The garage door Todd heard being raised led to a spacious storage area located behind the Sky Bird ticket counter and below that company’s Operations area. Bonnie worked in Ops exclusively and Judy worked the ticket counter and ramp. When Max and his team entered the terminal, Judy was alone making a tally of the tickets from the last flight. She was herded into the storage area by two men while two others rushed upstairs. Bonnie was busy finalizing the day’s activities when Max and an accomplice barged in. Bonnie screamed and reached for the telephone but never raised it from its cradle. The men were armed and their weapons were pointed at her. Now both women were trussed and their mouths taped. Bonnie was in considerable pain. The duct tape that circled her head to close her mouth pulled at the roots of her hair and the corner of a box dug into her side. She had stumbled and fallen backward onto the closet floor when Max put his hand on her face and shoved her like a shot-put into the small storage closet. Judy was next. But she entered facing forward. Unable to stop or balance, she pitched forward over Bonnie’s prostrate body, and fell face first into a filing cabinet before collapsing onto Bonnie. Darkness followed as the door snapped shut. Bonnie heard Judy moan for several minutes and then she was still.
When the DC-10 landed, Max raced down the stairs from Operations and ordered his men to open the Overhead door. The chains rattled noisily as the electric motor pulled the door upward on tracks that curved from the doorway onto ceiling mounts. Todd who had flattened himself against the exterior wall overheard men shouting, but he didn’t understand a word.
“That ain’t Spanish and it sure as hell ain’t English,” Todd murmured to himself.
An engine fired to life in response to an order, and Todd caught a glimpse of a strange looking vehicle, a mobile conveyor belt, as it drove out onto the ramp and sped toward the runway.
23
Instructions For Jose, Iraq (Saturday, 21 September 1991)
The satellite phone chirped at the appointed hour and Brandon received the signal to answer. The Colonel had donned his earphones and was ready.
“Bueno,” Brandon answered and Jose wasted no time saying the account was set up, he had been shopping for fine clothes and he was ready for instructions. Brandon turned to the Colonel as he covered the mouthpiece and whispered, “He’s ready.”
The Colonel tugged at his earphones, pulling one side away from his ear. “What?”
“Jose awaits my instructions.”
The Colonel handed prepared notes to Brandon and replaced his headset.
“Jose, you will be picked up at the Cali Inter-Continental Hotel at 10 a.m. on Monday and driven to Bogota where you will be fingerprinted, photographed and provided with a passport and documentation in the name of Jose Escobedo. On Tuesday evening just before seven, you will depart Bogota on Avianca to Madrid’s Barajas Airport. You will arrive Madrid, late Wednesday morning. From Madrid you will fly on Royal Jordanian to Amman, and will arrive that evening after seven. Two men will approach you at baggage claim and will introduce themselves as friends from Baghdad. They will drive you here by car. It will be a long journey but worth the effort. Don’t worry, everything will be arranged, and paid for. You will travel first class. Just be sure you are at the pickup point at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. The man who contacted you will repeat this if needed. Now, when I say so, I want you to shout and curse. You’re angry because I spoke of fingerprints and photos. Be difficult to deal with jeffe, you are the boss. Be demanding. Be arrogant. Fear no one. Now, shout and curse.”
Jose cursed a blue streak and Brandon feigned surprise and shock.
The Colonel looked alarmed. “What did he say? Why is he angry?”
“He understands a photograph is necessary for the passport but he will witness the development and destroy the negative. There will be no copies and definitely no fingerprints. He is quite adamant about that.”
“Tell him to relax. I will issue instructions to Bogota.”
“Jose, good job. Destroy the negative of the passport photo and don’t allow yourself to be fingerprinted. The rest is acceptable. Be dressed, packed and ready to roll at ten on Monday.”
The Colonel was apprehensive. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, Colonel. Tell your men not to be late. He does not like exposure in public places. He says he will be seated in the covered, outdoor dining area near the pool reading the Sports Page.” To Jose he repeated what he had just said to the Colonel adding, “Tell him not to keep you waiting and disconnect abruptly.”
