Twelve Mile Limit df-9

by Randy Wayne White

  Amelia whistled softly when she read that. “My God! Four million? I had no idea it was even going on, but four million women a year! Amazing.”

  In a way, though, we both agreed: The sobering statistics also provided us with some hope. If Janet and Grace had been kidnapped for profit, it explained why we had not heard from them. They were a valuable commodity. It meant that they could still be out there somewhere, alive.

  Just as I could not tell Amelia about the satellite photos, there was a second letter I had in my possession that I could not allow her to read. Some of the information in it was from a consular research paper, but it also contained classified data that I could not share.

  It was from a U.S. State Department intelligence guru named Hal Harrington. I’d met Harrington the year before when I’d helped get his daughter out of some trouble. Turned out that Hal and I had more in common than I was comfortable admitting. That meeting had resurrected aspects of my past that I’d thought were long behind me. Trouble is, the memories, the aftershocks, of a violent, clandestine life are impossible to forget, so they never really go away.

  Harrington belonged to a highly trained covert operations team that was known, to a very few, as the Negotiating and System Analysis Group-the Negotiators, for short. Because the success of the team relied on members blending easily into nearly any society, each man was provided with a legitimate and mobile profession.

  Harrington was trained as a computer software programmer and made a personal fortune by sheer intelligence and foresight. Other members of that elite team included CPAs, a couple of attorneys, one journalist, and at least three physicians. There was also a marine biologist among them, a man who traveled the world doing research.

  Harrington is now one of the most powerful and influential staff members at the State Department, and he specializes in Latin-American affairs. Because I had his private numbers, and because we share a mutual interest in the well-being of his daughter, Lindsey, it was not difficult for me to get in touch with the man.

  The night before Amelia and I left for Miami, Harrington’s letter arrived via special courier. The first two pages were background, and it was good for me to refamiliarize myself with the complicated politics of the country we were about to visit. It was also good to be reminded that it is one of the most dangerous places on earth. Colombia illustrates the stark contrast between the rich and poor, and the widespread neglect of human rights. This problem is compounded by extraordinary violence. Colombia has the highest murder rate in the world. Armed conflict has led to the mass displacement of innocent citizens by political violence-many thousands of Amazon Indians and farmers have been forced off their land as a result of conflict between the national, guerrilla, and paramilitary groups. The main source of the conflict, of course, is strife created by the drug trade. In recent years, however, Colombia has also become a center of two other very profitable international businesses: the sale of illegal weaponry and the transporting of illegal immigrants and kidnap victims for sale.

  I hadn’t heard that before. Harrington had included the information for a reason.

  The paper went on to say: Throughout the 1970s and 1980s, Colombia’s illegal drug trade grew steadily, as the drug cartels amassed huge amounts of money, weapons, and influence. The 1970s also saw the formation of such leftist guerrilla groups as the May Nineteenth Movement (M-19) and the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC). The violence continued, and many journalists and government officials were killed.

  After going into specific detail about FARC, and the politicians believed to be associated with the movement, Harrington’s paper continued: The notorious Medellin drug cartel was broken in 1993, and the Cali cartel was later undermined by arrests of key leaders. Drug traffickers continue to have significant wealth and power, however, and many leftist guerrilla groups remain active, perpetuating a condition of instability. In November 1998, the country’s president ceded a state-sized region of land in South Central Colombia to FARC’s control as a goodwill gesture, but the rebels negotiated with the government only fitfully and continued to mount attacks. That region is now one of the most lawless and dangerous on earth. It has become the safe harbor for Islamic extremists and other terrorists. It has also become the center of a power struggle between the different factions of guerrilla groups, the paramilitary forces (vigilante groups formed usually by wealthy landowners protecting their own interests), and the state itself. Also sometimes involved in the fighting there are U.S. drug interdiction forces, the CIA and the DEA. The conflict has become the dirtiest of wars, in which each side resorts to whatever tactics are necessary to gain an advantage. Summary executions, disappearances, extortion, intimidation, and torture are all part of daily reality.

