Rising Phoenix

by Kyle Mills

  “And what if Pedro is right, and this is the work of the U.S. authorities?” a thin man sitting on the edge of the sofa asked.

  Colombar smiled. “Then we simply find proof of that and leak it to the press. I’m sure that they would be very interested in a story like that. I must agree with Alejandro, though. I don’t believe that the U.S. government would ever take such drastic action within their own borders. They are much more decisive in other people’s countries.” There was a general grumble of agreement.

  Colombar spotted his butler standing motionless at the entrance to the living room.

  “Gentlemen,” Colombar said, standing in a single quick jerk and startling a few of the guests with whom he was not on the best terms. “I believe our luncheon is ready.” He weaved through the group, hoping that none of them noticed that he had left his nearly untouched drink on the table. He decided that his image could survive a couple of beers at lunch. They were imported from England, after all.

  Scott Dresden carefully placed the white cuff links in the mahogany and glass display case across from his desk. The pounding in his head was beginning to subside, succumbing to the three extra-strength Tylenols he’d chewed up fifteen minutes ago. The cuff links were a gift from the secretary general of Interpol, and took a place of honor next to various other items commemorating police forces from across Europe and Asia.

  It had been almost a year since Dresden had given up his post as the ASAC in the FBI’s Portland, Oregon, office, and had accepted a transfer to Germany. He had spent the last twelve months in Bonn as the assistant legal attaché. The title called forth images of bureaucratic attorneys reviewing endless documents. Nothing could be further from the truth. In 1940, J. Edgar Hoover had decided that crime, along with the rest of the world’s big business, was going international. Shortly after coming to that realization, agents known as Legats began cropping up in major embassies across the world. The plan met with some success and the program had gone through a number of expansions, adding offices to more far-flung countries across the globe.

  Dresden’s gift for languages and interest in European cultures made him perfect for the position. It had been a difficult call—conventional wisdom was that becoming a Legat significantly reduced one’s visibility and, therefore, promotability. In the end, he’d decided that it was worth it to spend a few years in Europe and to give his children an opportunity to see the world.

  He carefully closed the glass door to the case and walked back to his desk, plopping down in the tall leather chair and leaning as far back as possible. He had removed a spring from the base of the chair, making it possible to go almost horizontal. Running his fingers through his thick, dark hair, he closed his eyes and concentrated on relaxing. His headache’s grip on the back of his head loosened a little more.

  The morning had started as a typical one. He had been running late, practically pulling his pants on as he ran out the door. A few New York driving tricks had put him at the office one minute before eight o’clock. At eight-fifteen he was quietly reviewing the leather Franklin Day Planner at the top of his desk.

  At eight-twenty Mark Beamon had called from Washington.

  Beamon had related that Trace Fontain, Harvard University and the Centers for Disease Control, had finally isolated the poison used to taint the U.S. coke supply. It came from a mushroom indigenous to Eastern Europe—Poland mostly. Smack dab in the middle of Dresden’s territory.

  One of the things he liked best about running a Legat was the fact that you were given as free a hand as could be had in the Bureau. For the most part, headquarters just wasn’t watching. They preferred to defer many decisions to the individual legal attachés based on their contacts and knowledge of the culture. Now, though, Dresden felt freedom leak away as he was drawn into one of the most visible cases the FBI had ever been involved in.

  He’d spent the last five hours on the phone with every law enforcement officer he knew in Eastern Europe, calling in a number of favors that he had hoped to save for a cushy consulting job after retirement. Dresden’s network in the former Soviet Union was impressive, and the wheels of the investigation were turning. The problem was coordinating with the myriad local law enforcement groups—the people who might have noticed an American running around the woods piling mushrooms into a pickup truck.

  Dresden’s secretary slipped into the room, her mouth already forming the beginnings of a sentence. Recognizing his position, she caught herself and instead padded silently across the carpet and set a cup of tea down on the coaster on his desk. The man on her heels wasn’t as considerate.

