The White Tigress

by Todd Merer

  More blood would stain me.

  We flew in silence to a finca fifty or so miles east of Cali. There, in the midst of an otherwise empty field, a pickup was parked. Next to it a generator hummed and lights glowed on a dial atop a fuel drum. The hose that snaked from it was held by an older man in white peasant garb. A Logui. Dolores’s preferences were clear; her trust was limited to her people.

  Where does that leave me?

  The Logui fitted the hose to the copter’s fuel intake, and the drum began pumping fuel. Minutes later, we lifted off. Our flight path took us half an hour west to the Cordillera Central—the middle ridge of the Andean ranges that trisect Colombia—then turned north and followed the spine of the range. After an hour we veered east, and slowly rural Colombia gave way to towns that grew larger, and I realized where we were headed next:

  Bogotá.

  CHAPTER 48

  Bogotá is set on a nine-thousand-foot plateau partially ringed by steep mountains—eight million people living and working in a mostly low-story grid that runs for miles across the concrete and beaten-earth streets of a once-lush savanna.

  Dolores looked straight ahead, unmoved by the city that wasn’t her Colombia.

  I decided it was time to defrost the situation. Between the altitude and Dolores’s attitude, I felt breathless and deeply heartsick. Maybe I was better off keeping my yap shut. Maybe if I opened it, Dolores would tell me to buzz off. Permanently. Then again, at least I’d know where I no longer stood.

  I took her hand in mine. She didn’t resist but wouldn’t look at me, only stared at the passing landscape below. Gently, I turned her face to mine.

  She was crying. Mascara streaked her cheeks.

  I said, “I’m sorry for what I said.”

  “I’m not crying because of you,” she said sternly. “It’s because this will be the last time I see my country again.”

  “Me?” I said. “I’m crying . . . because of us.”

  Her lower lip quivered. She spoke softly. “I’m lying, Benn. My tears are for us. I know you’re angry with me. At who I’ve been and what I’ve done . . . and my not trusting you. Look in my eyes. What do you see?”

  I looked and saw and said, “I see . . . myself.”

  “I love you, Benn.”

  We kissed for a long moment before she took her lips from mine. “Back there, I needed you to help me stall the cartels. When they finally realize Sombra is still lying about reimbursement, they’ll go on a feeding frenzy, devouring one another. Until that happens, Richard will leave me and my people alone. And soon after that, Richard will no longer matter.”

  Meaning Richard would no longer be matter.

  I considered the implications. If Richard lived, I was dead. I’d already decided I’d kill him. Now I had an ally. I hoped.

  Abruptly, she laughed. “You should have seen your face when I put you onstage back there.”

  “It was a hairy moment, I must admit.”

  “I knew you’d find a rabbit in your hat.”

  “No rabbit,” I said. “I just freestyled.”

  The chopper was slowing. We were above downtown Bogotá now. “So,” I said. “Our next chapter?”

  “Yes. Act as you did in Cali. Freestyle.”

  The copter was circling lower toward a large building topped by a heliport. We set down on the bull’s-eye and got out. White-helmeted cops in dress uniforms escorted us from the helipad inside the building.

  Its corridors were marble-floored. The elevator was shiny new and fast. It opened to an expansive, deep-carpeted anteroom. On a paneled wall was the gilded seal of the Fiscalía General de la Nación, the nation’s national prosecutor. I was up-to-date on the vagaries of the Colombian governmental structure, and although the national prosecutor supposedly answered to half a dozen cabinet members and ultimately the president himself, I knew the current prosecutor was an ex-general and current spymaster who wielded the true power.

  He didn’t keep us waiting. His secretary—at the least a Miss Colombia runner-up—came to fetch us. We followed her into an inner sanctum.

  The prosecutor of the nation was a tall, distinguished man with a courtly manner, his desk bare except for a tidy stack of papers and a rack of ornate pipes. His name was de Braun, and although he was thought to be a hard-liner with the narcos, in truth he was inclined to leave them be as long as they behaved well with the citizenry at large. An arrangement that I’m sure included anonymous cash donations to his reelection campaigns from certain connected Colombian lawyers. It wasn’t corruption; it was their culture. Say what you will about it but know that it’s no different in the States. Big people engaging in conspiracies of silent compliance to their benefit, maybe throwing a smidgeon to the populace and magnifying it by fake news. I reminded myself that Dolores was one of them.

