The Fall Line

by Mark T Sullivan

  “A problem, señor?” Hector asked.

  “None at all,” Farrell said. “Just daydreaming. A habit.”

  “I’m sure,” Hector said. “Let me show you the way. Señor Cordova is already waiting.”

  Farrell pushed through the blue curtains to find Cordova sprawled across the tan loveseat that along with two airplane seats—first-class size—dominated the left side of the cabin. Opposite were six other lounge-style chairs. In the center stood a kidney-shaped coffee table of matching tan.

  Cordova rose and cried: “Jack Farrell, good to see you! Not often we get to travel in such style, eh?”

  “Or such mystery,” Farrell said, taking his extended hand.

  “Mr. Cortez thought it best not to disturb you with our destination,” Cordova said with a grunt. He plopped in the loveseat and drew the opposite ends of the two seat belt sets and clipped them across his massive belly. “This meeting required so long to set up we thought you would be better off waiting to know.”

  “Gabriel?”

  “He meets us there,” Cordova said. “He had last-minute business in Sinaloa. He asked me to brief you on what to expect.”

  Hector interrupted to tell them they’d been cleared for take off. He knelt and flipped a lever that freed Farrell’s chair so it swiveled toward the front of the cabin. He flipped the lever again, locking the chair, then repeated the process with Cordova’s loveseat.

  An hour later, Cordova was drinking tequila neat. Farrell had moved to a chair next to the loveseat where he could see the charts in a three-ring binder Cordova had produced from his briefcase. Cordova said Cali operated in a fundamentally different manner than the more famous Medellin organization. Like the Medellin traffickers, Cordova said, some of the people at the top in Cali came from the bleak slums of Colombia, often beginning their careers as street hustlers, thieves, or kidnappers. But in the mid-1920s they realized that Americans were demanding more cocaine than marijuana and they leapt to supply the demand.

  “They made more money than they could have supposed in their wildest dreams,” Cordova said. “In Medellin, a war developed almost immediately over turf. In Cali, the early members of the cartel sought the anonymity of middle- and upper-middle class life.

  “Sure there are the big mansions and the estates like that owned by the Escobars,” Cordova said. “But there is above all an effort to blend in. These men are interested in business, not bloodshed. If they have problems with a politician, they bribe him, not kill him.”

  He pointed to a pie chart, which indicated that only fifteen percent of the billions of dollars the cartel generated directly benefited Colombians. The rest passed into the hands of freelance salesmen, distributors, and service vendors such as themselves. “Too often they have no idea of the day-to-day details of the other eighty-five percent of the business,” Cordova said.

  “You’re saying they think the system is inefficient?”

  “To an extent,” he replied. “The business has thrived in large part because it was based on entrepreneurship. If someone wanted to expand a market or devise a new transportation or cash-flow system, the attitude was go ahead: if you succeed, you will be rewarded.”

  “And now?” Farrell asked.

  “They are concerned, as you said, that this approach, while successful, is too … sprawling?” Cordova said. “They want to invest some of the fifteen percent of the business they control to eventually take as much as thirty to thirty-five percent of the industry.”

  “Consolidation,” Farrell said.

  Cordova tapped his finger at a large section on the pie chart. “There will always be room for the entrepreneur in distribution and trafficking because these are the areas most likely to be disrupted by the Drug Enforcement Agency and the other U.S. organizations opposed to the business. As long as they create an environment that allows easy entry to the market, people well paid will take the risk, create new systems to replace those that have been destroyed.”

  “So where do you … I mean we … fit in?” Farrell asked.

  “As we have in the past: financing, infrastructure, and warehousing,” Cordova said. “Cali has long been concerned at the lack of loyal middle-level managers attending to these areas in the United States. At the same time, these men are not yet convinced it is time to bring all of the concerns—how would you say it—in-house?”

  Cordova paused when Hector entered the cabin and asked them if they were ready to eat. “Fifteen minutes,” Cordova said.

  After Hector left, Cordova went on: “Effectively, they are interested in becoming venture capitalists for a series of small, emerging organizations that they will use as test cases.”

