It was this control, and the wholesale volume of trade that it generated, which brought Benson under the close scrutiny of the Colombian cartel. When it was noticed by the Colombians that disruptions to their Australian traffic were becoming of increasingly longer duration, they decided to send an agent to represent their interests. Unbeknown to them these disruptions were caused solely by Benson’s complacency, if not his lethargy, because of his easy access to Heroin.
The cartel’s choice of candidate to supervise their Australian interests was imposed upon them by the police forces of their three major cities. The law missed him by only a day as he fled to Sydney. Not knowing his destination, the Colombian police could only forward a vague description of the man to Interpol, but they did have a DNA print-out which they also passed on.
Chapter
19
Carlos Manuel Salazar grew up on the outskirts of Medellin in mid north-west Colombia. His parents, Magdalena Ortiz and father Rodrigo, began a friendship as teenaged children. They had met when their families were forced to live and scavenge for survival in one of a number of refuse dumps in the Colombian capital of Bogotá.
At fourteen Magdalena was raped by one of the dumpster truck drivers. When her pregnancy was confirmed her Roman Catholic parents put pressure on her to seduce her slow-witted friend, Rodrigo. If not, she would be cast out of the plywood and cardboard family home in shame to fend for herself.
Magdalena’s sharp little mind had no trouble in planting carnal thoughts in Rodrigo’s and his spark of desire became flames of lust. After their first violent coupling Rodrigo strutted like a barnyard cock, celebrating his false conquest.
They were married after the usual harangue which precedes such a wedding, but in an antechamber and not at the altar. And Magdalena was forbidden by the priest to wear white. They lived, first with her family and alternately with his. But the bickering and the arguing which took place over the division of spoils from the dump, in both abodes, became more than they could bear. After the birth of their son whom they named Carlos Manuel in honour of their fathers, as was the custom, they slipped out one night. With their meagre possessions they hitched a ride to Medellin, a city second in size only to the capital.
In Medellin Magdalena and Rodrigo sought work in the only industry they knew, refuse recycling. Soon they were living in the Medellin dump in a lean-to Rodrigo fashioned from his scrounging.
From his fifth birthday onwards, when young Carlos realised recycling was not a game and he was expected to spend all of his daylight hours poring through the filth, he hated the family toil with a passion. By the time he was ten years old he no longer worked at the dump. He had become an expert thief and his parents had lost control of him completely. He lived a comfortable life on the streets of Medellin, stealing from tourist and citizen without favour. All he had to do was to be ever vigilant and avoid the police death squads.
An incident took place on Carlos’ fifteenth birthday which was to change his life and ultimately decide his fate. Two men on a motorcycle almost ran him down in the street as they were pursued by two police cars. As the bike swerved to miss him, no doubt more for the riders’ own safety than for his, the pillion rider hurled an object into a privet hedge. It remained lodged there. Carlos made a mental note of its bearings and ran the short distance to the corner around which the three vehicles had disappeared. He was in time to see the pillion rider fall from the bike after a volley of shots from the pursuing police.
One car stopped alongside the body which had not moved since rolling into the gutter. The other car, after slowing, took off again in pursuit of the bike. The rider lay the bike over and accelerated around the corner in what seemed to Carlos was going to be another circuit of the same block.
There was something thrilling about the whole chase. He ran back to the spot where he was almost run down and there was the motorcyclist bearing down on him again. The police were not yet in sight. The rider lay the bike over again to take the corner but his footrest hit the ground and he broadsided across the road and through the bushes lining the edge. The motor stalled and the scene was transformed from chaos to funereal quiet. Dust hung in the air.
The police car arrived at the intersection and Carlos could see three officers in the car all pointing on different bearings. He ran to the vehicle, “That way sir!” he said, pointing in a further direction and the car disappeared up the road.
The bike had penetrated twenty metres into the bush and flipped onto its other side, pinning the rider by the leg. He was trying to rise but he didn’t have the purchase to lift the bike off himself, “It’s alright, I sent them away,” Carlos said, wresting the bike to a standing position.
The rider’s eyes were suspicious; it was all of his face Carlos could see. “Why?” he asked.
“They are your enemies, they are my enemies. So...?” he said with a shrug.
“Gracias.”
The rider removed his helmet, Carlos was surprised to find he was hardly much older than himself, “What did you do?” he asked.
“We killed an enemy.”
“I think your friend is dead.”
“Si. Ramon is dead,” he said without emotion, “even if he is alive, they will kill him. I must hurry, they will be back.”
“May I come with you?”
“Si, on the pillion,” he smiled, “it is the death seat,” he kicked the bike into life, “come.”
“Wait!” Carlos ran to the privet hedge. Now that he knew what the missile was, he knew what to look for; he searched until his hand made contact. He withdrew the pistol from its resting place and ran to the bike. Luis Botera smiled for the second time since meeting this youngster.
They travelled for an hour at a fast rate. Ever upwards, from the Porce River Valley into the high regions of the Cordillera Central mountains until they came to a security gate in a high, electrified fence. The rider raised an arm, the guard waved back, he raised a boom barrier. They continued along a bitumen road and down into a valley to a sprawling homestead.
