Eye of the Cobra

by Christopher Sherlock

  But he had some unfinished business to conclude. Several months before, the United States government, through the CIA, had put pressure on the government of Bogota and got them to sign an extradition treaty. That meant anyone involved in smuggling drugs to the US, or making drugs for the US, arrested in Colombia, would be deported to the US.

  This ruling was a disaster for the drug barons, because in Colombia there was always someone they could bribe to get off a sentence. Failing that, they could kill off whoever got in their way with impunity. But to face US justice was another matter altogether - which was another reason why Emerson Ortega had felt the need to disappear.

  There was one man behind all this, a man Ortega hated more than anyone else in the world. He was an ex-Argentinian who could not be bribed: David Ramirez, the new head of the Colombian Palace of Justice.

  Emerson Ortega wanted to get even with Ramirez. Emerson Ortega believed that in Colombia he should have been lauded as a national hero for bringing his country wealth and prosperity. He had been close to getting a seat in the Colombian parliament, until David Ramirez had started undermining him. He was quite sure that Ramirez was also behind all the CIA assassination attempts on him.

  The killing at the church, the killing in which Ortega had supposedly died, had been perfectly set up. His double had taken the bullet intended for himself.

  The double had been an out-of-work actor they’d located in Brazil, who looked exactly like him. He’d told the actor the whole thing was to sort out a problem, that the idea was to convince the local minister that Emerson regularly attended church, and thus increase his standing in the community. Emerson told the actor that he hated church and was willing to pay the actor a large fee to go in his place each Sunday. The actor had readily agreed, pleased to find such a simple way of earning a good living.

  Emerson had heard of the plot to assassinate him through Rod Talbot, an American who was helping him develop the cocaine business.

  Normally, Emerson would have had his would-be assassins captured, and then tortured to death - this time he had decided it would be better if they succeeded. Emerson knew that the time would come when he would not be able to stay one step ahead of the CIA - that it was time for him to disappear. Carmen, his wife, had agreed to go through with the charade. He had loved Carmen, and the fuckers had killed his wife as well.

  It was ironic in a way. She was the one person - apart from his non-identical twin brother - who could have led them to him; the one person who could have blown the new identity he had now assumed.

  No longer would he walk the streets of Bogota as a man of standing. Now he must live as Antonio Vargas - a nonentity. Emerson guessed that if the CIA found out he was still alive, they would try to kill him again. But now they would never know they had killed the wrong man, because his wife was the only person who could have told them.

  Today he was faced with a serious and growing problem. He could produce cocaine, but he could not ship it to the US. Every avenue of supply he had used in the past had been effectively blocked, including Panama and the Bahamas.

  However, he was now possessed of a huge advantage. He was unknown, forty years old and in excellent shape. He did not drink, smoke or take drugs - those things had become less and less important to him as he made more and more money. He had ruled his empire through fear and intimidation; it was the only way he knew how to control people, and it was very effective.

  He walked away from the zoo, across the lawns of his eight- thousand-acre estate, glancing at the gun towers in the distance. A vast wall ran around the property, constantly patrolled by armed guards and tracker-dogs. A complete aerial surveillance system combed the sky - should anyone dare to invade the airspace above his property, a jet-fighter and helicopter gunship were on standby.

  A thin smile crossed his face as he came closer to an assembly of people gathered on the main lawn. Above them towered a gallows from which hung a solitary rope. Two of the men broke from the group, both armed with Uzi sub- machine-guns.

  ‘Pablo, Emilio, how goes it?’

  The fatter of the two answered.

  ”E is ready, Mr Vargas.’

  Even those who had been closest to him, failed to recognise him.

  ‘You have a camera crew?’

  ‘They are all in place.’

  Emerson waved the men aside and walked into the group, which parted to reveal a handsome man in his mid-forties standing beneath the gallows, the hanging rope around his neck.

  Emerson waved, indicating that the others should go away. He waited in silence, studying the Minister’s face. When the men were out of earshot, he whispered softly to his captive.

