by Kyle Mills
“Obviously the Bureau’s been investigating this case since the ad requests were first made. We have a number of leads that we’re aggressively pursuing, though we don’t have any suspects yet.”
Christ, this sounds lame.
“We haven’t been able to isolate the poison used, but we have been able to get a feel for how it works. I think you guys have already done a pretty good job of describing its effects.” There was a hint of sarcasm in his voice. The press seemed to be in a bitter contest to see which network could be the most graphic.
“What we just found out this morning, though, regards the, uh, reaction time.” He paused, knowing that his next words were going to send a panic through the narcotics community. He felt a little bit like he was about to yell fire in a crowded theater.
“Apparently, symptoms will not appear for between one and a half and two weeks following contact with the poison. Death can be expected within three days of the appearance of symptoms. There appears to be no antidote.”
Beamon stepped back involuntarily at the force of the shouted questions from the men and women in front of him. Gathering his composure, he raised his hand, effectively quieting them.
“To date, it would appear that only cocaine has been contaminated, but let me stress that the ads did not limit their threat to coke. At this time, all illegal narcotics should be considered suspect.”
Beamon leaned against the podium and, for the first time, looked directly at the camera. “If you’re using illegal drugs, stop. Go to a rehab clinic, see your priest, start drinking, take up knitting—whatever it takes. Even if we catch these guys tomorrow, there’s no telling how much of this stuff is floating around on the streets.”
He turned his head and called to Calahan and the President to join him. The two men approached the podium, looking reluctant.
“Uh, I guess we have time for a few questions.” Every hand in the hall shot up.
Neither of the men flanking him made a move, so Beamon pointed. “Stacey.”
A woman who seemed too elegantly dressed to be a reporter stood up. Beamon remembered her having a little more class than most of her peers.
“If there is a two-week delay on the reaction time on this poison, is it possible that these first thousand casualties are only the tip of the iceberg? Does the FBI have an estimate of how many deaths are expected?”
Calahan didn’t seem to want to get anywhere near that question, so Beamon answered it himself. “Could the first thousand only be the tip of the iceberg? Maybe, but there are way too many variables to make an accurate estimate.”
All hands went from scribbling to reaching for the ceiling.
“Gill.” He was quickly running out of reporters that he knew to have even a small spark of decency.
“Mr. Beamon, there have been a lot of rumors flying around that this is a covert government operation to stop the illegal narcotics trade in the U.S. Would you care to comment on that?”
“Not really. But we’ve got the number one expert on government operations right here. Mr. President?”
Jameson stepped up to the podium, looking angry. “That’s ridiculous. If anything, my administration has been criticized for not being heavy-handed enough with the punishment of criminals, and of being too reform-oriented. These kind of rumors are bound to start when something like this happens—they are completely unfounded.”
Jameson stepped back, whispering in Beamon’s ear to wrap things up.
Beamon leaned into the mike. “We’ve got time for one more. Kim?”
“You said that you’re following up a number of leads. Would you care to comment on those leads, and give us a feel for how long you expect it’ll take to resolve this case?”
Beamon smiled. “No, and I don’t know. But you can rest assured that we’re doing everything humanly possible to find these guys. Thank you.”
Hobart flipped off the TV and finished his beer.
“They don’t have shit,” he observed.
Swenson looked concerned. “But there’s some history between you and that Beamon guy?”
“Yeah,” Hobart admitted. “Must have been ten years ago—we were working on a joint investigation. Peter Manion was one of my snitches back then. He was stonewalling me and I was pushing him around a little bit. To make a long story short, Peter fell over a table and broke his arm. Beamon walks in a few minutes later and goes ballistic. Takes Manion to the hospital and comes back and presses charges against me.”
“So what happened?”
Hobart smiled. “I fought back—got Peter to testify that Beamon was in on the whole thing. Goddam hearings went on for a year with both of us on unpaid leave. In the end, I got canned and he got demoted and sent to … Montana, I think.”
Swenson nodded thoughtfully. “Is he good?”
“Sure. But not as good as he thinks he is. He doesn’t have much support with management, either. Getting an official reprimand for beating up an informant is pretty tough to live down.”
Hobart laughed as he stood and walked across the room to a strangely configured chess board and pulled a black king off the television. He placed it ceremoniously on the board.
“I’d been meaning to ask you about that, John,” Swenson said, walking quietly up behind him. “I don’t think you’ve got it set up quite right.”
Hobart surveyed the board. “It’s set up exactly right.” He pointed to the right side of the board where a white king and queen sat in the first rank. Eight white pawns were spread out over the board. There were no more white pieces. “We’re the white. You and I are symbolized by the king and queen. The eight pawns represent our men in the field.”
He shifted his focus to the left side of the board, where two full rows of pawns stood, one blue and one black. On the first rank stood a king and queen of each color. “The black pieces represent the FBI. Beamon’s the king. Tom Sherman, the associate director, and Beamon’s strongest ally, is the queen.”