“Luis! Where is Ramon? Who is this?”
“I’m sorry, Miguel, my friend. Your brother is dead!” Luis placed his arm around Miguel’s shoulders. “I, too, would not be here if it was not for this person.”
“He is very young to be responsible for such a thing.”
“His head is old,” Luis said, “is Pablo here?”
“No, but he left instructions. It is to take place on the way home from the next performance of the National Dance Company at the Orpheum theatre. The bodyguards’ car will break down on the return trip. You are to kill them all, the chauffeur, the minister and his wife,” Miguel passed on the orders.
“How am I to do this? I cannot handle the motorcycle and the gun together now that Ramon is no longer with us. When is this outing to the theatre to take place?”
“Tomorrow evening. Pablo will not be amused if it passes uneventfully.”
“I will ride pillion and I will use the pistol!” The words had the effect of a fusillade of shots. The startled conspirators had forgotten the boy and they wheeled to face him. Miguel was about to ridicule the offer but the words caught in his throat when he saw the cold expression in the youngster’s eyes. He had seen that glint many times for he had known many killers.
“Have you ever killed?” He asked.
“No.”
“It takes courage.”
“I understand.”
“It is not a childish game.”
“I understand.”
The motorcycle followed in the dust laden wake of the minders’ car. It travelled without lights and trailed just beyond the range of any chromium reflected rays. Carlos’ emotions were that of a young male on the brink of his first sexual encounter. A mixed feeling he was dreaming; that he could not be so lucky; that his hand would falter; that he would love these victims forever. Please God don’t l
et me climax prematurely.
All too soon the minders’ car pulled to the side of the road. It was time. The motorcycle slowly overhauled the minister’s car. Around a bend and on the next stretch of straight road the chauffeur had noticed the absence of following headlights and slowed the car.
The motorcycle drew level. Carlos shot the minister in the neck; the next few moments were chaotic as the chauffeur accelerated and swerved to hit the bike. Luis was a veteran of many assassinations such as this and all drivers acted in a similar way except this one was reaching for a weapon. Carlos fired again and caught the driver under the ear behind the jaw. The car fishtailed along the road with the driver unconscious. It hit a tree and stopped. Steam erupted from the radiator and the rear wheels spun in the loose soil.
The boy leapt from the pillion, he reached into the car and switched off the ignition. All that could be heard was a terrible bubbling noise as the minister breathed in and out through the hole in his neck. Carlos could see the man’s wife, covered in a spray of blood, trying to prevent her husband from sitting up. Carlos saw the terror in her eyes as he levelled the pistol at the chauffeur’s head and fired. The terror magnified as the pistol was turned on her husband. It jerked and the bubbling ceased. Slowly, so slowly, as though savouring the moment, he turned to the woman. She mouthed, “No. Don’t do this. Please don’t!” The bullet dislodged her eyeball as it tore into her brain.
The young gunman’s legs gave way and Luis thought he had fainted, who could blame him thought Luis, what an ordeal for one so young. He came closer and was chilled and repelled by what he saw.
Carlos was in the throes of orgasm.
He stood in the homestead’s large living-room. The room also served as office and operational headquarters – the nerve centre for Pablo Figuera’s cocaine enterprise. From here Figuera could watch his airstrip and the skies around Medellin on radar. Against a wall behind a large desk was a bank of television receivers. The monitors displayed a different stretch of sealed road on each screen. Carlos guessed these were important access roads to the establishment.
Seated on separate sofas were Luis and Miguel and they were closely watching Carlos as Figuera walked circles around him, talking and asking questions from time to time. The seated pair had watched this procedure many times before. Some passed, those who failed were buried somewhere on the undulating expanse of the estate.
Carlos’ fate was in his own hands, he was safe as long as his answers satisfied. He did start the interview as a preferred candidate after Figuera heard of his involvement in the assassination of the minister and his wife. If he failed the interview it would be the job of Miguel and Luis to eliminate him and, although Carlos had saved his life, Luis would not have been troubled by killing him.
There was something quite unnerving about the youngster and Miguel had picked up on it, too. “He’ll give trouble, Amigo,” was his comment to any who would listen.
An hour after the interrogation began Carlos became the violent member of a motorcycle murder team.
Five years later Carlos became the cartel’s trouble-shooter and personal aide to Pablo Figuera. It was then the serial, sex murders began. Since the murder of the minister’s wife Carlos could not achieve sexual gratification without some form of violence. Mild at first but across the years it degenerated into the ultimate savagery – snuff – death at the moment of orgasm. He selected young prostitutes whose only crime was being poor. By their dreams of a better life for themselves and their families, they fell prey to this monster. When the strident demands for his capture began to echo through his current dominion of terror, he would move his field of operation to one of the other major cities. And the horror would begin anew. One evening he persuaded a teenaged girl to ride with him in his limousine and next morning her mutilated body was found near the outskirts of the Figuera estate. The victim’s death was similar to that of a number of prostitutes spread throughout the cities of Cali, Medellin and Bogotá. The girl was no prostitute; she was the youngest daughter of an influential businessman. The newspapers began a campaign for an end to the butchery.