  “Wake up, Scott—I just got off the phone with Customs,” Kip Spence said, taking a seat in front of his desk.

  Dresden righted himself slowly, reaching for the steaming cup on his desk.

  “What did they have to say?” The pounding in his head notched higher.

  “Nothing. You know Customs. Said they’d check their records and fax us any significant shipments of mushrooms over the last six months. It’ll take ’em a few days, though.”

  Dresden frowned. His opinion of that particular government organization had never been very high. “Well, I think I’ve talked to damn near every person I know this morning.” He touched his right ear unconsciously. It was bright red.

  Spence grimaced. “Cryin’ shame that Europe doesn’t have America’s Most Wanted. Why the hell don’t we just commandeer a little cash from headquarters and put an ad in every local rag from here to Moscow?” He held up his hands, framing an imaginary advertisement: “If you have any information regarding an American picking a bunch of poisonous mushrooms in the last couple of months call the number below. A thousand dollar reward for information leading to the apprehension of this suspect.”

  Dresden took another sip of the scalding tea. “Precisely what I suggested. Mark Beamon told me that they’d kinda lucked in to isolating the poison as fast as they did, though. Some guy at the CDC is a fungus-ologist or some such thing. He’s hoping that these guys are counting on us taking a few more weeks to nail down the source. Wants to see if we can catch ’em napping.”

  “Long shot,” Spence observed.

  His boss nodded in agreement. “The scary thing is, I think it’s the best we got.”

  The Toyota Land Cruiser slammed headlong into a deep puddle, sending thick, muddy water splashing across the windshield and drenching the men in the open Jeep a few feet in front. Luis Colombar whooped with joy and punched at the CD player that was skipping wildly as the truck’s tires bounced along the rutted dirt road. Glancing in his rearview mirror, he saw another Jeep full of men approach the same mud puddle cautiously, finally forging reluctantly ahead.

  “Fucking pussies!” he shouted over the engine noise and intermittent sound of Madonna coming through the vehicle’s hidden speakers. He stomped on the gas one more time, nudging the Jeep in front of him. One of the men sitting in the back almost toppled out, caught at the last second by a companion. Colombar felt a slight pang of disappointment. He was curious as to how his new truck’s suspension would handle a body. Probably wouldn’t feel a thing.

  Life had been good since the meeting with his associates. Quite a few had called later that evening to thank him for his cool head and diligent work in solving what had become known simply as “The Problem.” Colombar had always felt that it was counterproductive to have so many lords and no king—as long as that king was him.

  This was the perfect opportunity to show that he could rise above the petty infighting between the different Colombian factions and move into a de facto leadership position. When he had gained their trust, he would kill them. With the heads of the major families gone, Colombia’s vast narcotics machine would be looking for new leadership. He would slip in as savior and give everyone raises. He suspected that most of them wouldn’t mourn their prior bosses’ passing for very long.

  Colombar glanced again in the rearview mirror. His chase car had fallen even further behind. The Jeep in front of him was
maintaining its speed only out of fear that he would ram them again if they slowed. With a flurry of expletives, he let up on the gas slightly and allowed his men to catch up. He was at the height of his popularity with Colombia’s nouveau riche, but it never paid to get too far from one’s more tangible protection. He had never seen good will stop a bullet.

  Every week, Colombar left his fortresslike home and traveled to one of his refineries or plantations. Perez refused to join him on these field trips, insisting that it was stupid—though he didn’t have the balls to actually use that word—to get physically close to any illegal operation. Colombar had berated his advisor repeatedly for his unwillingness to get his hands dirty. Perez would be surprised to know that the day he agreed to go on one of Colombar’s outings would be his last day on earth. Though he would never admit it, Colombar feared Perez and those like him. Their education, level heads, and ability to hobnob with senior government officials worried him. Perez’s fear of dealing one-on-one with the production and smuggling end of the business made him, in Colombar’s opinion, unsuited to leading a major drug organization. But it made him the perfect second in command.