  The prosecutor of the nation greeted Dolores with familiar warmth and gave me a firm handshake. Then he sat, looked at the stacked papers, sighed, and said, “At this point, there’s nothing that can be done, Doña Laura. The president has signed, and the senate ratified the mineral rights treaty with the Chinese government.”

  Dolores said, “Despite UNESCO having declared its support to designate the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta as a World Heritage Site in which mining is strictly prohibited.”

  “There were other realities to consider,” said de Braun, not unkindly.

  “Only one, señor,” said Dolores. “The Chinese outbribed me.”

  De Braun frowned, his voice rising as he said, “Bribe is not the word. It was—”

  Dolores stood. “Whatever it was, it will no longer be. Radio Free Bogotá has a dossier—think WikiLeaks—of who received what, when. Your name appears, sir. That dossier will be made public unless the mineral rights contract is terminated.”

  “Unilaterally? Colombia would be a pariah in world trade.”

  I said, “Not if the alternate proposal was considered.”

  De Braun looked at me. “Forgive me,” he said. “I don’t know who you are or why you are present.”

  “My name is Bluestone. I’m an American attorney whose specialty is trade agreements. I take it that among that stack of documents is a map of the Guajira Peninsula delineating the boundaries of the mining area?”

  “Of course, but why—”

  “Show it to me,” I said.

  Again, de Braun studied me.

  I held his gaze a moment, then snapped my fingers impatiently. “Time is a factor. I take it the people who accepted bribes—”

  “Campaign contributions,” he corrected.

  “Bribes,” I repeated. “These people must realize their actions have serious consequences, not only for their careers, but for their families.”

  “You dare come here and threaten me?”

  “Not a threat, a reality. Unfortunately, as you no doubt are aware, in your country violence often plays a part in negotiations.”

  “We . . . these congressmen are not narcotraffickers.”

  I said, “Radio Free Bogotá can prove otherwise.”

  De Braun fell silent for a moment. Then he removed a document from the stack and placed it atop the desk. It was a map of the Guajira and its adjacent mountain range. I studied the colored lines, then the map’s legend. I put a finger atop a snowcapped peak. Anawanda.

  “From here to the sea,” I said. “It’s the area the Chinese leased?”

  He nodded.

  I moved my finger west from the border of the Sierra Nevada along the rest of the Guajira Peninsula, stopping at the city of Riohacha. “My researchers inform me that the REE deposits extend to Riohacha. The solution is simple. Move the mining area to Riohacha.”

  He shook his head. “It’s too late. The Chin—”

  “It’s never too late.” I stood and cupped Dolores’s elbow. “Thank you for your time, sir. For the good of all concerned, I hope you and your cohorts rethink your decision.”

  For a moment he glared full macho at me. Then his expression became abject. �
��I will bring the matter to their attention.”

  “Do so quickly. The alternatives . . .”

  He nodded. “I understand.”

  We did not speak until our copter lifted from the pad. It was a NOTAR, and beneath its low thrum, Dolores’s voice was audible. “I can’t believe you threatened him.”

  “Nothing I said he wasn’t already hip to. Pipe smokers tend to be old-fashioned. This one has been around long enough to know that theft invariably leads to violence. He wasn’t surprised. Besides, I doubt it will come to that. The Chinese have already begun deploying, but I think they’ll be open to renegotiating the contract and move their mining rights well away from the Sierra Nevada.”

  “Why would the Chinese agree?”

  “Maybe they’ll get a better deal.”

  “From whom? What kind of deal?”

  “You. And your secret plans.”

  “Don’t put it like that, Benn.”

  “How should I put it?”

  “This is something I need to do on my own. Much as I value your insights, I don’t want to be distracted from my own. Each day the coming events shift, and I don’t have time to consult. Just to react. Trust me, please.”

