Pablo Ortega was forty-two years old, a little over five feet tall, solidly built but not fat. His thick black hair fell forward in unruly boyish curls. His hooded eyes masked a fierce animal intelligence. Pablo Ortega had earned his reputation on the streets of Medellin as a boy, starting out with hubcaps and car stereos, working his way up through extortion to kidnapping and murder. He wasn’t smarter or more intelligent than his peers, but he was more ruthless, more brutal. He re-read the report for a third time. He was displeased but he wasn’t angry. At most the incident had cost him maybe seven million dollars in lost market share. Seven million dollars was an important sum, but it wasn’t a fortune. But most of all, Pablo Ortega was intrigued. The idea cocaine could be grown outside of South America, right on Europe’s doorstep, had never occurred to him. He would put a team of specialists on the case immediately; botanists, agronomists, logistics people. If cocaine really could be grown in the High Atlas Mountains of Morocco it could be a valuable opportunity, not a huge opportunity, but an interesting one.
Ortega’s office was on the fifth floor of an ultra-modern, steel and glass climate-controlled building at the hub of the ring fenced compound. The furnishings were ornate gilded French Imperial. The antiques, paintings and ornaments were priceless originals. Aside from the view of the tropical landscaped gardens it might have been the corporate HQ of some vast international conglomerate on Wall Street.
Pablo Ortega looked up from the papers he was reading and addressed Frank Willowby in almost perfect English. Courtesy was one of Ortega’s most exaggerated traits. Willowby was the DEA’s top man in Europe and worked out of the American Embassy in London’s Grosvenor Square. Frank Willowby, grey eyes, grey hair, grey business suit, looked every inch the bureaucrat he was. He seemed nervous. So far he hadn’t been maltreated but he had no idea what to expect. He was in the presence of a man the whole world feared. A man richer than Rockefeller. More powerful and more ruthless than Capone and Dillinger combined.
“I’ve been reading your report, Frank. Most interesting. I shall have the matter looked into right away. See what’s possible and what’s not. Meantime, let’s see if you can flesh things out for me a little. Give me some of the flavour. Who’s this guy Ambrose? How do you rate him?”
“Ben Ambrose?”
Willowby felt a dryness in his throat. He had expected hostility, threats, but somehow Ortega’s civility was more menacing than these.
“He’s a good operative. Bit of a maverick. Doesn’t respond well to discipline.”
“Ambrose claims he was working alone. You believe that?”
“No, sir, I know for a fact he wasn’t. I’ve had access to the Scotland Yard files. Ambrose was working with a Brit called Bowman. Alex Bowman.”
“And how do you rate this Mr Bowman?”
“Don’t know much about him, sir. Except he served some time. Claims they were trumped-up charges, but that’s what everybody says.”
“So who else knew about the coca farm?”
“A journalist called Melanie Drake somehow got involved. She had a very rough ride. Bowman was very protective.”
“You have a touching faith in human nature, Frank.”
Willowby noted Ortega’s smile. He didn’t like it. Faith in human nature was not known to be one of Ortega’s favoured characteristics.
“Look, Frank, I have some other stuff to deal with concerning my operations in the States. We’ll talk again tomorrow. Maybe make some decisions.”
As Willowby moved towards the door Ortega touched him on the elbow.
“Nice necktie, by the way. Suits you.”
As they walked back to the cells Willowby turned to his guard. “What was that about a necktie?”
“It’s Señor Ortega’s trademark,” the guard smiled. If Willowby had been Colombian, he wouldn’t have needed to ask. “When Señor Ortega was making his way up he invented the necktie, la corbata. If you didn’t tell him what he wanted to know, or he thought you were lying, he’d slit your throat from bottom to top, right up under the chin. Then he’d insert his fist in the open wound and drag your tongue out through the gap, so it looked like you were wearing a tie. But he wouldn’t kill you. He’d just watch you to die.”