Jose followed his script and severed the connection.
He said, “Don’t be late.”
A trip to the kitchen after a satellite call from Colombia became a ritual and Massoud grew increasingly less attentive. Frankly, he was bored. The American was a compliant prisoner now, even polite. Apparently he had accepted the fact that escape was impossible and decided to make the best of a bad situation. Massoud didn’t feel pity or compassion for Brandon because it was his fate. It was just the way things were. He did wonder, however, if he could accept such a fate were he the prisoner and not the American. If the American could speak Arabic, could they be friends?
“We have much in common as military men,” he considered, “except for his effeminate passion for vegetables and flowers. He and Hosni are constantly sniffing and sipping. Who knows, maybe they both ‘play for the other team,’ but the American does not seem to be a homosexual. He killed Kahlil and Omar and few men could do that. If the Colonel orders me to kill this warrior, I will, but I will not enjoy it.”
As he leaned back in the small, but sturdy, wicker chair, Massoud’s thoughts drifted to an exciting woman he flirted with at the bazaar. Hosni and Brandon seemed content to talk about recipes and vegetables… to each his own.
“Three days from now,” Brandon whispered, as his hand beckoned the aroma rising from a stew pot, “a man will depart South America to visit the Colonel on business. He will arrive in Jordan on the fourth day. The drive overland from Amman to Baghdad will be arduous I suspect, but I don’t know the distance or time of travel. Do you?”
“Yes, I have made the trip to Amman on a bus, but I traveled in March. At this time of year the heat will be unbelievable. What a miserable trip! Your visitor may die from the heat, and if he doesn’t he will wish he had. Without question he will need to recuperate from the trip before engaging in any business discussions.”
“How far is it from Amman, and how long does it take to get here by automobile?”
“As the bird flies it is about 850 kilometers and will take at least twelve hours driving. I do not envy this man. The Colonel will send the Mercedes and that will be better than the bus, but still…”
“From what you’ve told me, the South American will arrive here at about eight o’clock Thursday morning, bone tired and in need of rest. Negotiations can begin on Friday. The Colonel hopes to do business with this visitor, consequently, I believe they will strike a deal but probably not on the first day of negotiations. I expect they’ll reach an agreement on Saturday and the visitor will depart on Sunday. Because of my fluency in Spanish, I will serve as the colonel’s translator. I am essential to the Colonel’s plans today, but after these negotiations, I will know too much.”
“Which means what?”
“If the Colonel indicates to his new business partner that they need Spanish/Arabic translators for future contacts, that will signal his intent to kill me. You once said, ‘When the time is right, I will help you escape.’ I won’t have the luxury of waiting for a right time; I’ll be out of time.”
“Answer me this, Sergeant, will the Colonel work on Friday?”
“Of course, why wouldn’t he?”
“The work week in Iraq is Sunday through Thursday. The Colonel may wish to attend a sporting event and this is the season for many contests.”
“I’ve been here over seven months and never knew that Frida
y and Saturday were rest days. The rule certainly doesn’t apply here. You’re the perfect example. It’s Saturday and you’re working.”
“I have no choice; the Colonel does. He often departs on weekends. He may suggest that his visitor rest until Sunday. If so, an agreement will not be reached until Monday, and the visitor will depart on Tuesday. I need to know which it will be.”
“Why? Does it make a difference?”
“Next Saturday we have a shipment of vegetables and fruit scheduled for delivery. It normally arrives before nightfall, but next weekend it can be unavoidably delayed. The driver is one of my men. I can arrange to have it arrive very late, when the household is asleep, and the guards are tired and ineffective. When the truck departs you could be on board, hidden in a cooler, if hiding is even necessary.”
“What about Massoud?”
