“How was your day at the embassy, my love?” Bobby asked as he opened the door to his chauffeured Mercedes. The driver never leaves the driver’s seat in Colombia. Some street kid would jump in and steal the car while the driver was opening a door for the owner.
“You know, just trying to get all those visa requests processed. We do a lot more thorough background checks now, trying to keep out of the druggies and the money launderers.” Her cover was that she was an investigator for the State Department, vetting visa applicants to screen out terrorists and criminals. It fit well with her real job, and gave her reasons to work weekends and odd hours.
“I don’t know how you can take the boredom of that type of work. Why don’t you go to work for one of my friends? With your brains, your Spanish, and your looks, you could be earning double the money.”
“I love what I do, Roberto.” She always called him “Roberto” whenever they got into a “discussion”. “I don’t think I could ever do anything else.”
After a short ride up the mountain, they arrived at the Bogota Beer Company, the BBC. As they walked up the steep stairs, Bobby put his arm around her waist, and she felt wanted and beautiful. Several of the regulars were there, camped out at the bar. Bobby and his friends liked coming here because it was a little bit like an English pub. One could get dark beer, bad food, and sit on an uncomfortable stool, all while paying too way much money. But the Bogotá Beer Company was the place to be seen by the elite of Bogotá.
Even though Ann knew the main reason Bobby brought her here was to show off his tall American beauty, she had a good time talking with her friends. In many ways, Bogotá was a small town. The same small groups frequented the expensive pubs, exclusive dance clubs, and the best restaurants. It was not often that Ann went to one of her hangouts without seeing some of her friends. She called them her “Social Club”, and they included British oilmen, South African security specialists, Australian coal mining equipment salesmen, and American medical equipment representatives.
Most of the time, they spoke English, as some of the ex-pats still didn’t have enough Spanish to enjoy stories and jokes in the native language. Bobby especially enjoyed showing off his English prowess. He had studied at Harvard, coming home with a degree in finance. The beer flowed and they munched on chicken wings and sandwiches with French fries.
At ten o’clock, as if someone had made an announcement, they paid the bill and walked down the street to a small, exclusive discothèque. There was no sign, only an ancient door that led into a large house built in the 18th century. The door man kept out anyone under thirty. Seeing Bobby, the guard smiled and waved their group to the head of the line. Just inside, each person was thoroughly frisked for weapons. Bobby paid the ridiculous door charge, and the group wandered toward the back, where the live band was playing 70’s rock and roll.
A waiter guided them to two good tables on the edge of the small dance floor, and Bobby ordered a pitcher of Coke, a bucket of ice, a bottle of rum, and bottle of Aguar Diente, the licorice-tasting, clear, potent national liquor of Colombia. Like magic, the set-up appeared, and Ann poured out the drinks: rum and Coke for most of the women, straight shots of Aguar Diente for the men. Ann poured herself a shot of rum with a little Coke.
The band finished the set and took a break. A salsa number came over the speakers, and Bobby stood, faced Ann holding out his hand, palm up. She took it, with a big smile. She had been waiting all evening to dance salsa, and Bobby was one of the best dancers she had ever known. Bobby pulled her close, and they glided out on the floor with only three other couples.
They moved as one, with Bobby confidently leading her through spins, cross-overs, and double steps. She was lost in the joy of the partnership, technique and art blended into smooth motion, as if each could read the other’s thoughts. The long salsa section ended, and the DJ switched to vallenato, (bai en Ah to), the country western music of Colombia.
This type of dance is normally performed with the couple very close together, or as one old vallenato song says, “The couple must both stand on the same floor tile.” Ann could feel Bobby against her, and desire flooded up to her head. He held her close, and they danced the small intricate steps to a sad song about true love lost. After the song ended, Bobby kissed her lips, then gave her several lingering kisses on her neck.
Ann knew she was a little drunk, a small voice in the back of her head warning that the beer and the rum, combined with the high altitude had fuzzled up her brain. But the message was drowned out by her need.
“Let’s get out of here,” she said.
Two hours later, she lay on her back, nude in Bobby’s bed. Bobby’s apartment was perched far up the mountain in the quiet, expensive part of the city. A cool Andean breeze flowed in through the open window and dried the sweat between her breasts. Bobby lay to her left side, still breathing hard. Her exertions had cleared away the alcohol fog, and she now felt dirty, used, and stupid.
Why do I do this to myself? I hardly even like this guy. Why do I let my urges get me into these messes? Every time she slept with Bobby, she felt more like an object, a trophy. “The Tall American Blonde Woman.”
Ann liked men and wanted to get married again. But Phil had ruined her for all other men. He had been absolutely committed to her, and she had responded with complete dedication. Nothing but death could have come between them.
It had taken over three years after Phil’s death before she could date again, and every man she had gotten to know proved that they were absolutely committed to themselves first, to their mothers second, and she was a distant third. Fourth, in one instance, when she found out that her boyfriend had a long-term mistress. Of course, she only dated Colombian men. There were no complications from work, and they did not seem to have the same curiosity level about her job as American men.
Bobby rolled over and looked at her with big puppy eyes. “I love you so much.”