  Cordova sipped from the tequila. “That’s where we fit in, Jack. Mr. Cortez and I have a solid reputation with these men, providing landing strips, planes, boats, the capital infrastructure of the business. But your methods and ideas have generated a new interest in our organization as a possible target of investment.”

  Farrell leaned back in the seat. He called Hector and asked for a drink, a double bourbon. He needed it. “So it rides on me.”

  “If you convince them, we expand,” Cordova said. “If not, we go on as before. They are pleased with our services.”

  “What is the potential for exposure?” Farrell said. He shut his eyes and saw numbers on green sheaves of paper. “It seems to me that the only person assuming risk here is me.”

  “Mr. Cortez and I have discussed that,” Cordova said. “Your percentage for any increase in the business, of course, will have to rise in proportion to risk. That is agreed.”

  Hector returned with dinner, and the conversation suspended while Cordova gorged on filet of sole cordon bleu and a bottle of white wine. Farrell ate, understanding that the tingle of misgiving he’d endured at the beginning of the flight was building. What had begun a year ago as a lark, a thrill—something with recognizable limits, a steep little snowy ridge he could run on a clear windless day—had mutated; a terrible fog now threatened to sock him in.

  A half hour after dinner Hector served them brandy and told them to buckle their belts for a landing.

  “We can’t be there yet,” Farrell said. They had only been flying for three hours. He figured a trip to Colombia would take at least seven.

  Cordova thumped his fist against his chest and dislodged a bubble of gas, which he belched into the cabin. He splayed his hands. “Refueling perhaps,” he said. “Maybe we take on another passenger. Who knows?”

  “Any idea where we are?” Farrell asked.

  Cordova checked his watch. “Oaxaca perhaps. If the pilot made good time, Guatemala,” he said, reaching for the brandy bottle.

  They descended. Farrell peered out the window. A sliver of moon shone in the sky, but no lights glowed below. He felt the rumble, followed by the grinding buzz of the landing gear. Still no lights.

  “Jesus,” Farrell said. “He’s going to put this down in the pitch dark.”

  Cordova didn’t respond. He was fixed on the brilliant green and red plumage and the luxurious tail of the quetzal, a bird of Guatemala that had been embroidered onto the textured wall at the front of the cabin. Beads of sweat rolled off his head.

  “Hate to land, Jorge?” Farrell asked, somewhat amused. He had thought Cordova incapable of fear.

  “Blew out a tire a few years back landing in a field near my home. Can’t stand it now.”

  Farrell shut his eyes again, seeing the tire ruts in a field where Gabriel had hunted. The little dove boy ran through that field, chasing fallen birds. The jet shuddered. Farrell pressed his face to the black window. Where there was nothing, a single blue light flashed. A second, followed by a hundred others, a thread of blue lamps sewn to the horizon. They landed with the familiar jolt, the scorch of tires, and the winding rev of the turbines.

  “We will be a few minutes, señors,” Hector said. “You can get out and stretch your legs if you wish.”

  Before Farrell could answer, the sweated, pallid fig
ure of Cordova hustled by Hector and through the curtains. The stairs groaned in protest, the jet leaned then righted itself.

  “Hates to land,” Farrell said.

  “With me it is the takeoff,” Hector said. “I never believe we will clear the trees.”

  Farrell stuck his head out the side of the jet and was blasted by the black peppercorn smell of jungle foliage mixed with the saffron odor of red clay. The blue lights cast a soft, unnatural glow on the rich grasses growing beyond the edge of the dirt runway. About eighty yards away, barely visible, a ragged tree line wavered in the mist.

  Farrell climbed down the stairs and away from the jet to the grass. As his eyes became used to the pale blue light, he could make out cattle grazing. He walked further, hearing the beasts lowing, talking of their ignorance in the dark. With a great squawk! an egret kicked out from under Farrell’s feet, flapping into the darkness toward the hardwoods.

  “I figure we’re near La Gomera,” Cordova said in a raspy voice. He flashed a lighter and lit a cigarette. The red glow of the cigarette filtered through the blue lamp light to turn Cordova’s mouth the shade of spring clover.

  “I don’t know it,” Farrell said.

