Brandon shrugged, lips pursed. “So, where do you go from here?”
“That is where you come in and why I have protected you, Sergeant. You will set up a meeting between me and the cartel leaders here at my ranch.”
Brandon nodded. A self-preservation alarm sounded in his head. This was not the time to be flippant. The Colonel was as serious as a heart attack, and he, Brandon Stiles, was alive to facilitate the dream. If he refused, he would probably feel the impact of the tiny .22 caliber magnum.
Brandon’s guardian angel whispered to him. “Be smart Brandon. Think before you speak.”
“It’s been awhile Colonel since I was in Colombia, and as you know, it’s a violent world. Who are the cartel leaders today?”
“Your dossier says you’re the expert. Prove it!” The Colonel’s exasperation and desperation were transparent. Brandon realized the Colonel was in the dark, clueless. He had an unrealistic dream that to him seemed entirely doable, a product of his privileged existence where nothing had been denied him, and somehow Brandon was his ticket to stardom. Brandon sensed his own survival depended on his answer.
“Tu coges lo mejor para ti y a mi me dejas las boronas,” Brandon said.
The Colonel smiled. “My Spanish skills are a little weak. It has been almost ten years since I was a military attaché at our consulate in Venezuela. Please translate.”
“I said, ‘You take the best for yourself and leave me with the crumbs.’ Perhaps your father will say that to you one day when you are ‘Al capo del cartel de la droga’.”
“Yes, when I am head of the drug cartels. Yes. Yes. Yes.” The Colonel clapped his hands, rubbed them together briskly and smiled broadly.
Brandon’s gut told him to go on the offensive. “I’ll need access to issues of El Pais the Colombian newspaper for the last several months, and at least a week to digest them. I will not have time to pick cotton.” It was the right move.
The Colonel pulled a cord that rang a bell inside the house. Within seconds, Massoud appeared and Brandon listened to the Colonel repeat his words. Massoud understood but asked for the spelling of the newspaper. Brandon caught himself as he blurted, “el” to a question phrased in Arabic but covered his mistake by saying, “El need paper and pencil for my research, and a satellite phone when it is concluded to speak with a contact in South America.”
Massoud, his questions answered, snapped to attention and gave a departing salute that was returned by a careless flick of the Colonel’s hand, a wave of dismissal. Brandon saw the hurt registered on Massoud’s face, at the Colonel’s public display of contempt for him and disregard for military courtesy. It was disrespectful and an offensive gesture to the battle-hardened soldier, veteran of the eight-year war with Iran.
Massoud glared at the Colonel with his lone eye. His jaw muscles flexed as his teeth bit off the words he could not say. Massoud held his right hand in salute, ignoring the gesture of dismissal, waiting for a soldier’s salute. His rigid hand shaded his seeing eye as he glanced down at the Colonel, and then again stared straight ahead. The Colonel was making notes on a pad of paper and ignored the grizzled veteran.
Brandon stood, snapped to attention, and returned Massoud’s salute. Their eyes locked and in that instant Massoud recognized and accepted the respect of another warrior, dropped his arm and gave the slightest nod of recognition to Brandon. He placed his right toe behind and outside his left heel and pivoting on those two points turned smartly to the rear, head erect, and marched in quick time from the room.
The Colonel raised his head. “Are you playing soldier games with my men now, Sergeant Stiles?”
“Respect for one’s enemy is no game. It’s earned in the face of death. Obviously your man has seen his share of battle and he wears his scars proudly. I respect that.”
The Colonel responded with a grunt and the subject was changed. “When the periodicals arrive, do your research to bring yourself up to date, and then we’ll talk again. Until then, you will continue your work in the fields and you will pick cotton if the harvest has begun. Your room by the kitchen is adequate for your needs, but in time you may be moved to more elaborate surroundings in keeping with your contribution to the house of Rashid. For now, the guard will remain at your door. Never leave your room without permission and an escort. If you violate these rules or attempt an escape, you will be shot. Clear?”
“Clear.”
