by Bill Vidal
Tom tried to explain that they were supposed to be helping him but, as he mumbled incoherently, shadows in body armour appeared from everywhere and pushed him to the ground. They frisked him roughly and yanked his wrists behind his back, heedless of his pain as the searing wound across his shoulders opened up once more. From the corner of his eye, Tom could see the Bentley being searched, the doors and boot opened up. He felt nausea as his strength left him. The last thing he remembered was a distant, hollow voice asking fiercely what he had done with Mrs Clayton.
Then the lights went out.
15
MORALES HAD LESS than twenty-four hours in which to make arrangements. First he spoke quietly to his family. He explained that they would have to go away for a while. His eldest son asked if this was the promised trip to Singapore, but he told him no: this one would be a surprise and, since they would be away for quite some time, each should take along their favourite possessions. They would be travelling in the small plane, he pointed out, so each person was allowed just one bag. With his wife he was more blunt: only her jewellery and best garments should be packed.
He then gave the Arawacs a special task. He sent them about the house, collecting valuables, silver, paintings, sculptures, and carefully placing them inside three large trunks. These, he explained, they were to take away and hide in their village. They should leave immediately the plane departed and stay home until he sent for them in a few months’ time. Morales gave them $50,000 in Colombian currency, to take care of their needs until his return. Of all the people in his employ, Tupac and Amaya alone enjoyed his trust. He then took Tupac for a brief stroll around the garden, ensuring no one else could hear their conversation. In a month or so, when the dust had settled, Tupac was to find Mayor Romualdes and kill him. On his own, without witnesses, preferably when it was dark. A knife would be adequate, and, if the circumstances allowed, Tupac was to let the Mayor know why he was about to die.
The Indian understood and asked no questions.
For himself, Morales did not need much. A few clothes, his gold Rolex, the cash he kept at home. After paying Speer, he was left with $300,000, which he stuffed into a rucksack. There was also a handsome sum in pesos, most of which he would send to De la Cruz. The lawyer would be instructed to protect Villa del Carmen, fight in the courts as necessary, resist all attempts to have it confiscated. Morales was convinced that the Cali cartels were their own worst enemies. Their demise was a matter of time. Maybe the drug business would move away from Colombia altogether, to Peru or north-west Brazil. Already minor dealers were operating there and Morales had started to explore similar alternatives. One thing he knew for sure: so long as the American public demanded the produce, someone, somewhere, would continue to supply it.
By late afternoon Morales had heard from Speer. All the drug baron’s assets were now under the Costa Rican lawyer’s control, a total current value in excess of 70 million. A further 6.8 million had presented a small problem. Salazar would not hand that over for thirty days, and even then he would deduct his 10 per cent. Speer felt it had been best to go along with the Laundry Man and avoid at all costs any confrontation that might have hindered the transfer of the bulk of the portfolio. So far, events had proved him right. Morales had not been happy about parting with $680,000 in commissions, but if the Laundry Man’s operation was compromised, it was best to cut clean from it at once.
Speer had often urged the Colombian to remove his investments from the United States, but Morales, like most South Americans, always looked north for long-term financial security. He understood American dollars and saw the States, with its mixture of prosperity and raw opportunity, as a more advanced and better managed version of the continent’s southern half. Europe frightened him. He understood few of their customs and hardly any of their tongues. But in the end Speer had been right. The Americans had already cost him half his fortune, and the time had come to move the rest to safer pastures. He would stay in South America for a prudent period, after which Spain would be a good choice: familiar language, food, traditions, and the fact that, when it came to dealing with officialdom, everything was reasonably corrupt. Morales had been there previously and remembered thinking at the time that Marbella or its environs would be a nice place in which to buy a property. So he gave Speer the go-ahead to sell everything and move the cash to Europe.
The Shrike Commander that had flown Speer to Aruba was now back in Morales’ drug-run strip. It was being checked and refuelled for its impending trip to Panama. That left Morales with one matter to take care of: Robles. At a tag of $50 million, he was not about to delegate the task. The man the drug baron held responsible for his unwelcome circumstances deserved his personal attention.
At half-past five, Morales took the jeep and drove up to the camp. Tupac was to drive the pick-up, with the trunks; Amaya the Nissan Patrol, with the family. The Arawac Indians were told to be at the landing strip by eight, wait until the plane had gone, then drive on until they reached their village.
All appeared normal as Morales reached the plant. Like workers in a mill, they were cleaning up and taking stock of the day’s work, except that this white powder was ten thousand times more valuable than flour or sugar. They looked guardedly in their boss’s direction and redoubled their efforts to look busy. Those he passed close to greeted him politely, those who wore hats raised them deferentially. None was surprised when he went straight to the large hut. They knew that the previous night the Arawacs had brought a man there – fortunately, this time, not one of them. His identity did not concern the workforce, and foolish would be the man who asked.
Morales entered the shed and looked at the prostrate figure. He made a sorry sight. Morales picked up a large bush knife and leaned down close to Robles’ head.