  I sighed and flipped a mental coin. It came up heads. I said, “I trust you.”

  Beyond the copter’s plexiglass bubble, a brassy sun was sinking into the west. The Sierra Nevada lay due north, but we were heading toward the sunset. I said, “We’re not returning to the Sierra Nevada?”

  “No,” she said. “We’re going far, far away.”

  “I’ve always wanted to visit Wonderland.”

  Dolores smiled, and my heart melted.

  CHAPTER 49

  The chopper’s muted rotors lulled me into a half sleep, an indistinct haze between reality and daydreaming. Dolores slept with her body imprinted against mine, the faint, sweet smell of her perspiration dizzying, her breath soft against my ear.

  Was it true that she loved me?

  Or was I only her cutout?

  To negotiate with killers.

  Threaten a prosecutor.

  Dispose of Richard.

  It didn’t matter.

  Dolores snuggled closer, and I put an arm around her. Protectively. That’s when it came to me. I wouldn’t have to steel myself to kill Richard.

  I wanted to kill him.

  CHAPTER 50

  Below was trackless green jungle. Far ahead, sun glittered off a distant sea. The Pacific. The copter descended to a small airport. A single runway cut through a mangrove swamp, its terminal a cluster of old buildings outside which amarillos were parked: the ubiquitous, small yellow cabs that careen recklessly throughout the country. There were half a dozen small prop-driven craft parked, and several large jets tethered to gates: Copa and Avianca and LAN and an unmarked 737 that I figured was a cartel craft. The airport was named Tobar López, servicing Buenaventura.

  I’d been there before.

  Not a pleasant trip, for Buenaventura was a sore on Colombia’s beautiful Pacific coast. Its port was fringed by ramshackle slums that were the de facto capital of Pacific narcotrafficking to Central America and Mexico. I’d had a client who’d once been the big man in BV, raking in tens of millions by charging the cartels a tax on each kilo shipped from the city. A week after he was arrested on an extradition warrant, he’d been found dead in his cell, cause of death being dead men tell no tales. That same day his attorney barely escaped being kidnapped.

  Me.

  Until now, I hadn’t returned to Buenaventura, which, following my client’s death, had become a sporadic battleground for would-be kilo-tax collectors. Both the local and the Colombian National Police had been accorded a piece of the action for them to ignore the drug trade. Murders and kidnappings were the norm. Unlike in Bogotá, Medellín, and Cali, here gringo lawyers were not immune from violence—

  Hold on! Was Buenaventura Dolores’s “faraway place”?

  The copter door opened, and we stepped out into wet heat tinged with the stink of aviation fuel. Immediately, I was sweating, not just from the climate but from the bad vibes. By the terminal, a squad of soldiers eyed us, as did a crew loading a two-engine prop plane, a craft undoubtedly short-hauling product up the coast to Central America, where its cargo would be transferred to trailer trucks bound north on the Pan American Highway.

  An airport cop car appeared, headed toward us.

  It stopped, and two cops in fatigues got out, followed by an officer. The cops carried automatic weapons, the officer’s holster flap unbuttoned.

  “Señora Astorquiza?” said the officer, gravely.

  Was this the end of our road? Surely Dolores didn’t expect me to freestyle our way out of this predicament. She was unknown as Sombra, but her face was well known as Laura Astorquiza, La Pasionaria, the voice of the people in the streets who opposed corrupt officials—the same officials who were their bosses.

  But, still again, I’d underestimated Dolores, for the officer cordially welcomed her to Buenaventura, expressing regret that her short stay deprived him of an opportunity to take her to dinner. His disappointment was assuaged when Dolores handed him a thick envelope. He peered inside—I glimpsed a $10,000-size brick of Franklins—and smiled to myself.

  Even as the officer’s car pulled away, the unmarked 737 began trundling toward us. As it rocked to a stop, its door opened, and the soldiers rolled boarding stairs to its fuselage. Dolores, both brothers, and I climbed aboard. Immediately, the door closed, and the big jet resumed moving.

  Ten minutes later, we were airborne, headed toward the last sliver of daylight. West, over the darkening Pacific.

