Planning took over a month, and Max was obsessed with looking at every “what if” scenario he could possibly think of. Sandra handled the day-to-day running of the FARC agents while Max wrote ream after ream of flow charts, spread sheets, time lines, and possible outcomes. He was unavailable for weekly meetings, social gatherings, partners’ lunches, and normal work problems.
No one thought this odd, since Max used this same technique to plan some of the FARC’s most profitable operations.
As the weeks passed, Max and Sandra started to implement their plan. Individually and as a couple, they discussed the future of socialism with several second tier officers of the FARC, gauging the support for changing the leadership. Max started keeping a secret card file on all the officers and influential supporters of the guerrilla movement. After a few months it was apparent who was willing to move into politics and who was just greedy for more money.
Many of these officers were anxious to see the FARC become more than a parasite to their country, and they urged Max to push the leadership to move into a region and declare sovereignty. Max became convinced he was destined to take over the FARC and lead them toward a political victory, ending more than fifty years of civil war.
Max studied the major coup d’états of the last two hundred years, read everything that he could on the subject of changing leadership, and revised the plans with Sandra’s input. As the plan became more and more concrete, they convinced themselves that the current leadership had to be killed.
It was the only way that they could quickly take power, and not splinter the FARC. At first, they planned the takeover during a meeting when all the main leaders would be gathered together. But they discarded that plan since that type of meeting was rare and had stringent security. All those armed men made the chances too high for an all out firefight. Instead, the assassinations would happen simultaneously, without warning, in several different locales.
Carefully, allies were approached. Max knew it would arouse too much suspicion to be seen personally talking with sub-commanders and drug traffickers. But each time Sandra traveled, she dined with the local FARC leader, a liberal politician, or a cartel leader. None of the old junta suspected, since it was just good hospitality to go to dinner with the wife of the finance director. One just couldn’t let her rot in her hotel room. Besides, she was so beautiful and charming.
So, one by one, the sub-commanders were felt out. Some were supportive of any move toward a political victory, some were just spellbound by Sandra, and others were still loyal to the current regime, liking their money more than possible power and glory. All of this was entered in Max’s card file. And he and Sandra decided who would live and who would die.
After hearing of Tyson’s huge oil strike, Sandra was the one who thought of starting with the conquest of Arauca. She had always been the big thinker, and Max the detail man. Once she put the idea of a sovereign nation into his head, he projected the possible problems, and sought out advance solutions. Money for arms and operations would come from oil, protection would be provided by allies needing the oil, and with a safe haven, the FARC could build an army to conquer all of the northern part of South America.
Max contacted the head of Chinese intelligence in Bogotá, and after some negotiations, came to an agreement to sell Arauca’s oil to China at three euros per barrel below world prices in return for an advance payment of 150 million euros and diplomatic recognition. China wanted more influence in South America, more oil for their hungry economy, and, eventually, control of the Panama Canal. Venezuela was approached, but negotiations dragged on for months. President Chavez wanted both national goals and personal riches.
Assassins were recruited. These were skilled men who believed in the rise of world socialism. One of them, a hardened killer, saw the need for a different leader. Another, a romantic, wanted to change the world for the better. But most were body guards who agreed to kill their bosses for large sums of money. The ground was fertile since the body guards saw the wealth of the leaders, but also knew none if it reached the FARC soldiers, much less the common people.
With these diplomatic and economic cornerstones, Max felt he could build a country that would become a base for enlightened socialism to spread throughout the Andean region. Within five years he would be ruler of all of Colombia, along with Ecuador and Venezuela. Max had no fear of the USA. America was too engaged in Iran and Iraq to bring their military might to bear. Besides, they risked embargos and possible war with Arauca’s new allies.
Now, after nearly thirteen months of work, Max and Sandra were ready to launch “The Bold and the Beautiful.” Max sent out several e-mails, each containing, somewhere in the message, a code phrase, “Siga La Vaca”. This was the name of a bar in Bucaramanga. Loosely translated, Follow the Cow, this phrase tickled Sandra when she first saw the name on the window. As previously arranged, this message alerted all the participants that the operation was to take place at 0700 the morning of the next holiday.
Colombia has nearly 20 holidays that fall on a Monday, creating three day weekends on a regular basis. By striking early on Monday morning, the assassins would almost surely have a target who was either drunk or suffering from an extensive hangover. Most victims would still be in bed. 0700 was chosen because some of the partiers stayed out past 0500 drinking, and the killers wanted to make sure that as many as possible were at home or in a hotel, and not out on some dance floor.
After the bloodbath on Monday morning, Max Gomez would announce himself the new leader of the FARC, determined to end the criminal activity and return to the mission of social justice for the downtrodden of Colombia. All of his sub-commanders would issue press releases announcing their support of the new leader.
Then the next timetable would start.
The final piece of the puzzle came together when Max received an encrypted email from the president of Venezuela. Max knew that without an outlet, a landlocked country such as Arauca could not export oil, or even have airline service. They needed another country’s help. Venezuela was the key.