“You will be working directly for me and if you serve me well, reward will follow. If you fail… well, we shall assume you will not fail.”
The unseen bell rang and a guard appeared in the doorway. “Show Sergeant Stiles to his quarters.” Brandon waited for instruction in English, turned and walked away.
“No salute?” The Colonel questioned.
“That’s right,” Brandon said, “no salute.” That triggered a hearty laugh from his host.
21
El Pais Arrives; The Plan Evolves
Brandon was picking cotton when the papers arrived from Colombia in a reinforced nine cubic foot diplomatic carton with official seals, courtesy of the intelligence officer stationed in Bogota. The officer, an agent of the Fourth Directorate, had been instructed by Colonel Rashid to make no mention of the shipment to his immediate superiors. Ordinarily such a request would be ignored but this was the Director’s son. His silence was assured.
A week after Brandon began his research, he was ready. Every reference to the drug cartels, rebel forces of FARC or ELN, government or para-military forces was cut out and taped chronologically in a notebook. The most helpful information came from a magazine insert in a Sunday edition. The author, Gabriel Diaz, had written a comprehensive review of Colombia’s drug history, its cartels, and the government’s successes and failures in its war against drugs over the past decade. He had obviously done his homework. Brandon smiled. This was all the background information he would need and it had given him time to think and develop a plan. The detailed notes were intended to impress the Colonel, to reinforce his misconception that he was an expert in Colombian drug affairs.
As Brandon studied and filed away the articles printed in El Pais, he recalled the days not long ago when he was stationed in Colombia as an advisor to the Colombian military and to the US Drug Enforcement Agency in Bogota. His assignments were often interesting and always dangerous. Brandon was most usually in the field with Colombian soldiers, raw recruits and reluctant draftees, teaching them how to survive.
“Which of you will be dead tomorrow? Will it be you, or you?” Brandon would shout and point at the apathetic troops in an attempt to get their attention and fire their interest. “Para la oreja para no tener que repetirte las instrucciones. Quiero que todos esten al loro. (Pay attention so I don’t have to repeat the instructions. I want everybody to be alert.) Usa la pensadora, o te meteras en problemas. (Use your head or you’ll have problems.) Es la verdura. (It’s the truth.) Pay attention, and learn to fight like the enemy, or you will die. He wants to kill you. You understand that don’t you? This training can save your life, but only if you want it. Para ganar tienes que sudar tinta en los proximos entrenamientos. (To win, you have to sweat blood in the next training.) Do you want it?” Brandon roared.
“Si,” was the unenthusiastic response.
Brandon recalled one occasion, when, after a similar lecture, his unit of green, reluctant soldiers was ordered to intercept a group of FARC guerillas harassing the residents of the mountain town of San Vicente del Caguan. There was a brief firefight and two government soldiers died before the enemy slipped away. The FARC had made Brandon’s point for him, and the young draftees from that day on listened as if he spoke from the Temple Mount.
When combat operations were directed at known or suspected drug labs or storage points, Brandon would be joined by US Drug Enforcement Agents and their Colombian counterparts and close bonds were often formed. One of those agents, Eddie Ramirez, wou
ld be the first person Brandon would call, and the next, hopefully, would be a wiry Chibcha Indian who tried to play on both sides of the game and got caught. Had the other side caught him first, he would be dead and so too his family. Brandon recalled the incident clearly.
Eddie Ramirez was at his office in Bogota when a collect call came in from Cali in July 1988. Eddie accepted the call. A nervous voice on the other end of the line announced that he knew of a drug shipment on a Taca Air flight to New Orleans. Eddie asked for a name, but was told by the caller that he had to remain anonymous.
“I understand completely,” Eddie replied as he frantically dialed a number on his cellular phone that was answered after one ring in Cali. To the unidentified caller, he said, “If you will hold for just a moment longer, I will get a pencil and paper to jot down the information you choose to provide. I will just be a second.” On the other phone, he said, “Brandon where are you?”
“Why? Are you lonely, big boy?” came the wiseass reply.