  ‘It is I, Emerson Ortega, risen from the dead.’

  ‘Ortega,’ the man mumbled in a strangled voice.

  ‘The CIA killed my double. I know you led them to me, and for that you must pay with your life.’

  ‘You will never get away with this, Ortega!’

  He spat the words out, an impressive figure in his dark-blue suit, a big man with a broad forehead and open eyes that commanded attention. David Ramirez, head of the Colombian Palace of Justice.

  ‘Oh, Minister, I think you talk very big for a man who is about to fall a few feet.’

  Ramirez laughed - a dry, empty laugh.

  ‘Shut up!’ screamed Ortega. ‘This is a solemn moment. Mr Ramirez, you have an appointment with God.’

  The estate was deathly quiet. Ortega turned to the still face of the head of the Palace of Justice.

  ‘Do you have a last request?’

  The spittle, David Ramirez’ answer, landed on Emerson Ortega’s face. He wiped it off slowly.

  ‘I take a video of this event, Ramirez,’ he said. ‘I take it to your wife and children as a present. I let them see your last moments.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh yes, and the noose is set so you die very slowly, eh?’ Ortega held Ramirez stare for a minute, then pulled the lever that released the trap door. Ramirez uttered a strangled cry.

  ‘Your last word, sir. But it will take half an hour for you to pass out. A good length for a short film. If you don’t mind, I will sit and watch.’

  Ortega stepped back and sat down in the chair placed beside the gallows. From out of his shirt he took a pet marmoset and stroked its head softly.

  ‘It is boring watching you die, sir. But when I think how many of my men you have sent to jail and to death, I feel it is worth the wait. A copy of this little film will naturally be sent to your colleagues in the government. Perhaps then they will think a little more carefully about the extradition treaty they have signed with the United States government, eh?’

  Ramirez’ face gradually turned purple, much to Ortega’s satisfaction. He knew what this would mean to the nine thousand people who worked for the Ortega Cartel. These people had begun saying that the Ortega Cartel had lost its power, that they were afraid of the Colombian government. Well, thought Ortega, this little gesture would show them who really held the power.

  A little later Ortega looked at his watch, then called one of the guards. The man came up at a jog.

  ‘Call the doctor.’

  The sun was setting across the beautiful jungle as the tall, white-suited man strode over the immaculately cut lawns that surrounded the gallows.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Vargas,’ he said, slightly out of breath.

  ‘Yes, it is very good. You have met the head of the Palace of Justice?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Would you tell me if he is dead?’

  The doctor put down his bag and examined the body suspended from the gallows.

  ‘He is very dead.’

  ‘Very good. Now we must send him back to his family, I’m sure they are wondering where he has got to.’

  The doctor was quiet - an unassuming man with white hair beneath his panama hat. ‘Isn’t that a little excessive?’ he asked in his languid American drawl.

  ‘How do you Americanos put it? Nothing suc
ceeds like excess, eh?’

  The doctor did not laugh, but he managed a tight-lipped smile.

  Emerson Ortega got up and stretched. ‘You may go, doctor. I must check that the animals are being properly fed. I am a man of deep compassion. It was Emerson Ortega’s last wish that Ramirez should die.’

  The doctor was silent.

  ‘Have you lost your tongue?’ Emerson snapped.

  ‘Mr Vargas, sir, you are the most caring person I have ever met,’ the doctor replied contritely.

  ‘Ah, that is nice to hear. You like to live a little longer?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘We understand each other so well.’

  The helicopter flew low over the dense green jungle and powered on up the river. The pilot, a Vietnam veteran, kept a tight hand on the controls. His new employer, Antonio Vargas, who sat in the cabin behind him, paid him more in a month than he’d have earned in a year back home, but Larry Sykes knew that if he had an accident, Vargas would kill him. This wasn’t just supposition: he’d seen Vargas kill ten men in the last two weeks. One had actually been thrown out of this very chopper.

