Angels of Maradona

by Glen Carter

  “Welcome aboard,” Jack said. “There’s no whore like an old whore.”

  “Spoken like a real capitalist pig.”

  “I prefer pig-dog if you don’t mind”

  “As you wish. Capitalist pig-dog, with bourgeoisie thrown in.”

  “That’s better. Anyway, we all have our crosses to bear,” Jack replied. “Some heavier than others.”

  They looked at each other, the kind of look between tired soldiers. Faces full of affection.

  “So, what can I do for you, my American friend?”

  It was time, Jack thought. Raspov wouldn’t be kept waiting. But first. “Your charm and your hospitality,” he said and then showed him his empty glass. “And another one of these.”

  “Right this way,” Dmitri said, rising from his seat. “I have a feeling we have business to talk about, and as you can see, I’m quivering with anticipation.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Jack said, as he hoisted himself from his chair.

  FORTY-FIVE

  They made their way back to the kitchen where Raspov pulled the vodka bottle from a stainless steel freezer. Raspov studied Jack while he poured, then handed him his glass. “How do you like the house?”

  “The revolution is treating you well.”

  Raspov grinned. “The revolution was doomed the day Fidel rolled into Havana. Gorbachev the Traitor stayed here once. You’ll be sleeping in his bed tonight.”

  Jack tested the drink. “Gorbi is long gone, Dmitri. So why the electrified fence and armed guards? Probably find motion and sound detectors around the perimeter fences too.”

  “The state has many enemies, Jack.”

  “The state? Or you?”

  Raspov didn’t answer.

  Jack realized his mistake. He’d pushed too far. He placed his drink on the counter and was in the process of reconsidering his reason for coming when Raspov opened his mouth to speak. “It’s good to see you, Jack. But I know you’re not here for the free vodka and my sparkling conversation.”

  Jack seemed to be studying his glass. A lazy finger drew something meaningless in the condensation. “What if …” He stopped. Set it up, Jack. From the beginning.

  “They never found her body,” Jack said, nearly too quietly to hear. “I mean there were bits and pieces of bodies but some of the victims were never found. A goddamn nightmare for the identification people and next of kin.” Next of kin, he thought. Kaitlin’s father, Argus. That was another story. Jack pressed on. “We were seated outside in the back behind this wall. Some kind of courtyard. Then she left for a minute. Went inside to use the restroom. They said everyone in that part of the building was vaporized because it was so close to the epicenter of the blast.”

  Dmitri clucked his tongue.

  Jack continued, “Got a bang on my head. A bad concussion, lacerations and bruises, that kind of thing. I got lucky,” he added. “No one could be sure of anything except the number of dead. Even that hasn’t been locked down yet.” Jack sucked in air. “The network flew me to Miami when I could be moved. But I went back about a week later…had to. I cornered the Colombians. The FBI was gone by then, and the Colombians…they claimed there was nothing I could do. They basically told me to get lost, not to come back.”

  Bitterness morphed onto Jack’s face. “The justice minister was the target. Amillo, his wife and daughter too. The next day they found the bomber’s wife and kids. All executed in a burned-out farmhouse.” Jack pinched the bridge of his nose. Paused a moment. “The network told me to take as long as I needed so I went back a second time and harassed anyone I could. A couple days later they escorted me to the airport and told me to fuck off. I demanded the embassy intervene and they basically slammed the door in my face.” Jack sipped quietly. “One of the staffers told me I was treading on dangerous ground.”

  Raspov nodded. “The assassination of their justice minister was a victory for the bad guys, Jack. They didn’t need you reminding them of that. The extradition treaty, remember? Amillo was on it – a friend of the Denton administration who was about to open the door to the long arm of American justice. Even with all their Blackhawk helicopters and fancy weapons they couldn’t protect Amillo. The cartels are sending a message: no one’s safe, especially if you’re a friend of Uncle Sam. After a while your friends are no longer your friends. Everyone’s nervous, especially the cartels.”

  Jack knew Dmitri was right.

  “The last thing they need is an American news network poking around.” Raspov paused. “Talking about the misspent billions and the sham of a war on coca.”