Max approached President Chavez several weeks ago when he realized his plan was coming close to implementation. President Chavez had been providing safe havens for the FARC for several years: places just across the border for FARC soldiers to rest and wounded to convalesce. In the email, Chavez agreed to grant diplomatic recognition as soon as FARC took the capital, Arauca City. Within ninety days he would build a pipeline tying the Cano Limon oil fields to his pipelines and ports. Finally, Chavez agreed to sponsor Arauca’s membership to OPEC. In return, Chavez would be paid five percent of the oil revenue, and five percent of the narcotics revenue. These millions would be deposited into Chavez’s personal accounts in Panama.
Max paced the floor. What else was there to do? FARC’s head propagandist, also a true believer, had already prepared television, radio, and print releases. The last part of the scheme was the riddance of Ojo Azul. But Max knew that he needed more information.
0900, Monday, July 15
Lobby
US Embassy
Bogotá, Colombia
Ann Snyder had not seen this much activity since the FARC hijacked a Satena airliner and kidnapped all 43 passengers three years ago. Every branch of the US military was represented at the Embassy. Camera men seemed to spring up everywhere, and the Marines stayed on high alert to watch that no reporters wandered out of the lobby area. Radios and televisions blared on desks and people crowded around them. Every station reported multiple murders of FARC officials and the new mission of the FARC. A big monitor mounted on one wall replayed a video loop from the FARC website. The gorgeous female spokesman announced that the organization would no longer kidnap regular citizen or extort businesses for income, but would commit itself to social justice for the people of Colombia, along with all Northern Andean peoples. Hugo Chavez, speaking from Venezuela, appeared in the clip and praised the realignment of the guerrilla organization, stating that his nation would also work for social ju
stice.
As she walked past a trash can, Ann heard two of the Colombian janitors talking.
“I knew the FARC would turn out good for us poor people. We’ve been oppressed by the rich for so long…” Funny how they never think a white girl can speak Spanish. The communist phrases stuck in her mind. This could be a turning point to rally the people to the Communist cause.
She saw Whitehorse Jackson walking down the hall, returning from an emergency meeting with the Ambassador, Narcotics Affairs Section (NAS), DEA, and DoD (Department of Defense). He looked so happy! She could not help the warm glow she felt as he walked up to her.
“Another day in Paradise, mi amor. These g’s sure know how to create some job security around here.”
He laughed, grabbed her shoulder and turned her around. They started walking down the hall with his arm around her shoulders. She enjoyed the closeness. Even with her heels, he was just a little taller, but so much bigger across his back and shoulders. Her stride matched his, and her hand went around his waist.
“I don’t know what all this means, but FARC killing FARC has got to be a good thing.” His smile was intoxicating, and she even snuggled closer as they walked. Why am I acting like this? I’m not a teenager anymore. This man has something that I want. But he’s my boss….
“Let’s celebrate. I’ll buy coffee.” They rounded the corner and he punched the button for the elevator. As soon as the door shut them in, he almost pushed her away and his face became like stone.
“Ann, I don’t know what’s happening. I’m in the dark here. Our agents in the FARC had no idea this was going to happen. My own people were asleep. This is the biggest development in this war in fifteen years and we’ve been caught completely flat footed. The Ambassador is fuming.
”I want into the new organization. Get me everything you can on the new leadership, how our agents will be affected, and what this connection this has to do with Gerald Minor.”
“Yes sir,” just seemed to jump from her mouth.
Ann felt like she had been slapped. She’d been completely taken in by his act. Of course he would be happy in front of the reporters, secretaries, and visitors in the lobby. No one knew who they might be working for. But did he enjoy their closeness as much as she did?
“I’m promoting you to my Assistant Chief of Station, but no one is to know until you run this op.” Ann was elated. Finally, a chance to get into operations, if only she could pull this off. The Assistant Chief slot had stayed open for several months, mainly because Washington wouldn’t move without a crisis. Whitehorse didn’t push for a new Assistant, so it remained in limbo. She knew her approval to move up would require signoffs from several management layers in the Agency, but she also knew that what Whitehorse Jackson wanted, he usually got.
The elevator opened and Whitehorse was smiling again. They walked over to the coffee shop, and good as his word, he bought.
She watched him as he drank his coffee. She didn’t know if she could take this emotional roller coaster. He always surprised her and she didn’t know how to predict what he would do. But she liked it.
1006, Monday, July 15
Cano Limon, Arauca
Colombia
Last night’s mission did not end until 2300, and then Mad went to the dining hall and had a late cup of coffee with Gloria II. There were two women named Gloria on the camp, so Mad named them Gloria I and Gloria II. Gloria II was the secretary for the Director General for all of Cano Limon. They enjoyed each other’s company, and Mad thought that he might take her up on her invitation to look her up in Bogotá when he rotated out next month.
Getting to sleep last night around 0330, Mad was just waking up when his phone rang.
“Hallo”, he answered like a Colombian, putting the emphasis on the first syllable.
“Mad, this is Walt.” The security chief never seemed to sleep. “We’ve got some developments. You’d better get dressed and get down here.”
As soon as Mad walked in the door of the command post, he saw neat piles of papers on his desk ready for reading. Post-it notes marked places that Walt thought were important.