She looked over at him, smiled weakly, and stroked his cheek. Now Ann felt trapped. She must get out of this relationship. But doubt seeped into her thoughts. What will you do if you give him up? There aren’t many men in Colombia, and even fewer that will have anything to do with a woman who has a child. You’re not young anymore.
But this is not the “Right Guy”. He’s rich, fairly good looking, good in bed, and good to me. But he is not the Guy. Do I settle or do I look some more?
Ann knew she could not settle. For Phil Junior’s sake and for her own sake, she could not settle. But how would she break it off without hurting Bobby? He had been good to her for over a year. Expensive presents, flowers, trips. He was a good lover, but he just didn’t have “IT.”
Even harder for her, she realized if she broke up with Bobby, it would embarrass him socially, and may even damage his career. “He couldn’t hold on to that American doll,” they’d say.
Then it came to her. Ann saw the way to play this so that Bobby would have his pride and his manhood intact. She knew just what to say so that he would never call her again. She rolled toward him and placed her hand on his smooth chest.
“Bobby?”
“Yes, my love?”
“When are we going to get married?”
0210, Saturday, July 13
Gerald Minor’s House
Satellite Beach, Florida
Rudy Rodriquez parked in front of Gerald Minor’s house and went to the front door. He rang the bell, and Gerald opened it and let him in. Rudy looked around at the small 1950’s living room. A surf board leaned up in a corner. Clutter and dirty clothes everywhere. A new Apple laptop computer sat on a small table in the other corner. Hard rock music thumped out of two speakers nearby. Dirty dishes were still stacked in the sink from dinner.
Three hours earlier, at Salvador’s house, Rudy listened on the speakerphone during the call to Gerald Minor.
“Gerald, this is Salvador. Hey, look, man. We want you to know how valuable you are to us. Tell you what. Why don’t I send my man by your house tonight w
ith a bonus?”
“Yeah, that would be great,” Gerald answered. Salvador looked over at Rudy. They could tell from his voice Gerald had been drinking or maybe doing some weed.
“He won’t be able to get there until about two. Is that too late for you?”
“No, no, that’s OK. Ummm. How much is the bonus?” Gerald asked.
“We were thinking about fifteen grand. Would that work out alright for you?”
“Wow, yeah. Cool. I’ll be waiting.” Salvador hung up and smiled at Rudy.
Now, standing in Gerald’s living room, Rudy said, “Great place you got here.”
“Yeah. It’s really close to the beach. All I have to do is walk one block, cross A1A, and I’m in the water.”
“Wow, I wish I could afford a place like this.” Rudy wondered how this imbecile could miss the sarcasm in his voice. “Is this the bedroom?”
“Yeah, come on. I’ll show you.” They both moved toward the back of the house.
“Don’t seem to be any place to keep a bunch of money safe,” Rudy said looking around the small bungalow. After he satisfied himself that no one else was in the house, he said, “You wouldn’t want to get robbed.”
“Oh, I’ll keep the it safe, alright. Did you bring the money?”
Rudy carried a small black leather bag on his right hip. Its thick diagonal strap crossed his chest and went over his left shoulder. Gerald never noticed that Rudy wore latex gloves.
“I’ve got your money right here,” Rudy said as he opened the bag. Greed welled up in Gerald’s eyes as Rudy moved a little closer.
With surprising quickness, Rudy pulled out a .22 Ruger pistol with his right hand. He grabbed the back of Gerald’s neck with his left hand, jammed the pistol up against Gerald’s left temple and fired twice. The music drowned out the thud of the 22. Gerald crumpled to the floor.
Rudy dropped the pistol, turned, walked out the front door, and got into the stolen car.
Easy money, Rudy thought.
Chapter Five
0900, Saturday, July 13
US Embassy
Bogotá, Colombia
Whitehorse Jackson sat down, stunned. The phone call from the Miami station chief told him of the murder of Gerald Minor. An early morning runner noticed the open front door and loud music. He called 911 and the police arrived shortly thereafter.
Neighbors were interviewed, statements taken, and the crime scene examined. The pistol they found near Gerald was reported stolen in Houston two years ago. No fingerprints. One witness noticed the car pull up late last night, and it matched the description of a stolen car recovered three miles away in a Wal-Mart parking lot.
At 0800 Larry Pallazollo arrived on station to begin his surveillance day. When he saw the police cars and the crime scene tape, instead of parking, he cruised slowly by the house just like hundreds of other cars. But he took over fifty pictures surreptitiously by holding his camera under his left armpit while he had his elbow out the window. He immediately called his Miami contact, leaving a message on his cell phone. As soon as he got back to his hotel room, he emailed the pictures.
After the email from Larry P., Whitehorse called the Miami CIA office and confirmed that Gerald Minor was dead. What now? No one could have planned a hit that quickly. How did they find out the Agency suspected Minor? Do I have a leak?
“Hi, Boss.” Ann Snyder walked into the office like a burst of bright sunshine. Her hair was pulled back, and she wore jeans and a red tee shirt. She felt like a new person, and her smile broadcast it to the world. Her question last night about marriage caused Bobby to immediately call his driver and have her delivered home. His “reason” was an early golf game this morning. But Ann knew she was now free.