“We just traced a drug tip to a pay phone at the Cali airport in the Silver Cloud pre-board lounge. I need an intercept ASAP and I hope you’re on that side of town.”
Brandon’s foot had already pressed the accelerator to the floor before he answered, “It’s your lucky day, bro. I’m damned near in the parking lot. I’m meeting a military attaché arriving from Peru in thirty minutes but I’m just outside the Silver Cloud Terminal now. I’ll double park and head inside.”
Eddie held the cell phone near when he spoke to his anonymous caller. “There, sorry about the delay, you said the drug shipment was on Taca is that right?”
“Yes,” was the nervous reply. “I must go. I must not be seen. Goodbye.”
“Reward. What about the reward?” Eddie blurted out hoping to hook his caller’s interest and keep him on the line a little longer. “To whom should I send the reward money if we discover the contraband?”
Jose Esteban had just heard the magic word and fear of discovery briefly left him. “How much?” he inquired.
“That depends on the value of the shipment. It could be a little or a lot. Hold on just one second and I’ll see what percentage that would be.” Into his cellular phone he said, “Male, sounds middle aged and speaks like a laborer. He’s definitely not a college professor. What do you see?”
“I see eight booths and three people on the phone,” Brandon drawled.
“Can you make out which one is my man?” Eddie asked hopefully.
“Unless he’s wearing a dress, I think so. There’s only one man talking and he’s wearing an airline jumpsuit.”
“Hold him. I’ll introduce you.” Eddie said excitedly. “Sir, the reward is variable. There is a man standing just outside your booth who will discuss that with you. His name is Brandon Stiles. Thank you for calling.”
The line went dead. Jose was startled and confused. He turned and looked outside his booth and Brandon waved.
“Mierda! Soy un imbecil.” He shook his head in disbelief and slammed the telephone into its cradle.
“Roger that,” Brandon said, severing the call. He smiled at Jose who was standing facing him inside his closed booth. Jose wanted to run but knew that would attract the attention he hoped to avoid. The bifold glass door creaked and jiggled open and Jose emerged from the cocoon. Brandon smiled and extended his hand in friendship. “Care for a cup of coffee? Treats on me.”
Jose nodded as he furtively glanced around to see who might have noticed him talking to the tall, well-spoken foreigner.
“You are not Colombian with that name of yours but you speak like a Colombiano. What are you, American?”
“Bingo!” Brandon answered brightly as he draped an arm across Jose’s small frame and directed him to a table at the rear of the small airport café. “You know my name,” Brandon began, “but I don’t know yours.”
The conversation continued for ten minutes during which time Brandon discovered how Jose knew of the drug shipment and why he reported it. Brandon had checked Jose’s airport employee badge and begun to recruit his snitch.
“So, let me reiterate what you have told me. This co-worker of yours, Emilio Ranses, works for a man called Carlos, as do you, and you fear Emilio might replace you, so by ratting him out you take care of the competition and secure your own place in the organization. Have I got that right?”
Jose nodded and whispered, “I have to get back to work; my lunch break is over.”
“Sure,” Brandon said reassuringly, “but just one thing more. You have admitted that you ran drugs for Carlos. That’s a crime, and on that basis alone I could arrest you.”
Jose buried his face in his hands, his elbows supporting the full weight of his head as he stared at the table they rested on. “I am a dead man,” he muttered.
“Cheer up, Jose, it could be worse.”
“How?” came the weak reply.
“I could say you ratted out your co-worker, Emilio, and then what? Do you think Carlos would look kindly on that?” Before Jose could reply, Brandon added, “I think Carlos would kill you and your family and your relatives. Do you have a dog?”
“What?”
“I said, ‘Do you have a dog?’”
“Yes, we call him Lobo,” answered Jose in a daze.
“He’ll kill Lobo for sure, probably before he murders your wife. What did you say her name is?”
Jose was ashen faced. “Her name is Maria, and she is innocent, one of God’s special gifts.”
Brandon nodded and then shook his head sadly.
“What is it?” Jose asked.
Brandon bit his lip, waited a moment for dramatic effect, and replied, “I’ve seen what they do to the loved ones. I don’t want that to happen to your Maria.”