  Flying southward over the Caribbean in first class was not a good time to let Amelia read such a letter. But, once in Cartagena, if she insisted on accompanying me into the mountains, I would put the letter into her hands and insist that she read it.

  The rain-forest mountains of Colombia. There was a pretty good chance that’s exactly where I might be headed.

  Harrington’s personal, and classified, letter made that clear.

  Harrington’s letter read: Hello, Commander Ford. This will be brief because I don’t have a lot of time, and I suspect you are similarly engaged. I checked with our intelligence assets in Colombia and the U.S. Here is the result of that inquiry. Earl Stallings. In the U.S., there are thirty-seven men of color over the age of twenty-one named Earl Stallings. In the last five years, three have included Florida as a part of their address. One of those three, Earl E. E. Stallings, has been arrested several times on charges that range from selling Internet pornography to assault with a deadly weapon to drug trafficking. On a charge of felonious drug trafficking, he spent twenty-seven months in prison, Raiford, Florida. Hassan Atwa Kazan. Worldwide, there are 103 men over the age of twenty-one named Hassan Kazan. In the last five years, four have included countries in the Western hemisphere as a part of their address or in electronic communication outside the Middle East. One has included Colombia. Here is more information on that man: Kazan is in our South American files as a suspected low-echelon smuggler of cocaine, weapons, people. He’s known to associate with FARC sympathizers and known criminals. The bar at the Hotel de Ascension, Cartagena, is a favorite meeting place. I have yet to confirm if he is or is not an albino, as you described. To be thorough, I also cross-referenced Kazan’s name and additional specifics with our Middle Eastern files. I now provide you with this new information. A man named Hassan Atwa Kazan is suspected of participating as a freelance middleman involved in the financing of the terrorist cells of Jihad and Al-Qaeda, as well as the Kurdistan Workers Party, or PKK. The PKK, as you know, is one of the earth’s most indiscriminately violent terrorist organizations. It is possible that Kazan can be linked to one or all of these organizations through a well-organized network of smuggling operations, most probably for his own personal profit. I can’t be certain it is the same man. However, there is sufficient evidence for me to take the following action: In light of your experience in these matters, and since you have a special interest in this suspect, I am authorizing you to investigate this individual as a sanctioned agent of our nation. I have upgraded your service status from Inactive Reserve to Active Special Duty Line Officer. I have also changed your pay grade from O-4 to O-5, which advances your agency rank from lieutenant commander to commander. Congratulations, and welcome back into the service of your country. Furthermore, since the Executive Order of 18 February 1976 has now been revoked, and by the power vested in this body through the National Security Act of 1947 and the War Powers Act, I also authorize you to use whatever means necessary to assemble evidence against the aforementioned individual (and associates) and I fully and legally license you to exercise Executive Action within the limitations and restraints with which you are already familiar.

  Those were startling words to read: Executive Action. For me, they are a legal euphemism fo
r a license to assassinate. I’d read those words before, in similar documents. For some reason, though, the phrase had never hit me so hard. Was it because I was now a different man? Or was it because I hoped I was now different?

  The last paragraph was written in ink, the penmanship rushed, the wording far less formal. Harrington had added: Doc, My Colombian pals tell me that there are two main camps where they warehouse kidnap victims. They keep them until they’re ransomed or sold, then fly them out. One camp is near Cali on the Pacific Coast, outside a little village called Guapi, pronounced WAUP-ee. The other is in the state of Amazonia, way south in the jungle, a camp called Remanso, pronunced Ra-MEN-so, which I’ve been told is an Indian word that means “still waters.” Lots of Indios still in that area. Good luck. I’ve notified a few of our friends that you’ll be in the area, so you’ll have some help. Also, keep in mind that your enemy, the late Edgar Cordero, still has his organization in place, and they get pretty good intel. So do the Islamic extremists, and they’re all tied in together. Stay on your toes, watch your 6.