  “Small town,” Cordova said, pointing what Farrell guessed to be west with the tip of the cigarette. “We’re farther south in Guatemala than I thought, almost to the border of El Salvador.”

  He chuckled, sucking so hard on the cigarette that the coal sparked and crackled.

  “Mr. Cortez and I built this five, maybe six years ago,” Cordova said. “One of our first projects. My idea for the blue lights: they cast almost no reflection on the plants. It’s almost become an industry standard.”

  Cordova pointed down the runway. The glowing tip of the cigarette traced an arc in the humid air. “If I remember correctly there’s a small dirt road off the other end of the runway that you can take about fifteen miles to a small restaurant that makes a passable paella. Of course, if your palette desires something more adventurous, you must travel further to—”

  At first, they were dull snaps. The volume of the gunfire spread, snapping, strong and deadly: short flashes of orange at the tree line on the other side of the jet, followed by ping! ping! ping! on the fuselage. Pencil-thin cords of white light ripped the night. Behind them the jet’s engines revved.

  “Correz, Correz!” Run! Run! Cordova screamed.

  Farrell sprinted through the grass, driving his knees as high as he could up and out of the morass of slender stalks. His pant legs soaked and flapped against his calves. Farrell wove side to side while bullets cracked around him. Cattle scattered, bounding herky-jerky, shitting and bawling as they ran. A mad bellow shook the darkness. Farrell thought Cordova had been hit, then understood that it was one of the feeding herd. The beast thundered behind them, roaring in gut-shot agony.

  The tree line was closer now. Farrell was astounded to find Cordova right beside him, breaching through the tall grass, the latent moves of the dove boy surfacing under the gushing flow of adrenaline.

  A frond of a large plant slapped at Farrell’s wrist. He was aware of an insistent hum behind him that did not register until it ballooned into a close thunder: the jet was accelerating. They crashed into the jungle. Undergrowth clawed at their faces and shirts and pants. A vine hooked Farrell’s ankle. He sprawled into a clump of bamboo, up again instinctively trailing Cordova, a supercharged bulldozer driving deep into the forest.

  Sixty yards in, Cordova made a gurgling sound and stopped and clung to a tree, coughing and panting. Farrell grabbed the tree too, squinting at the salt that stung his eyes. He caught the stench of urine and realized with disgust that Cordova had pissed his pants. Through an opening in the canopy, the single red running light of the jet soared away. The jet thunder faded. The gunfire stopped. They were alone, stranded in the jungle.

  Inez jerked in her sleep. Farrell was jolted into consciousness. He looked at her. It was all happening again. Beyond control. He was sick to his stomach. He looked at his watch. It was a few minutes past one in the morning. He slid out from under the blankets and was pulling on his pants when she stirred.

  “It is gauche to leave a woman in the night, chéri.”

  “Nothing to do with you,” Farrell lied. “I can’t sleep.”

  “I think of something to do,” she said, pulling back the covers so he could see her body. The smell of her and of their sex swirled around him and he had to fight not to return.

  “You wore me out,” Farrell said weakly.

  “Mmmmm,” Inez said. “I think you have so much far to go.”

  “Not tonight,” Farrell said, and he closed the door to her powerful odor behind him.

  Chapter 18

  OUTSIDE, FARRELL’S MIND RACED. It jumbled and mixed events. Time broke, fragmenting the sound of disparate voices, the smell of different lands, the sight of alien events. Cordova picked a leech from his chin in the jungle. Lena ran from him into a darkened hallway. Inez gave The Wave a malevolently maternal hug. Stern, the FBI agent, showed him his badge. His father jigged with the vacuum cleaner.

  Farrell slammed the heels of both hands against his temples. He doubled over. He knew he was close to breaking. He clung to the threads that held the remaining boxes in his mind shut. He retched and retched again.