  This was a regular journey they made at least four times a week. Larry kept his eyes open. He remembered all that was going on, but he resisted the temptation to get part of the action for himself. He was sure that if he proved his loyalty, Vargas would trust him more and more. Then he could just exert a bit of leverage - subtle blackmail - and get a very generous retirement package.

  He dropped down as he found the clearing, slightly to the left of the Vaupes River. He eased the chopper onto the landing-pad, and men armed with Uzi carbines burst from the surrounding buildings, quickly standing to attention.

  Larry turned back and watched Vargas step from the cockpit, followed by Jules Ortega. What a pair. After them came five young women, aged between fifteen and seventeen, all wearing too little clothing and too much make-up. He knew what they were for - entertaining the staff. They never left the women there, instead they brought in a new batch each time. Very clever, thought Larry, then turned away as Vargas shot him an irritated glance.

  Antonio Vargas, alias Emerson Ortega, looked angrily around the manufacturing plant, then walked briskly to the main office, followed by his twin brother Jules.

  It was more comfortable in the big air-conditioned room. Jules sat down at a large desk, with Emerson seated a little to one side. It irritated Emerson that with his new identity he had to assume the role of subordinate to his non-identical twin. He tried to console himself with the thought that Jules had to be seen to be in command. Nobody must realise that he, in the person of Antonio Vargas, was silently pulling the strings that ran the Ortega Cartel - the biggest cocaine dealer and manufacturer in Colombia.

  A dark-skinned, black-haired man with a heavy moustache entered, carrying a sheaf of reports. He stood to attention, his laboratory coat immaculately pressed for the occasion.

  Jules Ortega leaned back on his chair, legs open wide, hands clasped behind his head. He liked his new role, with his brother in permanent disguise and himself in control.

  ‘Speak, Dr Estevez, and it better be good.’

  ‘Everything is in place. Whenever you want to move, you can, sir. It will only take a few days,’ Dr Estevez said hesitantly. ‘But I have one major problem. Though we have more than enough raw material, we don’t have the chemicals we need for the refining process.’

  Jules Ortega smashed his fist against the table. ‘Well, order more chemicals, you stupid bastard!’

  The doctor paled. ‘Our usual suppliers can no longer help us.’

  ‘What do you mean, fuck-head?’

  ‘The Americans, they know what we use those chemicals for. They have been prevented from renewing our contract.’ Jules hunched his shoulders, glancing at his brother, who gave him a slight, imperceptible nod.

  ‘But the chemicals are for industrial use . . .’

  ‘Sir, the Americans, they are not so stupid.’

  ‘But then, arsehole, you look for another source.’

  ‘I have looked, sir. Germany is a possibility - but these things take time.’

  Jules Ortega got up and walked round the table. Without warning he slammed his fist into the doctor’s solar-plexus.

  ‘Every time I come here, you talk shit!’ he shouted. ‘You think ’cos my brother’s dead, you’ll get an easy ride? You have one month. If things are not working properly by then, I bust your balls.’

  ‘But sir,’ Dr Estevez groaned, ‘I can’t get the chemical.’ Jules kicked him in the back, scoring a direct hit in his kidneys.

  ‘Stop worrying. We will get you the chemicals. My new source has promised them.’ And then, as Dr Estevez staggered to his feet, ‘Now show Mr Vargas and me around.’

  Emerson relaxed. Jules was doing a fine job. All he had to do was prime him, and things would carry on the way they’d always done. It was just that he was now the man in the mask, the unknown controller of the operation.

  This manufacturing plant had always made Emerson feel uneasy. He was glad they had planned to move it. True, the plant was hidden in the jungle near the tiny settlement of Mitu, on the Vaupes River, some four hundred miles southeast of Bogota, the capital of Colombia. And it was only accessible by air or by water, sailing up the dirty brown waters of the Vaupes from the town of Mitu.

  Mitu, now largely unoccupied, had once been a rubber boom-town. Now it was a line of painted wooden houses that broke the unending carpet of green covering south-eastern Colombia.