  There was a final p.s.: “Lindsey is back on the drugs again. Dating a worthless beach bum. I love her so much, what can I do? H2”

  20

  We passed through the customs gates of Cartagena’s modern airport and exited out into the equatorial heat and glare of a December afternoon. There was a line of rusted yellow Toyota cabs, men selling lottery tickets, women in bright dresses hawking fresh pineapple, mangoes, bananas.

  Amelia stopped, bags in hand, and said, “You’re kidding. You have a limo waiting on us? I’m impressed.”

  Yes, there was a limo. She was impressed, and I was surprised. Among the taxis was a black BMW sedan and a man in a black suit standing beside it, holding a sign that read Dr. Marion Ford.

  I was surprised because I hadn’t ordered a car.

  I told her, “Wait here for a second,” then walked to the driver, and said to him in Spanish, “I’m confused. Who sent you?”

  He was a stocky man, too wide for his jacket, with a weightlifter’s constrained mobility. “The embassy sent me,” he answered.

  I said, “Which embassy?”

  “Why, the U.S. Embassy, of course. Your embassy. I have papers if you wish to see.”

  He handed me a sealed envelope. Inside was a note with Harrington’s familiar signature. It read, “Doc, welcome back into the business. One of my staff has arranged for you to use my personal driver, Carlos Quasada. You can trust him with anything, including your travel companion. He’ll keep an eye on you while you’re in the city. Carlos was one of the country’s best heavyweight fighters for many years. Match the enclosed photo ID with the ID he is required to carry before you get into the car.”

  After I’d checked his papers, the man grinned at me and said in less formal Spanish, “Mr. Harrington has asked that I give you special care, Dr. Ford. I am here to serve as your driver, your bodyguard, your guide. The only exception is that I cannot go with you if you decide to leave our little state of Magdalena. The FARC rebels and their associates know me too well. I would be shot on sight, as would anyone unlucky enough to be with me.”

  The man had a grip like a hydraulic clamp, and I liked his easygoing, confident manner. “You must have given them good reason to hate you, Carlos.”

  His grin became even wider. “Oh, I have given them many reasons over the years, Dr. Ford. Sometimes, one of them decides to come looking for me to take revenge, and I give them yet another reason to hate Carlos!” Realizing that Amelia was walking toward us, he lowered his voice and said, “Does she understand Spanish?”

  “No. A few words, that’s all.”

  “Does she know that you are here in your government’s service?”

  “Of course not.”

  Quasada told me, “In that case, I must speak quickly. Mr. Harrington has supplied you with a special briefcase. It is in the trunk. You must not allow her to see the contents.”

  I said, “When we get to the hotel, walk her to the front desk and leave the car keys with me. I’ll find a way to sneak it into our room. Later, I can tell her I bought it here.”

  He nodded, fixed the smile on his face again, and began to speak more loudly in a slow and careful English, “I am at your service, Dr. Ford. Anything you require, day or night. I will give you the number of my cell phone. Dial my number and I will appear!”

  Sitting in the backseat of the BMW as Carlos sped us through the taxi and donkey-cart traffic of Cartagena, Amelia leaned her shoulder briefly against me and said in a low voice, “Why the special treatment? This guy’s acting like you’re a foreign dignitary and he’s known you for years.”

  I cleared my throat before I answered, “I’ve been here a couple of times for conferences, research-things like that.”

  She seemed unconvinced. “As a biologist?”

  “Yeah. In Latin America marine biologists are highly respected. Seafood. It’s a very important industry here.”

  When I opened the briefcase that Harrington had left for me, I stood back and whistled softly, surprised and not a little apprehensive. Mostly surprised.

  Did he really think I’d have a use for this kind of firepower?