“Saturday night, I will prepare Massoud’s favorite meal but with a slight change to the recipe. Two bites and he’ll sleep like a baby. Using his keys, I will unlock your door and off we go. If it doesn’t happen on Saturday, we have a problem. I do not have a truck or a plan for Tuesday. I will be ready on Saturday, and I hope you will be as well. If you are, follow my orders and move swiftly. We must cover a lot of ground before the alarms are sounded.”
“You can take it to the bank,” Brandon replied.
“What?”
Brandon laughed and clapped Hosni on the shoulder. “Take it to the bank, means you can count on it. I will do and say whatever you want, if you get me the hell out of here.”
Massoud rolled his eye, and resumed dreaming of the girl at the bazaar.
Jose’s Arrival (Thursday, 26 September 1991)
From his room, Brandon heard the sound of tires on gravel, then voices in Arabic shouting, “Get the American!”
Moments later, Brandon was greeting Jose Esteban, a weary Chibcha, as Jose Escobedo. “Jose!” Brandon exclaimed as he embraced him. “Follow my instructions. These men don’t understand a word we say, but the Colonel will. Use slang or the Cali dialect when speaking in his presence, and he won’t. Just follow my lead. He thinks you are Pablo Escobar’s lieutenant, so behave as though you are. Complain and be difficult. Eddie Ramirez at DEA will destroy the recording of your voice when this is done, and I will make you rich. You are the man, jeffe, strong and defiant, wishing you were somewhere else.”
At that moment the Colonel stepped from the house onto the portico. “Senor Escobedo, bienvenidos!”
“Jose, please permit me to introduce Colonel Hassan Rashid, powerful son of a powerful father, Nani’ Rashid, Director of Iraqi Intelligence.”
Jose nodded politely but his demeanor suggested that he wasn’t impressed. He began to rant and complain about the trip, the endless miles of nothing, over terrible roads.
The Colonel looked to Brandon for translation and Brandon was happy to oblige.
“He says that was the worst damn trip he ever took. Your roads are a disaster. Why the hell don’t you at least keep the main highways in good shape? And the heat could melt an ingot. I regret to say, Colonel, he is unimpressed with Iraq. He hasn’t anything good to say about it, and he hopes his time here is not totally wasted.”
“He said all that?”
“Yes, but I cleaned it up a little. I believe he should rest and then perhaps he’ll be in a better mood.”
“Of course, tell him ‘mi casa es su casa’ and invite him in, the houseboy will show him to his quarters and will bring his luggage.”
Brandon relayed the information and the Colonel smiled hearing the word, “gracias.”
As the group moved inside, the Colonel instructed Brandon to inform Jose that he could have anything he desired, and on Sunday they could talk about business.
“Sunday?” Brandon asked.
“Yes, tomorrow is Friday. I will be traveling to Mosul to watch a wrestling match. The best from Turkey, Syria and even Iran will be there for this regional match. It should be an impressive exhibition of skill. We have world-class wrestlers on this year’s national team and we should defeat the Iranians for a change. To us, and our neighbors, Greco-Roman wrestling is like your baseball as a national pastime. The manly pursuits of wrestling and power lifting are very big in this region,” he said with considerable pride.
Brandon explained to Jose what he had been told and told him to object strenuously.
Jose fussed and fumed saying he didn’t want to spend even one extra day in a place God abandoned.
“That is not a problem,” the Colonel said. “Tell him this negotiation is more important than anything else. I thought he might appreciate the rest, but if Senor Escobedo insists, we shall begin negotiations tomorrow morning.”
Negotiations Begin (Friday, 27 September 1991)
Jose was refreshed by a bath and a good night’s sleep, and when the meeting commenced after breakfast the following morning, he looked as if he were Escobar’s lieutenant. Crisp linen draped his wiry frame in casual but luxurious comfort. Excellent tailoring added a rakish elegance. The Colonel suspected the clothes and shoes were Italian—Armani possibly. Regardless, the impression had been made.