Whitehorse looked at her puzzled. I call her in to work on a Saturday morning, and she has a smile like this one? There’s something I don’t know about all of this.
“Our pigeon is dead,” he said.
“What!? You mean Minor?”
Whitehorse nodded. “Got a call from Miami about eight o’clock. Whacked. Professional. Last night.”
Ann sat down and stared at Jackson. She looked like she was going to cry. They were silent for a long time.
There goes my chance to run my first double agent. When will I get another chance like this? What are we going to do now? Her thoughts ran back and forth like a squirrel caught in a room.
“There has to be some reason they risked a murder in the US.” Whitehorse thumped a pencil on his desk. “This guy must have been more than we think. Dig into everything about him, and find out what was so damn important.”
0930, Saturday, July 13
Hotel Dann Carlton
Medellin, Colombia
Max Gomez reached into his pocket and answered his phone.
“Yes?” He listened for a minute. “Good work.” He turned to his wife, Sandra. “Our little problem in Florida has been taken care of.” Sandra just smiled.
Max and Sandra were the couple that recruited Gerald Minor. A large part of their duties included recruiting agents for the FARC. They successfully recruited oil executives, bankers, National Police Officers, politicians, Army officers, Air Force pilots, and, with Gerald Minor, a Monroe employee. The couple used every tool there was: blackmail, money, political appeal, and sex. Max had even used his lovely wife. She was currently having an affair with a top Colombian intelligence official. Their performance was a large factor in Max’s rise through the ranks of the FARC leadership.
“Salvador has assured me all of the details have been tied up.” Max had planned the murder of Gerald Minor since he was first recruited. Max considered him a “doomed spy” such as he had studied in Sun Tzu’s, The Art of War. As they predicted, Monroe Corporation eventually began to suspect a leak, especially after a crash. It was just luck that one of the drug cartel’s assets would get wind of the investigation even before Gerald Minor was debriefed.
Operation Gordo had been a complete success. The bullet hits slowed down the spray operation in Putamayo, the troops got a big boost in morale, and most importantly, Max Gomez once again showed he was able to run a successful operation. As a side benefit, State Department, Monroe, and the CIA would be looking everywhere for FARC agents, suspecting everyone in their own organization.
Even though Max was elated at the success of Gordo, he knew it was just a side show compared to his operation to take over control of FARC. The current leadership had become fat and lazy on the profits of extortion and drug trafficking. They no longer believed in the eventual triumph of enlightened socialism over the corrupt junta of the giant corporations, the church, and the ruling families of Colombia.
“Ah, mi muneca, (my doll), I believe it is time to launch The Bold and the Beautiful.”
“The Bold and the Beautiful” was spoken in English. The couple loved to watch American soap operas and the “Bold and the Beautiful” was their favorite. They soon thought that it was a good description of themselves. With El Brujo finally brought into the fold, Max was ready to initiate the take-over. And even Sandra did not know of the promise of help from Venezuela that had fallen into place causing Max to declare the time was now.
“The Bold and the Beautiful” entailed killing all of the top officers of the FARC who were not aligned behind Max. Their plan was born over a year ago, one night as Max and Sandra were up late drinking wine and talking about the future of world socialism.
“We are making money, but we’re not making progress toward a better world,” Max said, more than a little drunk.
“Since the Soviet Union imploded, our movement has been rudderless. Our leaders are corrupted by all this money,” Sandra said. “They think like old women, only worried about what they have today, and not looking to the future. Not thinking about what might be.”
“How can we convince those old men to change? There’s no mechanism for other opinions to be expressed. We have no elections, no legislative branch, no judges. Mono rules with an iron hand. How can we convinc
e him to change back to the path of socialism?”
Sandra leaned in closer, and Max had to lean in to hear her say, “We’ll never be able to convince them.”
“What do you mean, mi amor?”
She put her hand around Max’s neck and drew him even closer.
“We must rid the movement of those greedy old goats. Great leaders have always just taken what they wanted. We--you and I--can rule the FARC better than those old assholes.” He leaned in closer and kissed her hard on the mouth.
“I love you.”
“I love you too, Max.”
“Do you really think that we could do it? Take over the FARC?”
“Why not, my love?” She flipped her head back, making her long hair go behind her shoulder. “Didn’t our teachers always tell us to think big? ‘Reach for the sky,’ they said.”
They made wild love, power and danger potent aphrodisiacs, and then the couple talked until dawn about the options for taking control of their organization.
In the morning, Max, the planner, got a spiral notebook, and they listed all the commanders who would follow them. On the next page they wrote down all who would remain loyal to the old order. Then, on the third page they listed the swing group who might go to either side. Ever the financial thinker, Max started a separate sheet with projected costs to implement the takeover along with the projected profits for themselves should they succeed.
The cash flow figures were staggering. The FARC earned over two million dollars per day in profits from guarding drug facilities, not counting kidnapping, war taxes, and extortion. Even though Max knew he would never get the billions from the leader’s Swiss bank accounts, the daily cash flow combined with his own personal fortune was more than enough to finance the operation.
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