“And the blue?”
Hobart scowled. The answer was obvious. Maybe his partner wasn’t as bright as he had thought. “The narcotics cartel. I don’t know who the king and queen represent yet, but my guess is that it will be Luis Colombar and his advisor—Alejandro something. Colombar’s the most powerful man in Colombia now—and it was his refinery that I hit. Of course, nothing stays the same for long in that business.”
17
Near Bogotá, Colombia,
February 12
Luis Colombar walked briskly through the spacious entryway of his home listening to the complex chime of his doorbell fade away.
“Roberto! How have you been?” Colombar said to the tanklike man standing on the other side of the door. The two men shook hands warmly, effectively disguising their hatred for each other. Roberto Ortega wiped his feet carefully on the mat in front of the door and entered. Colombar noticed a complex sweat stain in his white cotton shirt that accurately traced a shoulder holster. This was the first time he had seen Ortega unarmed.
It had been a difficult call. On one hand, these were all businessmen—the most powerful drug lords in Colombia—and should be able to be trusted not to start a gunfight in his living room. On the other hand, the bad blood between many of his guests was old and strong. In the end, he had personally guaranteed everyone’s safety, and politely insisted that no firearms be brought into his home. A few of them had offered token resistance, but deep down they had been relieved by the directive. Colombar was a killer, drug dealer, and thief, but he was a man of his word.
“You are the last guest to arrive, Roberto,” Colombar said, scanning his front yard as he slowly closed the door. The one hundred yards between the front of his house and the formidable white stucco perimeter wall was thick with carefully laid out native plants. Secreted in this foliage were no fewer than twenty men with meaningful bulges under their arms. Their dark suits looked out of place next to the explosions of color supplied by the flowering plants.
Colombar followed Ortega closel
y as they wound through the wide halls of his home. Light was provided solely by the endless skylights dotting the terracotta roof.
Colombar had hired the finest architect in Colombia to design his home, and had brought in an interior designer from New York to furnish it. It was obvious to anyone who knew him that the house didn’t reflect the man. The sophistication and class that he had hoped would spring from the art-encrusted walls had only served to highlight his poor upbringing and crass sense of humor
The hall eventually opened to an expansive room with a high, clear-glass roof supported by imported Canadian logs. Each log was draped with a large antique tapestry, their well-worn ends dangling down into space.
No less than fifteen men stood in small clusters, sat on well-coordinated leather sofas, and huddled around various tables covered with sterling silver chafing dishes. Occasionally a burst of laughter would come from one of the groups. It sounded strained.
Colombar stopped at the top of the steps leading to the sunken floor of the room, and watched Ortega stride bull-like through the men, straight to the table covered with dripping beer bottles.
He looked down over the crowd. “Gentlemen! I believe that with Mr. Ortega’s arrival, we are all here. Shall we begin?” His accent had improved significantly over the last year, thanks to a voice coach who had a talent for transforming wealthy South Americans into sophisticated Europeans. All eyes turned to him as he strolled across the room, trying to look calm and in control. The men followed him to a conversation pit that had been set up specifically for this meeting. At the focal point of the grouping of furniture was a large-screen TV.
Colombar sat on a sofa directly across from the television. The other drug lords followed his example, looking less collected as they jockeyed at the last minute to sit next to an ally and not a dreaded enemy.
Unbeckoned, a young man walked quickly from a door at the side of the room and slipped a tape into the VCR under the TV. At thirty-three, he was ten years Colombar’s junior, and seemed to exude the sophistication that the drug lord would never achieve. His gray Armani suit fit as if he’d been born in it. He flashed a practiced smile at the group. His teeth were white and straight.
“I think some of you know my attorney, Alejandro Perez,” Colombar said. “I’ve asked him to give us a little presentation on this situation.” With a wave of his hand he gave the floor to Perez.
“Gracias, Luis.”
Perez scanned the crowd as he spoke, using all of the public-speaking skills that he had learned at Georgetown Law. “As they say, a picture is worth a thousand words, so I have prepared this videotape. It includes what I feel are significant media reports relating to this, uh, situation. It will only take a few moments to view, and I think you will find it interesting. My understanding is that all of you speak English. If not, please let me know now and I will translate as the tape runs.” Perez made a show of looking from face to face. No one spoke, though he knew that at least three of the men would have a hard time ordering a hamburger in English.
“Okay, then.” He pushed a button and the television came to life.
His tape began with Beamon’s press conference and then ran smoothly into various CNN reports from hospitals across the country. It ended with an interview of a cocaine addict. His face was in shadows and his voice disguised, but he was clearly an educated man—probably around Perez’s age.
The addict told the reporter between sobs that he had taken a leave of absence from work to put himself in a rehab clinic. He also related that he had last snorted coke five days earlier and was waiting to see if he had been poisoned. He had sworn to himself that if he survived he would never do another line.
The television faded artistically to black, and Perez punched the stop button on the VCR.