  I left the briefcase open and walked to the window of our third-floor suite. We were staying at the Hotel Santa Clara inside Cartagena’s old walled city. Most of Colombia’s dangers were known to me long before receiving Hal Harrington’s briefing paper. I have tried to lock away a number of bad memories associated with the place. Even so, it is still one of the more interesting countries in the Americas, and Cartagena is my favorite city by far.

  Cartagena is a Conquistador village built within a stone fortress six miles in diameter, and that fortress, in turn, is built within a perimeter of forts. The city was founded in the early 1500s. Gold and silver plundered from the Indians were stockpiled here prior to being loaded and shipped back to Madrid.

  A city filled with gold attracted the attention of the world’s pirates. French pirates kidnapped the governor and held him for ransom. English pirates such as Hawkens and Drake infiltrated the city under cover of darkness, burned the houses, sacked cathedrals, and sailed away with shiploads of treasure. Spain continued to build the walls around the city higher and thicker, but the pirates still came-just as pirates still continue to come to Colombia today.

  In those years, some say that what is now the Hotel Santa Clara was a convent-a treasure trove of a different sort. So it too has walls as thick as those of a fort, four stories high, raspberry-colored, and impenetrable from the outside. But step through the hotel’s double doors, and you enter a Castilian world that vanished three hundred years ago.

  The ceilings are twenty feet high with rafters of black mahogany. There are gardens with palms, rare flowers, toucans, parrots, and fountains. The courtyards are tiled with bricks made by Indian slaves long dead. Today, the hybrid progeny of those dead, a hundred generations removed, wait and serve the descendants of the Castilians who enslaved their relatives. The hotel is built around a great plaza, and now there is a modern swimming pool in the middle of that plaza.

  Amelia lay on a lounge chair by the pool, dozing in the afternoon sun. The garland sparkle of Christmas decorations seemed incongruous in the palms. She wore a green two-piece swimsuit, very modest. When I saw her naked for the first time, I’d realized that she was the type of redhead who tans.

  She was out there tanning herself now. Which is why I could take my time with the briefcase, and its contents.

  I turned back to the bed where the briefcase lay open and removed from it a small submachine gun. The weapon had a very fine balance and weight.

  I have little personal interest in firearms, though I admire any kind of fine machinery. I’ve never been an outstanding marksman, and I seldom do much shooting anymore. However, because there was a time in my life when firearms were necessary tools of my trade, I possess a certain level of expertise.

  The submachine gun I held was very familiar to me. It was, in th
e opinion of many, the most efficient and lethal hand weapon ever created. It was a Heckler amp; Koch MP5K submachine gun, a lightweight, air-cooled, magazine-fed weapon that, on full automatic, fires thirteen rounds per second with extraordinary accuracy. Ever needing to fire thirteen rounds per second accurately is an unimaginable situation.

  Yet the weapon was tiny: only thirteen inches long, weighing slightly more than four pounds. You could hide it in the pocket of a trenchcoat, then clear an auditorium with it.

  The H amp;K MP5 systems are modular, which means you can mix and match accessories for almost any need. Harrington had included a couple of interesting options. From the briefcase, I now removed a length of beautifully machined aluminum stock-an integrally threaded sound suppressor. Fire the weapon next to someone’s ear, he would hear a blowgun sound: Phutt! People fifteen meters away would hear nothing. There were also dual magazines that looked like twin twenty-eight-round magazines clamped together. But these would hold over two hundred cartridges. Squeeze the trigger on full auto and you could cut down a good-sized tree before having to reload.

  Did the man think I was going into a war zone?

  Perhaps that’s exactly what he was arming me for.

  Finally, the briefcase itself was an option: Made out of some space-age polymer, you could clamp the little sub gun into position, close the cover, walk it down the street, squeeze the trigger built into the handle, and fire through a hole in the side of the case.

  I got no delight in seeing the weapon, felt no illusion of authority because I now had that firepower in my possession. From the look and weight of the thing, I got only a sense of loathing, and of dread.