“No. No, it must not happen to Maria,” Jose added now fully involved in his own recruitment.
“Okay, Jose, I promise not to tell anyone, but if I ever need your help you must promise to help me without question.”
“I will senor. I promise on the graves of my ancestors, and the Blessed Lady, Queen of Heaven and Earth to help without question if you should ever ask.”
Brandon pulled a recorder from his breast pocket, hit rewind, and then play. Jose heard his voice and his promise repeated. “Better get back to work,” Brandon urged.
“Yes, thank you,” Jose whispered as he slid his chair away from the table. He stood, gave a slight bow, and was gone.
Now alone and nursing a cold cup of coffee, Brandon pressed a button on his cellular phone and a call was placed to his last caller.
“What do you have for me, Brandon? Who’s the informant?”
“Oh, Christ almighty, you didn’t say to get his name did you? I got the airline, a flight number, a date, a probable departure gate, but no name. It shouldn’t be a problem finding the drugs though, and the informant said he didn’t want a reward for performing his civic duty. I thought I did well. Are you telling me yo quinceo?” (I screwed up.)
“What are you up to Stiles? You know damned good and well what I need, and a name is a very key part of it. Que acelga, pal?” (What’s cooking?)
“Gee, Eddie, you really have your act together. I admire that. Most people would be happy just to get a bite but you expect the whole enchilada. Sorry to disappoint, but you get the drug bust without the snitch. He’s a good citizen, just one of DEA’s many friends and admirers but he demands anonymity.”
“Stiles, you are so full of it. Whose side are you on anyway?”
“Hmmm, let me think. Tell you what, I’ll mail you a recording, and you’ll have the name, but I need your word that you’ll do no more than research the snitch. He’s a nobody, but he’s ambitious and hungry for what the drug lord can offer. Should he happen to rise through the ranks, we have a mole in that organization. Bust him now and you’ve got nothing but another scalp.”
“Agreed,”
Eddie replied. “By the way, nice speech. I didn’t think you warrior types were so verbal. Hell, they even call you grunts.”
Brandon grunted a reply and disconnected with a self-satisfied grin.
A few years had passed since that encounter with Jose, and almost five since his first posting to Colombia. Jose Esteban and a few buddies in DEA were his only connections to the drug world. Obviously, Colonel Rashid didn’t know that. He had never read an ER on a US serviceman and wasn’t aware that any efficiency rating less than ten on a scale of ten was a career buster. The competition for promotion was stiff, and the rating officer knew it. Brandon was the cream of the crop in the small tightly knit American community in Colombia, and if the cream was to rise to the top, the rating had to be perfect. Accordingly, Brandon’s ER had him single handedly winning the war on drugs.
Colonel Rashid was impressed. Clearly, Sergeant Stiles was no ordinary soldier. He was a leader, and knew the drug business like no other. Fate had brought him to Iraq.
The desperate need to be admired and feared fueled the Colonel’s reckless optimism and clouded his reason. An idea became an obsession, and Brandon became the bridge to the future. The past was filled with painful memories of personal achievements minimized, of success attributed to privilege. The respect he did enjoy came with the name his father gave him. That would change when power and wealth were his.
If the bridge collapsed, the dream would die, and Brandon would fall into the abyss, victim of the Colonel’s despair. There was no question in Brandon’s mind that his own survival depended on his apparent influence in Colombia. Without that, there was no reason to hold him. Would the Colonel release a soldier held in violation of the rules of the Geneva Convention? Not likely. He’d be shot and buried and that would be that. Time was running out.
Brandon knew his ace in the hole was the Colonel’s own insistence on secrecy. No one was to know of the Cali connection, certainly not daddy. There would be no Spanish interpreters from Mukhabarat at the Colonel’s side. Within limits he could say what he pleased, but the Colonel would probably record all conversations thinking he could translate it himself. Perhaps he could. Brandon intended to complicate matters by speaking a local dialect. That should buy him some time.
Price For A Patriot Page 22