***
It wasn’t till the following afternoon that Ortega had time to spend on the Moroccan project, there were other more pressing matters demanding his attention. But his investment in Willowby was too great to abandon lightly. The American had been recruited years earlier when Frank was a rooky agent working his way up the DEA ladder in Miami. Ortega had fed him a series of minor coups, two or three thousand dollars’ worth of coke at a time. Willowby’s ascent was swift. Now, at the age of only forty-seven, he was the DEA’s top man in Europe. The intelligence he was able to provide was beyond price.
Ortega had Willowby brought to his office and invited O’Brien to join them. He took the Irishman quickly through Willowby’s story, pausing briefly here and there to check a fact or confirm an assumption with Willowby.
“So somewhere up in the High Atlas Mountains,” Ortega concluded, “this guy was growing coca. Sounds like a really good idea to me. I might want to try it myself. We lose a lot of merchandise crossing the Atlantic. But first I need to eliminate anybody who knows it can be done. The only lead we have right now is a DEA agent named Ambrose. Willowby here will give you his details before you leave. Fortunately we know where to find him. We also know Ambrose was working with a Brit called Alex Bowman. Ex-cop with an interesting background. Effective sonofabitch. There was a girl who also got involved. She could be dangerous. She’s a reporter. There’s been nothing in the press so far and I want to keep it that way. This thing leaks out there’ll be FBI all over the goddamn place. Point is, we can’t just blow Ambrose away. We need him alive so we can take care of Bowman and the girl.”
O’Brien flexed his fingers.
“I won’t be able to move for a couple of weeks or more. I have to go south from here, up into the Cordilleras, hook up with three other Paddies. We’re negotiating with a team of people from the FARC. They want to buy some of our expertise.”
Ortega frowned. He didn’t like splitting resources with the FARC. The Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia had a whole different agenda, more akin to Al Qaeda’s than his own. Getting too close to the Marxist guerrillas could be bad for Ortega’s business. He had enough trouble with the CIA and the FBI. He didn’t need to attract the attention of the Pentagon as well.
“Would it speed things up if I helped with transportation?” said Pablo. “This is a big country, as big as France and Spain combined. You can borrow one of the jets if you like.”
“Thanks,” the Irishman smiled, “but there’s no way Tirofijo would let your pilot anywhere near the safe-haven, and besides, they don’t have a landing strip long enough to take a jet. The command centre is constantly on the move and they’d never have the time to build one. You could fly me into Bogotá if you like, but I’ll have to disappear from there. I’ll touch base with you on my way back to Miami.”
***
Declan O’Brien flew into Bogotá’s El Dorado International airport on one of Ortega’s executive jets. The Learjet taxied to the General Aviation terminal reserved for private flights. O’Brien paused at the top of the aircraft’s steps like a sporting hero responding to applause, raising an arm and acknowledging the crowd.
On the observation deck overlooking the runway two men stood apart from the crowd. One was short and stocky with olive skin and tightly curled black hair, dressed in a tailored business suit. This was Captain Raül Abono of the Departamento Administrativo de Seguridad, the Colombian Secret Service. The other was MI6’s Head of Station at the Embassy in Bogotá. He was tall and blond, in grey flannels and blazer and what looked like a club or regimental tie. He touched his companion on the elbow. Abono peered through the viewfinder of a compact camera, adjusted the zoom and took a couple of headshots of O’Brien. Then they went downstairs to the crowded concourse and w
atched the Irishman exit onto the pavement.
O’Brien surveyed the line of parked cars, spotted the one he wanted and walked over to a two-tone Honda SUV. The driver wound down his window and exchanged a few words with the Irishman. O’Brien dumped his bag on the back seat and got in. The two observers watched the SUV disappear into traffic. The Brit tried to spot the tail pulling out to take up position behind it. There wasn’t one.
“You’re not having him followed?” The Englishman was stunned.
“Not much point,” said the Colombian, “he’ll be headed for the safe-haven. A tail’s not much use on the open road and anyway I have no jurisdiction there.”
“Then why not arrest him now? While we have him in our sights?”
“And charge him with what exactly? We’ll pick him up on his way back. After we find out what he’s up to.”