  The plant made Emerson feel insecure because it wasn’t quite secret enough. Word had already got out in Mitu that there was good work and good women available in the strange new factory up the river, so at least labour wasn’t a problem. And even if it were, people could be taken by force - could just disappear, no questions asked. Emerson imagined what it had been like when the area was exploited by the Casa Arana, a rubber company financed by British and Peruvian backers. They’d used the local Indians as slaves; they’d raped the women, and they’d cut the hands off anyone who challenged them. He understood how the men of Casa Arana had operated. He liked their style.

  Emerson had come from nothing, a petty thief from the slums of Bogota. As a young man his talent for killing those who got in his way had become legendary, and he had rapidly established himself in a position of power. In those days, big business meant handling a couple of kilograms of cocaine. Now, with advanced processing equipment, it was tons he was producing, not kilograms.

  Cocaine was a wonder-drug. People who tried it couldn’t have enough of it, so the American authorities to the north were continually attempting to prevent the supply of cocaine to their shores. They had tried to limit the cultivation of the coca leaves in Ecuador, Peru and Bolivia. Fools! Because it was cocaine that kept those countries alive . . . They might as well have asked the people not to breathe.

  Now the Americans had taken steps to destroy the cocaine processing plants. So far, they had failed. It was ironic, thought Emerson, that during this period he’d managed to increase production while at the same time lowering the street price. The market was growing every day.

  The Americans were getting more and more frustrated. They could do nothing. Through a complicated network of bribes, the police were also in on the action, taking a cut. The power of drug money to corrupt was absolute.

  But it was the other world markets, not just America, that now interested Emerson - because in Europe cocaine could fetch three times the price it did in the United States. And in the Old World, the authorities weren’t as wide awake as the Americans to what was happening. The opening up of the Eastern Bloc also meant a huge new pool of potential users.

  What was more, the Japanese market was also expanding rapidly. So demand was shooting up all over the world.

  Emerson had set up this processing plant after a couple of laboratories in Bogota had been bombed under mysterious circumstances. He sensed that the CIA had orchestrated the attacks. But he knew that e
ven this plant on the Vaupes river, hidden from prying eyes, and with all essential staff flown in, was not secure enough.

  Of course, his employees knew the risks if they talked. If they gave out information that led to the discovery of the factory, they would be found and killed. The Ortega Cartel was famous for finding and punishing those who dared to betray its secrets.

  The Vaupes plant was equipped with the finest technical equipment, and every step was taken to ensure the quality of the product. True, street dealers might debase it, but it would still be better than anyone else could supply. The factory had been running smoothly, producing tons of cocaine every week, until this problem with sourcing the chemicals used in the refining process.

  Emerson turned to Jules. ‘How’s distribution?’

  ‘We have some problems. But we’ll soon be able to fly product direct to the States.’

  Emerson chuckled. This was a new and unexpected development, organised by the man who was assisting in the construction of the new factory - Rod Talbot.

  Emerson trusted Talbot. After all, it was Talbot who’d told him about the CIA assassination attempt and saved his life.

  Distribution was Jules’s responsibility. He was always coming up with new ideas for smuggling cocaine. This was important: as one door closed, it was essential to open another. The fall of Panama had been a big disaster for them; even their shipment-points in the Bahamas had been uncovered.

  ‘We will have to be careful, Jules.’

  ‘Talbot has arranged for us to land our planes in a US army private military base. There are no customs people there. No questions are asked because it’s all top-secret.’

  ‘I don’t quite believe it. Why should they allow this?’

  ‘Talbot says they want to move a lot of weapons into South America - and they need to do it quietly. If the transport’s provided, they don’t ask questions.’

  ‘I don’t trust those fuckers, Jules.’

  ‘But you can trust Talbot. He found and killed Kruger, the man who thought he’d killed you. He got the chemicals we needed - and he also obtained all the hardware for the development of the new labs. Best of all, he’s opened up a supply route to Europe that is totally dependable.’