‘Can you hear me?’ he asked unemotionally, and when the man nodded, he put the blade close to his neck, then slowly started moving the knife back and forth in a sawing motion. One by one the strands of rope were cut. Freed from the restraining post, the DEA agent let out a loud sigh and stretched out on the ground.
‘You know, of course, I’m going to kill you?’ asked Morales sedately.
Robles looked up at his captor and nodded.
‘Then make it easy on yourself. Tell me a few things I’d like to know.’
Robles remained silent.
‘You work for the Americans?’
‘I am American,’ replied Robles. ‘One day, you’ll look back upon my murder as your most stupid mistake. My people care for their own.’
‘Who would they be? Your people?’
‘United States Department of Justice.’
Morales made a derisive sound.
‘Just get on with it, you bastard,’ said Robles wearily. ‘You’ll get your dues soon enough.’
‘What I want to know is how you found out about my bank arrangements. Who told you?’
‘Half of Medellin knows. They all call your bank asking questions,’ Julio half-lied. ‘I just asked the questions a bit better than the rest.’ He did not wish to mention Romualdes whilst there was still hope that he had done as expected. If so, it might well be too late to save Julio, but not too late to destroy Morales for ever.
‘Bank, eh?’ He pondered that one. ‘So, I should do like the old-timers, and keep the dough under my mattress!’ But maybe, thought Morales seriously, maybe it was the bank. It made little difference. In two hours he would be on his way to a new life. A rich, respectable new life.
He undid one handcuff from the agent’s wrist and told him to click it shut again, this time with his arms in front of him. ‘This way you can be a bit more comfortable when you die,’ Morales joked. He pulled his captive to his feet then marched him outside, following a few paces behind, gun in hand. As they passed the door, Morales picked up a shovel, then walked Julio towards the encampment’s edge.
Robles found movement quite difficult. The beatings meted out by the Arawac had done real damage – he was sure some ribs were broken – a
nd the iron shackles on his legs banished any thought of making a run for the bush. He would try it if he thought Morales would shoot him, but he knew better. Others would be sent to bring him back and the battering would start again.
When they reached the tree line, Morales threw the shovel at Robles’ feet and ordered him to start digging …
The American’s last thoughts before the shooting started were that the hole was five feet deep and that he wished he had gone to London with Red Harper. Then the ground exploded a few yards behind his captor, as if a ghost had stood upon a landmine. He saw a bright flash and felt himself falling. There was no pain, no sound, just darkness.
Noriega had planned his attack carefully. All day he had prepared his men for action: 227 would accompany him to Medellín. He had the usual array of hand grenades and AK-47s and two prize weapons, recently acquired at a hefty price from an Ecuadorian smuggler who had stolen them from the army: a pair of 3-inch mortars and nearly one hundred rounds. But first he took precautions. Before one vehicle rolled out of Cali he sent his spies to Medellín. They were to pay particular attention to the manning of the road checks and then sit in the square, sipping coffee, like tourists. And count policemen going into City Hall. By mid-morning, Friday, the spies reported being in position and immediately thereafter the ragtag but lethal private army began to roll.
They left Cali at regular intervals throughout the day, a few each in a motley vehicle collection, some heading towards the coast, others along the north-western road to Bogotá. Their instructions were to assemble around six in the evening on a remote farm north of Manizales. A small party had been sent there in advance, to ensure the owner’s acquiescence. At six Noriega himself arrived and waited by his telephone. At 6.15 he received the call from Medellín. His intelligence, it appeared, was true: the entire police force in the area had been pouring into City Hall for the last half-hour. Just in case, Noriega ordered his observers to remain in place and to keep ringing every ten minutes. Then the assembled convoy moved north in force. They could reach their target within half an hour and, so long as the police remained assembled and the ten-minute messages kept coming, they would proceed to their objective.
Fifty men would go direct to Villa del Carmen, their task to kill Morales. Noriega knew the estate was well defended and although only a score or so opponents were expected, they would be well armed and have the advantage of home territory. Surprise and numerical superiority should provide some compensation for the attacking side. They would take casualties. The Cali force would open fire with one mortar, unleashing shell after shell upon the house. They might get Morales first time if they were lucky, but Noriega had provided his own armoured Mercedes 600 for the core of the attack. Six men would ride in it, push full-speed along the drive and then ram it up to the veranda. They were to saturate the house, whatever was left of it, with machine-gun fire and hand grenades. Above all they were to make sure they had killed the last drug baron of Medellín.
Noriega would lead the other attack in person. Three small teams would take the outlying refineries whilst the main one, close to the airstrip and where he expected Morales would hold most of his stock, he would take himself with 100 soldiers and the second mortar. There would be at least 2,000 kilos packed and ready there, he guessed. That would be his bonus, to be transported back to Cali under his own watchful eye. Noriega did not believe in exposing his men to unnecessary temptation.
The blast of the first mortar shell threw Robles and Morales to the ground, yet miraculously both survived. Robles, untouched by shrapnel, fell stunned into the grave he had dug, momentarily deaf and bleeding from the shock wave, but alive. Morales had been thrown to the edge of the same pit, struck by small bits of metal at the back of his left leg and shoulder, yet fully aware of what was happening. One after another the rounds fell, and his men, unable to determine where the shells were coming from, ran about the compound like chickens parted from their heads.