It took O’Brien one day and one night to get where he was going. Dawn broke over the craggy peaks of Cauca province, the early morning heat lifting a dense haze through the triple canopy of jungle. The chorale of birds and insects was shrill.
One hundred and twenty miles south of Calí the road took a couple of sharp hairpin bends. The driver turned off the main road and joined an unmarked track, ascending steeply up into the rain forest. After a couple of hundred yards, out of sight from the highway, the driver parked the car and both men got out, stretched their limbs and peed copiously. Then the driver tied a black bandana over O’Brien’s eyes and resumed the upward
climb. After a few kilometres they came to the first of a series of checkpoints. The driver identified himself and his companion. One of the guards made a call on a WW2 field telephone, obtained approval from the next checkpoint and waved them through.
Two hours and five check points later they arrived at the FARC encampment. O’Brien was shown to a wooden hut equipped with a fold-up bed and little else. He slept for four hours fully clothed and was woken by a young woman in khaki fatigues, toting an Uzi sub-machine gun.
“Venga conmigo.”
The camp consisted of several dozen wooden huts of assorted sizes arranged around a central open space, in the middle of which the embers of an overnight fire still glowed. To one side was a bank of communal latrines. O’Brien estimated the place could accommodate two or three hundred guerrillas. The rain forest would provide all their needs; fruit, game, water, fuel. Men and women in camouflage gear busied themselves with assault drills and target practice. Somewhere in the far distance the staccato of machine gun fire shattered the silence. A flock of startled birds rose squawking from the trees. A cloying heat lay on the jungle like a sodden blanket.
The camp was littered with military equipment of all kinds from rifles to rocket launchers and ground to air missiles, mostly of eastern European or Israeli origin, most of it brand new. The FARC’s problem wasn’t acquiring arms; it was learning how to use them. How to calibrate and maintain them, keep them clean, even how to fire them.
“Holy Mother of God,” thought O’Brien. “If we could spend money like this, we’d have the British out of Ireland in a month.”
O’Brien followed the woman across the clearing to a cabin set apart from the rest at the top of a low rise. The roof of the squat building bristled with antennae. The woman un-slung the SMG and stood guard at the door as O’Brien entered. The walls of the hut were crammed with communications equipment. The system was entirely analogue, though to O’Brien’s well-trained eye it looked primitive but effective.
Tirofijo sat in a swivel chair behind his desk, blowing cigar smoke up into the whirring fan above his head. A hand rolled Cohiba, Castro’s gift, was clamped between his teeth. He shoved the humidor across the desk at Declan.
“Bienvenido, hombre.”
The two war hardened warriors had done business a couple of times before. They respected one another. O’Brien represented Europe’s most feared and most effective terrorist group. Tirofijo commanded the best-equipped and most lavishly financed guerrilleros in the western hemisphere. They thought of themselves as equals.
The Colombian got up, went to a cupboard and extracted the bottle of Bushmills he’d procured especially for his friend. They drank a Cuban toast. “Socialismo o Muerte” – Socialism or Death. Then Tirofijo resumed his seat, opened a draw, pulled out a battered dog-eared manual and slid it across the desk at the Irishman.
O’Brien picked up the document and flicked through its torn and fading pages. His evaluation took several minutes, during which he didn’t utter a single word. Then he put his lips together and let out a long low whistle.
Tirofijo noted the Irishman’s hesitation.
“If you’ll do it, Declan, I’ll let you choose the target and the date. Any place you like. Any day you like. Anything that suits you.”
O’Brien shook his head and placed the manual face down on the desk.
“I don’t think I can do it.”
It wasn’t a moral judgment. O’Brien was concerned about the logistical complexities of the operation.
“Soy viejo, Declan,” Tirofijo explained. “Y soy cansado de la lucha.” He refilled both their glasses. “I’m an old man and I’m tired of fighting. I’ve been fighting all my life. I need to do something big. Now. Before it’s too late.”
