doctor!” Montoya shouted. “Where?”

  The clerk waved an arm. “Three blocks, on the left,” he said. “Please go.”

  They went.

  15

  AFTER SOME SPIRITED discussion on the way back to Medellín, Aguilar and Montoya agreed that returning Escobar’s money would be safer than letting him think they’d stolen from him. Escobar had strict rules against internal theft, and nobody ever made that mistake twice.

  They delivered the suitcase of cash to him late that night at Hacienda Nápoles, along with some Polaroid pictures of Rodrigo’s head impaled on the spike of an iron fence outside the Casa de Justicia Robledo. Escobar flipped through the photographs, his expression serious, even stern.

  “You did this? You two?”

  “Yes, Patrón,” Montoya said.

  “By yourselves?”

  “We thought that’s what you wanted,” Aguilar said nervously. “You said—”

  Escobar burst out laughing. When he was able to compose himself, he added, “Excellent work! I was right to trust you.”

  “You like it?” Montoya asked.

  “I love it.”

  “We thought about putting up a sign. ‘Don’t mess with Medellín,’ or something like that,” Aguilar said. “But we decided that anyone who knows who Rodrigo is will understand the message without that.”

  “True, true,” Escobar said. “There’s no sign needed. By tomorrow this will be in every newspaper in Colombia. The shootout in Cartagena, and then this. Everyone will know what it means.” His smile faded as he handed back the pictures. “Do you know why I wanted you men to do this thing?”

  “We thought it was a test,” Montoya said. “To see how well we’d do.”

&
nbsp; “A test, yes, of course it was that. Also, to see if you would steal from me.”

  “Never!” Aguilar said.

  “Yes, the money has already been counted. You clearly passed those tests. But more than that, I wanted you to see how hard it is to operate on your own. You did well.” He touched Montoya’s left arm, below the bandage. “But you were hurt. Just a flesh wound, yes?”

  “Grazed me,” Montoya said. “I needed a few stitches, that’s all. And something for the pain. Jose had to drive home.”

  “Two men can kill someone, no problem,” Escobar said. “But sometimes more is better. You were able to catch him with just a few of his men around, because he was careless. If he’d been smarter, you might have needed more. Five, ten, or more, like the night you went after Costa.”

  “I think he felt safe in Cartagena,” Aguilar said.

  “And I feel safe at Hacienda Nápoles. But that’s because I have thirty or forty men here most of the time. If we need to, we can hold off an army.” He nodded at his own sagacity, looking around as if to see his defenses. Aguilar could see three or four guys, playing cards by the pool, but nobody looked like they were on high alert.

  “Strength in numbers,” Escobar went on. “I wanted you two to understand how important it is to be part of an organization. Not like your police force, but a real organization that’s dedicated to a cause.” He chuckled. “In this case, the cause is Colombia itself. Everything I do—everything we do—is for Colombia. I will be president of Colombia one day—no more of these politicians who are only out for themselves and their wealthy friends. It’s time for the people to take back the power that’s rightfully ours. So that, my friends, is what we’re doing here. What you’re a part of. There has been no greater cause, no worthier crusade, in history.”

  Aguilar felt a flush of pride at being involved in Escobar’s undertaking. He had seen the man only as a gangster, a drug trafficker, but he was obviously so much more than that. And his ambitions were greater than Aguilar had known. So far, Escobar seemed to have succeeded at everything he had ever tried to do. He’d risen from a simple upbringing to be one of Colombia’s richest men—one of the richest in all of South America. He’d built a huge organization from nothing. If he thought he could be president, Aguilar saw no reason to doubt him.