Because of the young girl’s wounds the authorities guessed it was the work of the serial killer who had long confounded them. DNA analysis proved them right. All of the known Medellin prostitutes were rounded up and threatened with, if not death, eternal harassment until one volunteered she saw the girl and described the car.
Pablo Figuera read the newspaper reports and the animal cunning which had kept him alive and on top of his dubious trade served him well.
He knew of the barbaric propensity of his lieutenant and the description of the limousine was detailed. He had to be rid of the car – and of Carlos Manuel Salazar.
The vehicle was buried on the estate and Figuera was tempted to include Carlos in the interment but he was a valuable commodity. A posting overseas should be sufficient until the heat dissipated and he could then return. Also, he would be a very dangerous enemy should any assassination attempt upon him go wrong.
Sydney, Australia, was chosen for a dual purpose. It was the easiest to set up and Carlos could investigate the delays in demand of the drug cartel’s product at the same time. These delays had become longer in their duration and more frequent. A scan of émigrés archives at the capital’s City Hall turned up one Alfredo Mendez and his wife Alicia then living in Glenmore Road in Paddington. A passport was crafted in Mendez’ name with Salazar’s image in the corner. The plan was simple, Mendez returned to Colombia on his legitimate passport to a well-paid job on the Figuera estate. His wife and children remained in Australia and were looked after in luxury or they and their families in Cali would all be killed – a simple plan.
Chapter
20
Raymond ‘Ned’ Kelly and his defacto were the poor souls who cooled Benson’s desire for the sadistic revenge he needed to appease his anger. It was an anger he always felt whenever a significant discrepancy in the monthly book-keeping figures became evident.
Ned, for a long time, had been hot on the scent of a very talented young lady singer who performed on the pub circuit. He squired her around the town and entertained her in all the hot spots of Sydney’s diamond belt. Their photos regularly appeared in the society pages of the weekly newspapers. Now and then an article about the loving couple would appear in the glossies. All this publicity brought Ned’s love life to the attention of Phil Benson. It also brought Ned’s book-keeping under careful scrutiny.
At the same time because of a temporary lack of cash brought about by the wooing of his fair maiden and his impatient desire to shack up with her, Ned gave himself a loan. Fifty thousand dollars from Benson’s cash. He needed it to finance his affair, and to put a down payment on a penthouse suite atop the Castle Gardens overlooking beautiful Elizabeth Bay. A stone’s throw from King’s Cross.
Benson literally wanted blood. He and his dark shadow, the Colombian Carlos Salazar, arrived unannounced one evening at the door of Ned’s love nest. The suite covered the whole of the top floor of the building.
“Hullo, Mister Benson, come in,” an ashen faced Ned opened the door.
“Hello, Ned. Do you know Carlos?”
“I’ve seen him, Mister Benson, how do you do, Carlos?” The Colombian ignored the proffered hand. Instead his eyes devoured the pretty young girl who entered the room. She blushed and then blanched when she saw the frightened look on the face of her lover.
“Do you know why we’re here, Ned?”
“I think so, Mister Benson.”
“Tell me!”
“I was going to put the money in from next month’s commission, honest I was.”
“It doesn’t work that way Ned. You’re going to pay now and next month.” Benson told him. Next month. Thank Christ thought Ned, it’s only going to be a thumping.
“Let Marilyn leave, please Mister Benson, I wouldn’t like her to become involved in our business. P
lease?” Ned was facing up manfully to his expected punishment.
Benson was about to agree to Kelly’s request when Salazar shook his head and pushed the girl into a deep lounge chair. “Watch her,” he said, “she knows what he knows, she stays,” and from a small carry-on bag he brought with him he produced some short ropes. He proceeded to tie Kelly in a standing position to the balustrade which protected the raised dining and kitchen area of the split level apartment.
“Please, Mister Benson, don’t hurt Marilyn, she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know anything about us.” Kelly’s pleas were cut short when the Colombian jammed the contents of a Kleenex box in his mouth. He tied the gag in place with a rope through the struggling man’s mouth and around a vertical bar of the wrought iron balustrade.
“He lied about next month,” Salazar whispered.
Kelly’s and the girl’s eyes met. His were filled with fear and sorrow for her. He now knew they were both going to die. Her eyes blazed back with anger for the one who had caused this to happen to her. Unaware of her ultimate fate the fear had not yet become dominant. Benson looked down at the girl and there was a trace of sadness in his eyes. Although he had earlier considered allowing her to leave the apartment he knew it would be folly to let her live.
The Colombian turned his attention to the girl. “Get up!” He ordered. She stood on trembling legs. “Take off your clothes.” Before this nightmare started Marilyn had just finished her day. She had bathed and dressed for bed and when the doorbell had sounded she put on her dressing gown.
“Take off your clothes.” Again he ordered.
“NO!”
“Take off your clothes.” He reached into his pocket and produced a knife, he held the point at the girl’s cheek.
“N-no.” Salazar caused pain and drew blood. The girl let her gown slip from her shoulders to the floor.
The Cooktown Grave Page 9