  Colombar jerked the wheel right, driving by memory through the dust kicked up by the vehicle in front of him. As he came out of the thick cloud, the forest became more dense, forming a solid living wall less than a foot from the sides of his truck. He slowed further, carefully staying in the middle of the road so as to minimize any paint damage that might be caused by an errant branch scraping against his new toy. In less than five minutes he was in a clearing dominated by a small, dilapidated hut. The men in the vehicle behind him had managed to catch up, being less concerned about their paint job.

  Colombar pulled slowly into a man-made hollow in the forest and set the emergency brake. The beat-up flatbed that was normally parked there had been moved out into the open and covered with camouflage netting in anticipation of his arrival.

  “Buenos dias, Senor Colombar,” one of the refinery’s dust- and sweat-encrusted guards said, opening his car door for him. The guard’s smile suggested a disdain for toothpaste.

  Colombar ignored him and started for the hut. The cotton of his shirt was already starting to cling to him. The day wasn’t particularly hot but a recent rain had doused the forest, and was now evaporating, filling the air with a visible cloud of unbearable humidity.

  Colombar’s personal guards had already taken up positions at each end of the clearing and in front of the hut, displacing the two men who had been standing stiffly at the entrance, awaiting his arrival. They now stood in a new, less-prized station, nervously straightening their fatigues.

  “What was that?” Colombar asked no one in particular, stopping short ten feet from the entrance to the hut.

  One of the refinery guards fingered the strap on his rifle nervously. “What?”

  Colombar stood perfectly still, his head cocked slightly, scanning the tree line.

  “I heard someone in the woods—there.” He pointed.

  The guard sighed with relief and a sadistic smile crossed his lips. “Oh, that’s just Manuel. You know him, he works with us.” The man pointed to one of the rotting front teeth that he still had. “Gold tooth.”

  Colombar nodded, prompting the man to continue.

  “He’s real sick, kept throwing up all over himself. Smelled fucking awful—so we threw him out in the woods.” The guard smiled again. “You can still smell him when the wind is right.” His final words were met with snickers from his healthier companions.

  “Motherfucker drinks too much tequila,” Colombar replied angrily. “You go get him—I’m not paying him to sleep in the woods.”

  The man shook his head gravely, stepping back as Colombar poked him hard in the chest. “It’s not the tequila, Senor Colombar—1 swear. He’s real sick. Think he’s gonna die.”

  Fucking peasants. He paid off half of the law enforcement officials in Colombia to stay away from this place. All these assholes had to do is sit around and suck on bottles.

  He waved to the four men who had been in the Jeep in front of him, and three of them trotted off into the jungle. The one who had almost been pulled under Colombar’s tires stayed behind. He still looked a little shaky.

  A few moments later the men reappeared, crashing through the jungle wall. They were dragging what looked like a corpse by its legs. It clutched a thick wool blanket in one hand, leaving most of it sliding along behind. As they broke into the clearing, the blanket caught on a tree and was pulled from the stiff hand. Only then did the body show signs of life, making a mournful sound deep in its throat. They dropped the sick man’s feet onto the hard dirt surface in front of the hut.

  Colombar pushed at the man’s ribs with the toe of his cowboy boot. He leaned over slightly and squinted, bringing the man’s face into sharp focus. His mouth was caked with dirt and vomit, and a fist-sized leaf was stuck to the side of his mouth. His skin had gone an eerie greenish white—an unusual color for a Latino who spent his days in the heavy Colombian sun. The guards were right about the smell.

  “What the hell’s wrong with him?” Colombar gave the man another nudge with his boot, then moved to a safer distance. “And what happened to his foot?” He pointed to the man’s right foot. It was wrapped tightly in a rag heavily stained with dirt and blood. It smelled faintly of kerosene.

  “I don’t know what is wrong with him, senor. He was fine until a couple of days ago. Then he started puking all the time and couldn’t pee. When he finally did, he pissed blood.” The guard glanced nervously at Manuel. “He cut his foot week before last. We cleaned it with kerosene to keep the infection away—but I guess it didn’t work.”