“We have just had a major, major earthquake in the FARC. I’ve compiled some information about it while you were sleeping. But as soon as we had something concrete, I felt I ought to brief you.”
“Good thinking, Walt.” Mad yawned and stretched.
“This is the news in a nutshell: All of the old leadership of the FARC has been killed off in a coordinated move this morning starting at 0700. We have estimates that over thirty FARC leaders have been assassinated by their own officers or bodyguards. Now the spin they are putting out is the New FARC is completely out of the kidnapping business, and into social justice. They are no longer a criminal organization, they say. Propaganda, I say.”
Earl Eugene Madison thought that maybe he hadn’t completely awakened. He looked at Walt with an empty expression.
“Didn’t you hear what I said? The FARC has had an internal coup. They are announcing they’ve changed to a political organization,” Walt said with no little irritation in his voice.
Mad cleared his throat and tried to look alert and intelligent.
“Yeah. I heard you. I just don’t know what to think about this.”
“Sit. Read this. I’ll call the kitchen and have them to bring you some breakfast.”
As Mad read through printouts from Stratfor.com, the FARC website, and the Colombian and European newspapers, he knew his job would never be the same. It was always much easier to fight against criminals than against true believers.
Monday and Tuesday, Mad and Steve flew extra missions, but saw no guerrilla activity from the air. This filled Mad with a sense of foreboding. The more that he heard about the “New FARC” the darker the cloud that hung over him. When he mentioned this lack of activity to Walt, the security man requested that the Colombian Army increase patrolling around the production facility and the aircraft hangar in particular.
2130, Tuesday, July 16
Penthouse of the Oliveto Building
Santa Marta, Colombia
Ramon Alvarez Menchaca Ledesma looked out his penthouse window and watched the tankers steam past on their way to Covenas to pick up oil. In the darkness he could only see the running lights.
As the leader of the Santa Marta drug cartel, he kept a very low profile, having learned a lesson from the Cali and Medellin cartels. Their flamboyance was a large factor in their demise. No, he preferred to keep his riches in banks and real estate. He was foremost a businessman.
He would spend tonight in the penthouse of this apartment building on the beach and move to a new location tomorrow morning.
Feeling a buzz in his shirt pocket, he reached inside and answered his cell phone.
“Yes?”
“Don Humo, this is Max Gomez.” Only a few people knew that Ramon was the leader of the Santa Marta Cartel. The world knew the leader only as Don Humo, (“Mr. Smoke.”). The two of them had played phone tag all day.
“Max, thank you for returning my call. I want to congratulate you on a superb operation yesterday. Very professional news releases, too.”
“Thank you, Don Humo. I wanted to call and thank you for your support, and let you know I am committed to our continuing business relationship and personal friendship.”
“Thank you, Max. I think with the country more at peace we can continue our business with less violence and unfortunate, shall we say, outcomes.”
“Yes, sir. I think we’ve opened a new chapter in Colombia, and in our business.”
“Good night, Max.”
Would the New FARC be a blessing or a curse for his business? He didn’t know. But when Max took over the reins of power, he had no option but to follow. After all, the FARC guarded his fields and labs, escorted shipments, and warned him of raids. The intelligence alone was worth the percentage he paid them.
At least I am on the winning team, he thought, shuddering at the possibility that he might have bee
n drawn into the bloodbath. What a masterful coup, killing his superiors all in one stroke. I will have to review my subordinates and the body guards. If it could happen to Mono Ho Hoy, it could happen to anyone. He fondled the Khar 9 pistol in his right pocket.
0600, Wednesday, July 17
Finca Rio Rojo
Arauca, Colombia
Max Gomez ran on the treadmill daily for 45 minutes. It was here he did his best thinking. An early riser since he was a child, Max slipped quietly out of bed at 0430, leaving Sandra sleeping like an angel. Speed reading several papers while he drank his coffee, he made a few notes for his subordinates, and then went downstairs to work out.
The day after the coup, Max moved from the Medellin hotel to this farm, called a finca by the Colombians. Seven hundred hectares, the farm had been purchased by the FARC several years ago through a Panamanian corporation.
The big house, built in the early 1930’s, made a perfect headquarters for his operation. Six bedrooms, plus maid’s quarters, a nice courtyard, and stables had all been upgraded from Max’s personal fortune over the last two years. Max lived on the second floor in a large bedroom with an office attached. His command center was across the hall. He completely modernized the large kitchen to feed his staff and converted the stables into barracks for his personal guards. His secretaries labored in the communications center that was once a large game room.
Sweat trickled down Max’s face, and he was pleased that he had managed to keep trim, unlike several of his contemporaries. The Bold and the Beautiful had been an unqualified success, but Max felt a twinge of guilt at having ordered the murders of twenty-three FARC leaders.
Those men brought me up in the movement, and I have slaughtered them. Some of them were my friends. He looked up at the ceiling as he ran, and let his grief flow through him. Visions of the past, formal dinners, private parties, funerals for the fallen, and business meetings all came unbidden to his memory. Several tears stung his eyes, and he wiped them away.
Arauca: A Novel of Colombia Page 10