Then the explosions stopped and the machine guns opened fire.
Morales was back on his feet and running, shouting orders with such authority that for a moment it looked as though his men might rally. But it was too late: they were being shot at from the sanctuary of the bush and all they could do was blindly return fire. Having lost his handgun, Morales picked up a semi-automatic from a wounded man and ran straight into the forest. Noriega saw him, surprised to find him there, unmistakably his old rival. He let loose a full magazine as the man dived into the bush but could not be sure if he had hit him. He called on those around him to come with him and charged full-pelt in pursuit.
Morales could hear them coming after him and tore at the thick bush like a wild beast. He went for the high ground, only about a hundred yards to the summit of the hill, albeit in an environment that made progress difficult. The other side of the hill, he knew, was less dense in vegetation and more rocky. At the bottom flowed a river. If he could get halfway down before the others reached the summit, he was sure he could reach the water. Then he might live to fight another day.
He heard the bush give way as they gained on him so he turned and loosed six rounds in their direction. One man screamed. That gave Morales some pleasure and with it the extra stamina to press on. He heard a barrage of shots, and the whiz of bullets cutting through vegetation, but did not stop; he calculated that his own shots would have made the pursuers hesitate, or at least proceed with caution, giving him a few more precious yards. Then the bush became thinner and he saw the top within his reach. Morales emptied the rest of his magazine at his hunters, then threw aside his gun and, ignoring the pain in his wounded leg, started racing down towards the river.
Noriega reached the ridge first and saw him, a hundred and fifty yards below, almost by the river bank. He took careful aim and fired, then observed the man go down as his men joined him. He could not be sure he had killed him, just that he had seen him fall in the thick grass along the bank.
‘There,’ he told his followers. ‘Look where I’m shooting’ – and he continued to fire methodically, one round at a time, into the tall grass. His men followed his example with automatic fire. When their magazines were empty, Noriega asked for a hand grenade. He pulled the pin and lobbed it high. It bounced once on rocky ground, then passed over the point where Morales had fallen and exploded in the river. The men cheered as the water rose high and another three grenades were thrown. As the echoes of the explosions faded along the Porce valley, all that was left of Morales’ hiding place was a large, barren, smouldering patch of ground. Satisfied, Noriega and his men turned back towards the camp.
The team at Villa del Carmen had been almost as successful, with the first mortar round piercing the roof and exploding on the marble floor inside. The blast within the drawing room had expanded with ferocity and from all sides. Windows, doors and substantial chunks of masonry blew outwards. Then, slowly at first, as if the work of a demolition expert, the roof collapsed. The armed guards were thrown into confusion as they ran towards the house, assuming a bomb had been placed in it, and turned their backs on the attacking force.
Tupac and Amaya, who had been sitting in the vehicles, about to leave with their respective charges, knew there was no point in staying put. They revved both cars and made for the driveway. The Nissan Patrol led as Carmen Morales clutched her children and looked back in disbelief at the remnants of her home. Mortar shells kept coming down and weapons fire was exchanged, then they saw the black Mercedes accelerating straight at them down the paved drive.
Tupac turned left and Amaya right.
The Mercedes skidded to a halt between them, then started again in pursuit of the Patrol. Noriega’s gunmen could see the pick-up truck carried only one man and it was not Morales. The Patrol, with the smoked-glass windows, seemed a more likely target. As they both sped, first along the lawns then through the rougher grass, the Nissan had the slight edge. Suddenly the Mercedes’ sunroof slid open and a gun barrel appeared, followed by a head and shoulders. The rapid fire shat
tered the other vehicle’s rear window and continued relentlessly and mostly on the mark until suddenly the Patrol veered sharply, rolled over and came to an ugly halt amidst clumps of grass and flying dust. The six Noriega men left the Mercedes and walked towards the upturned 4x4, still discharging their guns. When they reached it and stopped shooting, the remains of those inside were an unrecognizable bloody pulp.
Tupac had continued on. There was nothing he could do. He reached the road, turned west and headed for home. That was what the boss had ordered, and there was no point in risking it at the airstrip now. He had just one more job to do, but the boss had also said not for a month.
When Noriega and his small team returned to the camp clearing, the fighting was over. Those of Morales’ men who had survived the vicious attack had dispersed into the jungle. There was nothing to be gained by following them. The dead they left alone, the wounded they put out of their misery. Then one of the men next to Noriega started chuckling.
‘Hey, Jefe, look at that!’ He pointed at Julio Robles, who was starting to come round.
‘Enterprising bastard.’ Noriega roared with laughter and the others joined him. ‘Dug his own fucking grave!’
One of the men picked up the shovel that lay close by.
‘Maybe I give him a hand, boss?’ he joked, throwing a spadeful of earth on top of Julio as the laughter grew and more men gathered.
‘Don’t,’ pleaded Robles, trying to make himself heard above the banter. ‘Get Noriega. I have something for him!’