  Farrell made it to his room, shut the door, and bolted it. The diary was sticking out from underneath the mattress. He became feverish looking at it, turned away, and immediately began to sweat. He climbed fully clothed under the blankets as the sweat turned cold. Chills wracked his body. His tongue turned dry. The fever returned and with it a new cycle of torture, his symptoms those of a man rung out by malaria on the second seven-hour cycle. Only he’d never had the disease. I’m like my father, he thought, a manic on the rise. He turned on a flashlight in the dark. To survive the augue that mamboed through him over the next hour he counted in a steady cadence, breathed to it, focusing on the beam of light that cut the dark room. He kept calm like this for a long time. Then Inez pierced his tranquility. How wild she was. How wild she’d made him. He imagined this was what an addict felt like after overdosing: sick, but satiated. He deluded himself for a few moments that this was the end of it. He’d had her—a double dose of a pure drug—and had lived. He could walk away now. But in his heart, he knew he wanted her again, to see if wilder than wild was within her range. That was the way he was, beyond control.

  From deep inside came another voice, his wife’s, telling him that ignorance was not bliss, that Inez’s sensual, savage nature had roots. He had to know more about her. It was his only chance for control, the only chance to keep the lid on the boxes. Two days had passed since he’d spoken to Europe. Farrell got out from under the blankets and changed his soaking wet clothes. He grabbed two pieces of paper, went outside and down the road to the phone booth.

  This time the Swiss attorney answered himself.

  “Good afternoon, sir. I was just about to leave, thought you might not call us,” the attorney said. “The report came in a few hours ago.”

  Farrell wiped the cold sweat that still clung to the nape of his neck: “First, tell me about the inquiries.”

  “Unfortunately, the secrecy laws seem to be functioning in both directions,” the attorney said. “Nothing yet. If you are nervous, there are always more precautions we can take, the creation of intermediary corporations in Liechtenstein.”

  “Take them,” Farrell said.

  “It will be expensive,” he said. “I do not ordinarily conduct this type of business over the phone, but I expect a fifteen percent increase in my fee.”

  “Take the steps,” Farrell said, his voice almost a shout.

  “Very good, sir,” the attorney replied curtly. “The report?”

  “What did he find?”

  “The detective is a woman, actually,” the attorney said. “Highly recommended. The gist of Ms. Didier to date is as follows: Born November 12, 1960, in Lyons to Laurence and Pauline Didier. Father, a photograph
er with the Associated Press. Dead—”

  “I know the father,” Farrell interrupted. “What about the mother?”

  The line went silent for a long time, then, “Pauline, born June 17, 1941, in Chamonix, France, to Rene and Imogene LaCroix. Rene served in the French Army in World War I in an artillery unit. Subsequently, became a mountain guide in the Aguiles region near Chamonix.

  “The parents owned a restaurant later in life, which served as a social center for climbers. Rene died in 1974, Imogene in 1980.

  “The daughter, Inez’s mother, left for Paris in 1958 to study. Met Laurence Didier, an American exchange student, soon after, married, quit school and gave birth to Inez. The detective believes from an interview she had with a neighbor of Pauline’s in Lyons that during his time in Vietnam, Pauline and Inez spent much of their time in Chamonix.

  “When Didier was killed, there was a falling out between Rene and Pauline. She and Inez moved to Lyons, where Pauline took a job as a secretary to a midlevel executive in a textile factory, silk I think.

  “A neighbor said Inez was a quiet child—this is a direct quote—‘who seemed to delight in taking pictures of awful things. She had a camera her father gave her before he was killed, and when my sister’s husband, Pierre, died in a barge accident, that Inez walked up to her in the cemetery and snapped her picture as she stood over his open grave.’ Close quote.”

  Farrell scribbled notes. “How did she get the neighbor to tell her that?”

  “Cash does wonder for people’s voices,” he said in a cynical tone. “Okay, we move on. This from the sister whose picture Inez snapped. The sister, Claudette Noir, claims to have occupied the apartment next to Pauline and Inez until 1978. Noir says that in the late 1960s and early 1970s, the Didiers were cash poor, always borrowing money, on the edge of eviction. In 1973, the financial problems disappear.”

  “How does she know this?”

  “Noir says Pauline suddenly was no longer in debt to a loan shark named Piret, Noir’s cousin,” the attorney said. “Pauline owed Piret a great deal of money at one time and then didn’t. And there was new furniture and clothes for both Pauline and her daughter.”