  It made sense to Jack, but most of what Dmitri was saying had nothing to do with the reason he was here, which was the mind-blowing resurrection of Kaitlin O’Rourke. “There’s this thing that’s driving me nuts,” Jack said. “Something I still can’t figure out.”

  Raspov half listened while Jack spoke. How blind he was to the truth. Kaitlin O’Rourke was dead. Who knew you’d be there that night? Raspov thought about the other one. She had what Raspov wanted. Once he found her, Raspov would take it, and anyone who stood in his way. Well…Raspov never finished the thought. Jack was still talking. Forget the O’Rourke woman, Jack. She’s not important. Never was. Tell me why you’re here, though I suspect I know already.

  Jack got up and wandered to the patio door. He caught the fragrance of something sweet and thought about his mother, her perfume, and strangely, how he felt that day standing in front of her coffin, with Kaitlin at his side trying to be brave. A fragile courage. Jack turned to Raspov. “Kaitlin wanted to tell me something that night, but couldn’t. I’m sure of it.”

  Raspov closed his eyes. How much was O’Rourke able to find out about her past before…? Thankfully, whatever it was died with her. “Unfortunately, Jack,” he said, “it does no good to wonder about such things. It’s too late now.”

  Somewhere a night creature called out, and Jack caught sight of a small form moving on the grass, a night lizard of some kind, glowing eyes. It scurried into the bushes and disappeared.

  Dmitri waved it off. “Keep your windows closed tonight,” he said. “They’re everywhere.”

  Jack laughed nervously. “Sure.” A moment passed before he spoke again, nearly a whisper. “Maybe not too late, Dmitri.”

  Dmitri knew immediately what Jack was going to say. He’s seen her. The other one. Raspov was sure of it. Also sure Doyle could bring her to him. The woman’s connection with O’Rourke and Doyle was mind-boggling. An astonishing coincidence. Also incredibly fortuitous. “Go on,” Raspov said, barely able to conceal his excitement. “What’s this about?”

  “I wish I knew,” Jack replied.

  FORTY-SIX

  Dmitri Raspov was the picture of incredulity. He managed a quick intake of breath followed by a well-timed pause, and then a slurp of vodka to cap his performance. “I will hear that again,” he finally said.

  Jack knew it sounded crazy but continued anyway. “I have video, Dmitri. And it was shot after the bombing.”

  Raspov feigned skepticism. “I’d say give me half an hour and I’ll show you video of Jack Doyle having lamb with Osama Bin Laden.”

  “OBL doesn’t eat meat.”

  Raspov didn’t bother asking Jack how he knew that.

  Jack sat again. “Shot less than a week ago.”

  “Where?”

  “Colombia.”

  “By who?”

  “Someone who knows her.” Jack reached into his back pocket and retrieved a folded piece of shiny photographic paper. Slowly he opened it. “I printed this from the video,” he said, placing the grainy print on the table in front of Raspov.

  Dmitri’s breath caught. It was Mendoza. Still in Colombia as of a week ago. It’s no wonder Jack believed this was the O’Rourke woman. They were identical. Dmitri had met Kaitlin only once, in Montreal after the death of a former Canadian prime minister who was greatly admired by Castro. Castro had summoned Raspov to accompany him to the funeral. Jack and Kaitlin wer
e covering the story. They had met for dinner later in some jazz club.

  Raspov stared at the photo for what seemed an eternity, muttered something in Russian, and then lifted his eyes to Jack. “As beautiful as I remember her,” he said.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  The next morning Jack was certain of what he had to do. He’d spent most of the night thinking about it. He just didn’t know if Raspov would agree to help. The two of them were taking breakfast in the shade of a palm tree, listening to the waves crash against a strip of sugary white sand that snaked its way east and west along the coast as far as Jack could see. In the daylight Jack saw the ruin that blackened Dmitri’s hacienda – grounds that stretched to the ocean were scarred by neglect. Weather-beaten palm trees were stooped and bare. A large swimming pool was cracked and empty, surrounded by filthy ceramic tile. The country was in a shambles. Dmitri saw a look of mild disgust on Jack’s face. He shrugged. “Like everything else here, Jack. In need of repair.