  Colombar’s mouth curled into a snarl. His teeth gritted almost audibly. He spun quickly on his heel, simultaneously pulling the .45 holstered in the small of his back. The young guard moved back instinctively, catching his heel on his sick companion’s torso. As he fell, the butt of Colombar’s pistol slammed into his teeth, knocking out most of the top row. Colombar grabbed a handful of the man’s hair. He dragged the man off of Manuel, who had begun vomiting again, and pulled him to the center of the clearing. His guards had perked up and were moving toward him, but were unsure what was happening.

  Colombar stuck the barrel of his pistol in the man’s face. “He’s been into my coke!” he screamed.

  Blood and spit gurgled from the man’s mouth, forming clusters of red-hued bubbles that were beginning to flow down his cheek. He tried to speak, but his voice was muffled by the flowing blood and his inexperience at talking with no front teeth. He shook his head vigorously instead.

  “Get Juan!” Colombar shouted at the men now encircling him, delighted by the interesting turn of events on what was usually a tedious day Two of them ran to the hut and disappeared through the door.

  Colombar dropped to his knees, landing one squarely on the man’s stomach. Blood and detached teeth flew from his mouth.

  “Don’t lie to me, you fucking cockroach,” he yelled, pressing the barrel of his gun into the man’s cheek.

  The guard shook his head again, a look of terror spreading across his swelling face.

  Colombar stood and turned his attention to the two remaining refinery guards. He stared at them through his gunsight. They were completely frozen, except for their eyes, which darted from side to side looking for an escape. There was none.

  “Manuel here’s been into my coke.” It was a statement, not a question. “And you let him have it.”

  “No, señor! There is no way he could have gotten to it without one of us seeing him! No way!”

  The barrel of the gun moved slowly from one man to another as if it had a mind of its own and was deciding which one to shoot.

  “Let go!” Juan Cortegna screamed at the guard who was pushing him roughly out of the hut. Cortegna’s hand had slammed into the deceptively sturdy door on the way out, and he was squeezing it between his thighs when he saw Colombar holding two guards motionless with his pistol.
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  “Señor Colombar! What is going on?”

  “That!” Colombar pointed in the general direction of Manuel without taking his eyes off the guards in front of him.

  Cortegna looked unsure how to respond for a moment. “Manuel? He is very sick, I am told. An infection.”

  “He’s been into my coke,” Colombar repeated for the fourth time.

  A look of horror swept across Cortegna’s face for a moment, followed by a look of deep thought. After a moment he spoke. His voice had calmed somewhat. “No, that is quite impossible. You know the safeguards that we use. Manuel has no access to the final product.”

  Colombar did understand the security measures that Cortegna had in place, but the evidence, and more important, his gut, told him that Manuel had been poisoned. The fact that he couldn’t figure out how it had happened made him that much madder. Outsmarted by some piece-of-shit guard.

  “Your fucking safeguards don’t work then … unless you were involved.” He turned the gun on Cortegna, who began to shrink away. The sturdy frame of one of Colombar’s men blocked his retreat.

  “You know I would never do that, senor. You know!”

  Colombar did know. Cortegna had been with him for years—he was one of his most loyal employees.

  “What makes you think that Manuel has been stealing your product, señor? He does not even like coke—says it doesn’t agree with him.”

  Colombar began pacing the length of the clearing, the pistol hanging loosely in his right hand as it swung back and forth. The guard who had greeted him when he arrived had managed to rise to his hands and knees and was crawling around aimlessly, as though he was looking for his teeth. As Colombar passed by him, his hand tightened almost imperceptibly on the gun. The man once again fell flat. This time with a baseball-sized hole in the back of his neck.

  Finally Colombar spoke. “Juan, have all of the kerosene loaded on the flatbed and brought to my house. Immediately. You,” he pointed to the driver of his chase car and then the two terrified men standing with their backs to the hut. “You’re going to take those two to the house.”