“If I can take up just a few more moments of your time, I’d like to make a few comments about what you have just seen.” He paused. No objections were raised.
“Mark Beamon, the gentleman speaking at the press conference, my sources say is probably the FBI’s top investigator. I have also heard that he and the Director are mortal enemies and that he had recently been demoted and sent to a field office in Texas. I think that Mr. Calahan’s willingness to bring him back to head this investigation shows the American government’s commitment to putting a stop to the CDFS’s actions.”
Perez pushed one hand in his pocket, adjusting the hang of his suit into yet another well-thought-out configuration. “Having said this, my sources, whom I consider very reliable, tell me that the FBI has no significant leads in the case. The narcotics manufacturers’ and dealers’ unwillingness to cooperate with the authorities is working against them. In addition, it seems reasonable to hypothesize that the individuals involved in this drug poisoning operation are quite sophisticated and probably have some knowledge of investigative procedures.” Perez pulled a folder from the top of the television next to him.
“Current estimates put deaths at twenty-eight hundred, with an additional seventeen hundred showing symptoms that would suggest that death is inevitable within the week.” He tossed the folder back where he’d found it. “I think that the last segment on the tape really drives home what we’re seeing on the demand front. Only five days from the first death, we are already experiencing a substantial downward trend in cocaine purchases by casual users, who, as I’m sure you know, consume the lion’s share of the cocaine supplied annually to the U.S.”
There was a general grumbling from his audience. Perez knew that many of them wouldn’t have known that. The demand for their product had always been a given—it was manufacture and transport that demanded the concentration of the men in this room.
Perez started pacing back and forth as he spoke, and all eyes in the room followed him closely. “It’s impossible to tell at this early a date exactly what kind of a demand reduction we’re going to see, but I performed an informal poll of some of our associates in the States this morning, and I think the problem is even more serious than we had thought. Apparently, street-level dealers’ phones are silent. Some have been put in the unusual position of calling their customers and cutting prices to cost. Reports suggest that their calls have been mostly unsuccessful and that purchasers are insisting that the dealers use some of the product at the sale as an act of good faith. Many of them are unwilling to do this, unless they have a supply that was purchased well before the ads came out.”
An impossibly fat man sitting next to Colombar interrupted him. “So what does that translate into in numbers.”
“It’s difficult to say at this point, but my survey suggests that we can expect around a sixty-five percent reduction in the casual use of cocaine in the next couple of weeks, if this threat continues. That translates into, say, a fifty-percent reduction in overall demand.”
With that statistic hanging in the air like a noose, the room broke into loud conversation. The men turned back and forth to one another, pointing and gesturing wildly, voices fighting to be heard.
Colombar stood.
“Gentlemen … Gentlemen!” The din faltered and went silent.
“I believe that Alejandro is almost finished. We have the rest of the day for discussion.” He motioned to Perez and took his seat.
“Thank you. In the habitual users, I think it is safe to surmise that we will see a less significant drop in use. I have no estimate of what that will be.”
“Maybe it is a government plot.” The fat, loud one again.
“I don’t think so. The U.S. government has never shown any real commitment to stopping the demand for drugs in their country. No, the U.S. has always concentrated on stemming supply—despite the fact that this approach has proven to be woefully ineffective.”
The room was silent. Colombar looked around to see if any more questions were forthcoming, but the men seemed deep in thought.
“Thank you, Alejandro.”
Perez pulled the tape from the VCR and walked briskly out of the room, nodding to the group as he went. The sound
of Italian shoe leather against stone seemed very loud in the silence following his speech.
“Any comments?” Colombar asked, to get the conversation rolling. Roberto Ortega was the first to speak.
“Your assistant is very smart, Luis, but as with others of his kind, he told us our problems but didn’t offer any solution.” He fairly spat out the words. Ortega hated the new generation of criminal—slick and well educated. Despite this well-known bias, his comments got a few nods from the group.
“Alejandro is here to provide information, Roberto, not to run our business for us,” Colombar chided. “It is our job to find a solution.”
The fat man to Colombar’s left spoke again. Sweat glistened on his upper lip despite the air-conditioning. “And what do you suggest, Luis?”
Colombar felt the attention of the room focus on him. It was a position that he was finding more and more comfortable.
“As we speak, my men are tracing the tainted coke back to its source, looking for the moment that it was poisoned—information that will be very difficult for the authorities to obtain. We’ll catch these people ourselves and cut their fucking heads off.” Colombar stood and walked through the conversation pit, aiming himself at the elaborate wet bar in the corner of the room. He regretted the profanity at the end of his last sentence. It didn’t fit with his new image.
He dropped an olive in the martini he was preparing. Grimacing slightly, he took a sip. Tequila was his drink, but it lacked a certain sophistication. He turned back to face the group.
“I would appreciate you gentlemen using your resources to do the same. If we can pinpoint exactly where the poison was put into our product, we will be quite a bit closer to finding our quarry.” He returned to his seat.