Tirofijo unlocked a metal cabinet, pulled out a suitcase, placed it on the desk and opened it. The case was packed with scores of see-through plastic envelopes, each stuffed with half a kilogram of fine white powder. Tirofijo grinned.
“Half a million dollars says you can.”
***
6
In the hills above San Vicente del Caguan, deep inside the FARC safe-haven, four Irishmen sat incongruously around a campfire. O’Brien had linked up with Gerry McGuire, the IRA’s chief engineer, Niall O’Rourke, Sinn Fein’s accredited representative in Cuba and interpreter for the group, and Kevin Kelly, the youngest of the team, who wrote the training manuals. Beneath the triple canopy of jungle the night sky was black. No moon. No stars. All they could see in the flickering flames was their own hands and faces. The dank night air was loud with the chatter of birds and insects. Twenty feet away, unseen, an anaconda slithered by. A group of armed guerrillas watched the four Irishmen from a distance. Declan O’Brien poured the last of the Bushmills.
“You’ve got to admit, Gerry old son, this is a sweetheart deal.”
Gerry McGuire swatted the mosquito on the back of his hand.
“The politicals sure as hell won’t like it.”
“Then we won’t tell them. They say our war is over. But what are we to do, old son? We have to make a living, or the end of the war will be the end of us, and our families. We have all this marketable know-how. The guerrilleros are keen to buy it. All they want from us is training for Christ sake, not direct involvement. They’re used to fighting in the mountains. They have to move on from there, learn to bomb cities and towns. That’s what we’re good at. We have years of experience. We have the ordnance and we have the expertise.”
“It doesn’t bother you?” said Gerry McGuire. “Getting paid in drugs?”
“This is the modern world, old son. Drugs is the new currency.” O’Brien emptied his glass. “And anyway, we’ve always been involved in drugs. You know that as well as I.”
“To finance the war. Not as an end in itself.”
“They say our war is over, Gerry. What do you want me to do? Retire? Not me. I’m in favour of a little private enterprise myself.”
He was thinking of Pablo Ortega and the job he wanted done.
“Sod the politicians. I have a reputation to maintain. And a crippled brother to support.”
“I suppose you’re right, Declan. We can’t live on love and fresh air alone.”
McGuire sat toying with his empty glass.
“Long as we can keep it quiet. If the Yanks get wind of what we’re up to there’ll be hell to pay. They’ll cut off our funding for sure.”
“I keep tellin’ ya, Gerry. Our war is over. We don’t need the Yank
s anymore.”
Gerry McGuire gazed across the campfire at his friend. He had known Declan O’Brien all his life. They’d grown up together in the Bog side. Lived through Bloody Sunday. Bombed London and Belfast. Declan O’Brien wouldn’t turn his back on the Americans unless he had good reason. American funds had kept the movement going all these years. Without Noraid the IRA was nothing. McGuire picked up a smouldering stick and threw it on the fire.
“Declan old son, is there something you’re not telling me?”
O’Brien lowered his eyes.
“The guerrilleros want something we don’t have.”
“And what would that be, old son?”
“A Dirty Bomb.”
McGuire gaped at his friend as if he were a total stranger.
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am.”
“You can’t do that, Declan. It would ruin everything. Make outcasts of us all. What would be the point?”
“I’d be up there, Gerry.” O’Brien gazed into the flames. “Don’t you see? Up there with bin Laden. I’d be part of history. I’ll not be eclipsed by some fuckin’ up-start Arab.”
***
7
Morocco’s Holy City of Fez does not reveal its secrets easily; mysterious, shrouded, they must be uncovered with reverence and patience. The walled medieval capital lies at the eastern edge of the plain of Saïss, bordered to the south by the foothills of the Atlas Mountains. The Medina’s labyrinth of narrow winding alleyways is crammed with stalls and workshops. This is the famed Kissaria, the business and commercial district, where the craftsmen of El Atterine present a vivid spectacle. A dyer stirs his yarns, drenched in rainbow colours. A tanner tramples goatskins under foot, beneath a blistering sky. It is a biblical scene. Nothing much has changed in Fez for over a thousand years.
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