The principals and the translator retired to the Colonel’s spacious study. Jose was enjoying the attention he received, and laughed heartily and appreciatively at the Colonel’s earnest attempts to flatter him in Spanish. He complimented the Colonel and expressed regret that he could not say similar things about the Colonel in Arabic.
Brandon stood ready to intervene if necessary, but it wasn’t. After a suitable and polite delay the Colonel broached the subject of drug use and more importantly, the growth of poppies, harvesting, preparation and distribution.
Jose listened intently to the Colonel but was clueless as to what he was saying because Brandon fielded both questions and answers and coached him on what to say and how to say it. “Frown, laugh, shout ‘no’ and shake your head vigorously,” were but a few of the emotional keys he received, and he would see Brandon shrug and gesticulate often in contrast to what he was saying. It was bizarre. Brandon spoke as if conducting an orchestra. Brandon would point to one or the other or sweep his arms to include them both. Jose was fascinated by this production, but kept his feelings in check and displayed the mood ordered by the conductor.
After two and a half hours of discussion, and often-wild negotiations, Brandon ordered Jose to demand a break. It was time for refreshments and attending to personal needs. To the Colonel, out of earshot of Jose, Brandon said, sub rosa, “He’s a tough son-of-a-bitch!”
The Colonel nodded and bragged, “So am I, and I think I’m getting the upper hand. What do you think?”
“Colonel, I have to hand it to you. His initial demand for twenty-five million dollars and twenty-five percent of your annual gross was obviously just a ploy to test the waters. I thought he was giving you his bottom line, but you saw right through it. I think he respects you for it. You may have won the admiration of El Diablo Sin Corazon himself.”
“The devil without a heart?”
“Your Spanish is excellent, Colonel. Yes, he is the devil without a heart. It is rumored in Colombia that as a child he was bullied because of his size, but that ended when after taking a bloody beating, he slowly got to his feet facing his much bigger adversary as children taunted and begged for more action. The older and bigger boy said ‘Quiere mas’?”
“Do you want more?” the Colonel translated now fully drawn into the story. “What did Jose say?”
“Jose answered, ‘No, now it is my turn to give you something.’ All the little boys laughed at this ridiculous notion and none louder than the bully himself who threw his head back closing his eyes, but briefly, as he howled with delight. But in that second, in that brief moment when the bully’s chin was pointed skyward, the Jaguar pounced. Jose, with lightning speed, pulled a machete from his backpack on the ground, and with both hands and full forc
e, sliced that blade in a wide arc that whistled through the air and reached the bully’s throat as his laughter subsided and his chin was starting down. How sharp can a blade be? They say it sliced through flesh and bone and the bully’s head stayed in place with no connection to its body. The laughter stopped. The little boys screamed and scattered. And for an instant it seemed the tormentor’s eyes locked with those of El Diablo Sin Corazon and he understood he was dead.”
“Insha Allah! Did he not fall?” the Colonel asked in shocked amazement.
“Who?” Brandon asked innocently.
“The bully, of course!”
“Oh, sure, after awhile, but he died on his feet because it took time for the brain to process the signals and get the message that it was dead.”
“Allah be praised.”
“After that, nobody messed with the little Indian, but Jose had to flee from the police to the jungle where he joined a group of communist freedom fighters who about that time were learning that offering protection to farmers, even if they didn’t want protection, was much more profitable than communism. So they continued playing Robin Hood, but instead of giving to the poor, they kept for themselves. Call it a philosophical adjustment.”
“I see.”
“In the early days, fearful landowners paid the rebels just to be left alone, and the rebels paid corrupt officials to turn a blind eye. Years later, however, the rebels had become an army. Corrupt officials were turned away like beggars and there were firefights. In one of those engagements, Jose saved one of his comrades from certain death and risked his own life in doing so. The man he saved was Pablo Escobar. One thing led to another and now Jose is who he is, one of the most powerful and feared men in the world.”
“Yet, he is here with no protection,” the Colonel observed. “That is odd, is it not?”
Price For A Patriot Page 25