  Jack smelled the fragrance of roses and orchids clustered in resplendent flower beds that dotted the landscape and might have taken a decade to cultivate. The heat was already stifling. “Some day the embargo will end, Dmitri.”

  “Thankfully I won’t be here to enjoy it,” Dmitri replied. “I’m rather homesick lately.” Dmitri spooned the flesh from a grapefruit, efficiently gutted it section by section before slurping the pieces into his mouth. He swallowed and then spoke, “It’s all very strange that your friend would appear magically in Colombia when she is supposed to be dead. Almost too strange, Jack.”

  Jack watched as a fisherman pulled his silvery catch from a net a hundred yards offshore. He thought again about Kaitlin’s disappearance. Disappearance? If news of her death had been so greatly exaggerated, then where the hell was she? Kidnapping didn’t fit. There’d been no ransom. Besides, the woman in the video was no hostage. There were other possibilities but they seemed just as unlikely, and Jack cast them aside like mug shots. “Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s not Kaitlin. It’s crazy in a way to think it is.”

  “Possible,” Raspov replied. “But if you really believed that you wouldn’t be here. Anyway, I’ve seen the picture and I must be crazy too…because I’m convinced of who she is.”

  “Montreal was years ago, Dmitri.”

  Raspov looked at him. “That’s a hard face to forget.”

  Jack continued to play devil’s advocate. “So she just got up and walked out that night, decided she needed a change of scenery – permanently?”

  “Who says she just walked away? It’s Colombia, remember? People disappear all the time.”

  Jack looked doubtful. “Yes, but usually they stay disappeared.”

  “Good point,” Raspov replied. “The video. Where was the video shot?”

  In that moment Jack saw something flash across Dmitri’s face. Hunger maybe, excitement over a hunt that hadn’t yet begun. The old spook trying to catch a scent. What was it?

  “Jack?”

  “I wish I knew,” Jack finally replied, feeling strangely uneasy now. “The e-mail had nothing but an attachment,” he continued. “Nothing more. And New York hasn’t heard from Seth Pollard in a couple of days.”

  “Mystery upon mystery,” Raspov said. “So, as I said before, what can I do for you, Mister Doyle?”

  Jack had thought hard about it during the night, the grainy picture of Kaitlin on the dresser next to his bed. It was driving him crazy. A full minute passed before he spoke. “I need to get inside the country,” he said, “without the knowledge of the people who basically threw me out. But first I need to find Seth Pollard.” Jack unfolded the print again, placing it on the table between them. “And then I need to find this woman.”

  Raspov smoothed the front of his light cotton shirt and adjusted a napkin which was tucked into its collar. “That’s all?”

  “Yeah. That’s all. And I need to do this…now.”

  “Deadlines. You reporters and your deadlines.”

  Jack ignored it. “What about it?”

  “You have rather large expectations.”

  “OK. I know that. So?”

  “You could expect no help or protection from the Colombian government. Even your own embassy.”

  “I know that.”

  Raspov dabbed at the juice that glistened on his chin. “You’d never survive.”

  It was a warning Jack wanted to slap away. Instead, he pushed his plate aside, remnants of scrambled eggs in a fiery red sauce. He brought a thick porcelain cup to his lips and gulped the last of his coffee. “I’ve been in tight spots before,” he said.

  “Not like this,” Dmitri intoned. “The rebels have been on a killing spree for months now.” Raspov held up a fist, revealing one finger at a time. “Besides the rebels you’ve got ELN, the paras and the Colombian army. And don’t forget the drug lords. Everyone’s a target – judges, police captains, humanitarian workers, and peasants – all fair game. Officials are gunned down in the street every day. The mayor of Bogotá wears a bullet-proof vest with a heart-shaped opening on his chest as an invitation to his enemies. A man who relishes his drama, don’t you think?” Raspov stopped to allow it to sink in. “Murder, extortion, kidnapping. It’s all about the coca now, no more bullshit Marxist ideology from FARC. Everyone wants a piece of the pie.”