  Dolores and I were alone in the rear cabin.

  “Don’t ever leave me, Benn.”

  “I’ve got your back forever.”

  A discreet knock interrupted us, and Younger Brother entered. He’d ditched his farmworker persona for a bodysuit like ours. Only he had on the trop-weight white version, so I figured we were headed somewhere warm. Or hot. Unlike the cross-county copter trip, this leg wasn’t an instant coffee run, for he carried a silver tray loaded with what appeared to represent the entire IHOP breakfast menu, then left us alone to enjoy it. Yet again, I marveled at Dolores’s influence and timing. We’d not passed through security, had been in Buenaventura for hardly a quarter of an hour without filing a flight plan, yet she’d arranged for catered food.

  I didn’t realize I was so hungry until I began stuffing my face, but there was so much food, I couldn’t finish my serving. Dolores ate all hers, including the chocolate croissants.

  She offered me one. I shook my head.

  “Just have one. Do it for . . . me?”

  How could I resist? And the croissant was delicious, down to the last crumb. Made me smile like the little kid I still was. I reflected on that thought, which segued into an unrelated observation, and then still another. I wondered why this kaleidoscope was playing—realized why—and turned to Dolores.

  She was curled up, asleep again. Beyond her window, the sun was dipping in the west. Nothing out there within the 737’s range but Hawaii . . .

  Pearl Harbor. From Here to Eternity—that’s when it hit me:

  Movie memories? I was stoned out of my mind.

  The croissants were laced with pot: top-quality sinsemilla, according to my sensory perception index. Too mucking fuch. Me and my girl—yes, my girl—were made for each other. We’d both grown up liking our weed. Me, because I’d been a wild kid who’d loved toking what was then street-known as boo. Dolores, because the first wave of Colombian drug exports was dubbed Colombian Gold, which was grown in the Sierra Nevada, where, as a fugitive from her father’s killers, she’d been raised by the Logui, who simply viewed the stuff as an herbal stimulant. And she liked weed for all the right reasons—not to giggle stupidly but to amplify awareness, or perchance to dream.

  Dolores chose to dream.

  I chose to enjoy whatever came along and looked at the Pacific shining in the sunlight seven miles
down. I reclined my seat . . .

  Time passed, a reverie of good vibes.

  I was bound for an adventure.

  Me and my girl and my guns.

  Minutes or hours later, the 737 began descending, and I glimpsed Diamond Head as we touched down. The airport was crowded with jetliners and the private chariots of billionaires. We taxied by them to an unmarked DC-10 parked at the head of a runway.

  We left the 737 and boarded the bigger plane. Apparently, it had been a cargo craft, for the interior was unfinished but for a bulwark dividing its cavernous interior. Another half dozen Logui came aboard. They and the brothers staked out the forward cabin, their duffels on its bare floors their seating. Their plastic gun cases were open, and they were cleaning their weapons. Among them were bow tips jutting from woven tubes. Higher than any kite, I stared at them, thinking:

  Bows and arrows? Why not? David took Goliath down with a stone.

  Dolores’s voice pierced my clouded mind. “Sit in the back, Benn.”

  “You segregating me? Y’know, gringo lives matter.”

  She smiled. “Just go and enjoy your head.”

  So I did. A pair of spacious seats had been bolted to the bare floor. I eased into one, but Dolores remained forward. From there, I heard voices: Dolores and a man, an official of some sort, although I couldn’t make out their words, only their tone. Familiar as hell. A bribe. Dolores gifting an official with a brick or three of Franklins. We then took off without having filed a flight plan.

  My Dolores, always thinking ahead.

  She sure had it down right.

  Money trumps power.

  Man, I was stoned.

  CHAPTER 51

  Dolores remained forward. When Younger Brother brought me a snack through the opened door, I glimpsed her seated behind the pilots, headphones clamped over her ears, animatedly speaking into a mike.

  The snack was a smoked tuna sandwich on a fresh-baked bun, sweet, newly cut pineapple on the side. I wondered if it was spiked with weed. I hoped so. Pot was the perfect kick-starter for thinking out of the box . . .