  Jack listened silently while a warm breeze rustled nearby bushes. After a moment Dmitri rose and gestured for him to follow. He led them inside the villa, down a long hallway to a large cluttered office at the back of the house. Two computers blinked and hummed, a fax machine was rolling out paper, and Jack saw what looked like a secure telephone on an ornate wooden desk. The walls were covered with military maps of Cuba, Colombia, and a number of other South American countries.

  “It’s OK, Jack, nothing classified for you to spy.” Raspov was grinning, motioning him towards a plush sofa in the centre of the room. “No need to dispatch Pavel and Uri to ‘eliminate’ you.”

  “You’re a real friend, Dmitri.” Jack let the sarcasm drip from his words.

  “Thanks,” Dmitri said as he walked to a large safe in the corner of the office. He punched numbers on a keypad and swung the door open. Then he pulled out a large brown envelope.

  For a moment Jack was distracted by a portrait of Stalin on the wall above Raspov’s desk. Raspov followed his stare. “He was a sick bastard, yes, but a sick communist bastard.”

  “We all have our idols, Dmitri.”

  Raspov walked to the sofa and sat. He placed the envelope between them.

  Jack looked at it. “Show and Tell?”

  Dmitri ignored him, spread his hands out. “We have minor assets in Colombia,” he said, businesslike. “Cuba does what it can for ELN and FARC, but mostly ELN. The government is weak. But lots of American money keeps them going. Anti-narcotics money that feeds their military. No secret. Check the internet.” Raspov thrust his chin in the general direction of his computer hardware which was buzzing and beeping.

  “It’s not been the same in Colombia since Pablo. The cartels are fractured. That’s good news for the DEA which has been able to pick away at the smaller targets. Divide and conquer, so to speak.”

  None of this was any secret. Jack watched Raspov’s face for clues to where this was headed.

  Raspov continued, “There are rumblings the cartels are really pissed, especially with all that talk of an extradition treaty with your country. You remember what happened last time. It was all-out war. Eventually it led to the collapse of the Medellin group.”

  Escobar, Jack remembered, had surrendered. He escaped custody and was later tracked down and shot.

  Raspov laid the photo on the sofa next to Jack. “To borrow a good American expression: it’s a shit storm brewing there right now. And this is the man responsible.”

  Jack picked up the photograph. Studied it. The man was getting out of a limo, immaculately dressed, dark features. Swarthy was the word that came to mind. The man was staring directly into the camera – defiantly.
Full lips and sculpted cheekbones that might have been a sign of breeding. He was surrounded by bodyguards with the requisite bulges beneath their armpits. To Jack the man looked like he had something important to prove.

  Raspov continued. “His name is Branko Montello. Scares the shit out of your DEA. What’s the phrase? Bad ass. He’s a hundred bad asses in one.”

  Jack didn’t think the guy looked that tough. “Pablo was a bad ass too.”

  “You’re right. Pablo was a psychopath. Raspov motioned to the photograph, but didn’t touch it, as if to have done so would have contaminated him in some way. “A daisy compared to Montello.”

  Jack looked at the photograph again. “So what’s your point?”

  “Our friend Montello has declared open season on Americans,” Raspov said. “You carry the passport, you die.” Raspov stopped. He seemed to be considering something. “It’s the whole country, Jack. He’s even offering a bounty. I don’t have to tell you what that means. For you – and if she’s still in country – for Kaitlin.”

  Jesus, Jack thought. The goddamn country was already one of the most dangerous places in the world. Now this. There wasn’t much he could say. “I have network credentials.”

  Dmitri laughed. “Yes, Jack. Credentials made of plastic, not miracles.” He stopped for a moment, then turned serious. “More than a hundred of your kind have been murdered in Colombia. They had credentials too, my friend.”

  Jack thought quietly about what Raspov was saying. He’d already decided to take the risk. If Kaitlin were alive, he’d find her. He didn’t know exactly how yet, but he would.

  Dmitri must have been reading his mind again. The Russian looked at Jack, rubbed his hands together and began to speak. “Maybe she found a story,” Dmitri said. “A big exclusive that she wants to horde. Become a big network star like Jack Doyle.”

  Jack shook his head. “It’s not the way we work.”

  “How would I know?” Raspov replied. “An old communist who relishes the good old days when we controlled the great journalistic organs of the state – and crushed dissent like grapes.”