“You’ve got to be kidding. One of the most dangerous places on earth and agents aren’t armed?”
“Not kidding one bit, Mr. Joiner. The ambassador is a good Democrat, appointed by Clinton. She hates guns and feels that no one should have one. Her letter mentioned ‘too much chance of an incident’. So, in order to carry, we have to get approval from the embassy, then file an application with the Colombian government.”
“That means that the bad guys know instantly who’s an agent.”
“Exactly,” she said. “That’s why only the decoy guys carry. The rest of us use body guards.”
In a few minutes, traffic came to a crawl, and Tuffy could see the bay bridge ahead with a green garbage truck blocking both lanes. A yellow taxi was crunched under its frame.
“We’ve got to get off this road. We can’t wait an hour. Go down Calle Septima,” the body guard said to the Colombian driver. Tuffy felt the SUV swerve onto a ramp that took them off the main road and down a side street. Colonial buildings crowded the narrow one-way street.
Tension soared as they crept down the street, going slower than the pedestrians. Hundreds of other vehicles flowed into town to get around the accident on the bridge. Every vehicle sounded its horn. The manmade canyon trapped the exhaust fumes, and the stench flowed in through the AC ducts. Tuffy saw a green garbage truck parked on the left, half up on the narrow sidewalk. Aseos Colonial was painted on the side. He remembered that the same name was on the other truck involved in the wreck on the bridge.
He knew what was about to happen and adrenalin rushed to his head. He reached for his weapon, but this time he had no Glock. Now terror replaced the urge to fight. He leaned forward to tell the driver.
Just as he drew close, the garbage truck lurched out to the right, crashing into the left front fender Suburban. Even though the vehicles were only going walking speed, the mass caused the SUV to lurch hard to the right. A lighter thunk pushed Tuffy back into the seat as the vehicle behind ran into them.
The body guard got out to investigate the accident before Tuffy could stop him. A shot hit the guard in the throat, throwing his body against the back tire. Must be a sharpshooter on one of the roofs, Tuffy thought.
Two men dressed in police uniforms and motorcycle helmets walked out of an alley. One had an RPG-7 rocket launcher on his shoulder. With the ease of knowing they held an overwhelming advantage the two men sauntered to the Suburban. One went right and the other left. They both motioned for the passengers to get out.
No one spoke. No more horns blowing. No one moved. None of the other drivers made eye contact. They only prayed for survival.
Having been designed as an anti-tank weapon, Tuffy knew the shape charge on the front of the rocket would slice right through the thin armor of the SUV. He looked around trying to find an escape.
The policeman on the right lowered his rocket and came close to Renee’s window. He smiled and beckoned them to get out, almost an invitation. Renee smiled back.
“This is checkmate, guys. We’d better get out or we’ll be incinerated,” Renee said. She opened her door and stepped out first. The others filed out. Steve Joiner and the driver got out on the left side. Tuffy got out on the right to join Renee, stepping over the body of the guard. As soon as the SUV was empty, two young men came out of a shop, retrieved the RPG from the policeman, and slipped back inside. The police pulled their revolvers.
The policeman on the left moved forward and pulled the Colt .45 auto from the Colombian driver’s holster. He studied it for a moment, turning it on its side, and then whipped it up and shot the driver in the face. Then he stuffed the .45 in his belt.
“Mr. Joiner, we have wanted to get to you for a long time. Let’s go around and join the others,” he said in excellent English. Tuffy looked into Joiner’s eyes seeking evidence that he had betrayed them. But there was only a black emptiness. All the life was gone.
Is he so passive because he’s caught or because they’ve double crossed him? No if he’s the mole, they’ll separate him out. I’ll know then.
“Hands behind your back.” After cuffing them with long plastic cable ties, the men herded Tuffy, Steve, and Renee to the right, down a dark alley too narrow for a car to pass. Soon they came out onto another one-way street. Traffic flowed much better on this one as it was going toward the bridge. An ambulance pulled up, the doors clanged open, and the trio was pushed into the back.
There was no medical equipment. Instead a bench ran along each side with rings attached to the walls. Tuffy figured that this was how prisoners were secured. The policemen sat on the right side and the prisoners on the left. They slid plastic tie-wraps around each of the prisoners’ ankles and wrists and passed them through the rings. As the ambulance jerked forward, Tuffy watched his captors put a black hood over Renee’s head, then Steve’s, and soon his world went black.
“This is a good idea to use an ambulance,” Tuffy said.
“We have several. This one is for prisoners. We have two with nice chairs to get our bosses around town. We turn on the siren and all the other cars make way for us. The police would never think to stop an ambulance to check for cartel bosses.”
“You talk too much,” the other policeman said.
“Doesn’t matter. They’ll be dead soon.”
Chapter Eight
Tuesday
0847
14 December, 1999
Santa Marta Cathedral
Santa Marta, Colombia
Having gotten word that his enemies were now on their way to his interrogation rooms, Ramon Menchaca exited the service elevator and strode through the long tunnel to the famous cathedral. Discrete and direct access to confession and mass was the main reason he chose this apartment building as one of his homes. Each time he stayed here, he visited the cathedral seeking release from the guilt of his sins. His steps were light and a smile stretched his face.
“I have finally gotten Steve Joiner,” he said. It sounded so good he repeated himself, rubbing his hands together. Knowing how difficult it could be to capture a vehicle in an urban setting, he was delighted his plan to use trucks from his trash collection company clicked off so perfectly. Two motorcycles, each carrying a passenger with a radio, trailed the Suburban from the airport. As soon as the SUV picked the route from the airport to town, the motorcycles radioed the drivers of the garbage trucks so they knew which bridge to block and what road their prey would use to get around the jam up.
His new guests would need some time in solitude to inspire their conversations. He smiled at his little joke. This gave him plenty of time for a visit to the priest and a leisurely brunch.
The wide modern hallway narrowed and the light diminished as he walked the hundred yards under the outer courtyard. Soon the straight walls became arched, the exposed masonry lit by a string of bare bulbs. This part of the tunnel must be two hundred years old, he thought.
Flagstones replaced the tile, and in the gloom Ramon slowed his stride so as not to trip on the uneven seams. Mounting the worn steps, he wondered how many men and women had passed this way. Enough to cause these dips in the limestone. He climbed up to the secret confessional where dignitaries could give confession, hear Mass, and take Communion hidden from the other worshippers. The straight backed seat was designed to be uncomfortable, but he waited in silence. He had time. He would let his prisoners stew for a few hours. Their own fear would loosen their bowels and their tongues.
After a few minutes, the ancient door squeaked open and the priest sat in the other side of the confessional. Ramon turned toward the screen and knelt on the cold stone floor.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“Ramon, it is good to see you.”
“Father, I want you to hear my confession.”
“I have told you I cannot continue to hear your confession knowing that you’ll make no effort to change. You will continue to sleep with your mistress, run your illegal businesses, and occasionally order a murder.”
“Lazaro, it is not for you to judge. You must hear my confession. You are a priest. And besides, you are my cousin. My blood.”
“I pray to God every day for you, that you will give up this business.”
“If I were not the boss, there’d be another. And he’d be much more violent than I. I give to the church and to charities here in town and all over Colombia. All in all, I’m the best man for the job.”
“Be serious, Ramon. There’s no way you can continue in bloodshed and adultery and be pleasing to God. I’ve often wished I could break my vow and turn you in to the police.”
Ramon cursed. “You are a priest and you WILL hear my confession. God will judge me, not you. Now we’ll start over.” He sucked in a huge breath and blew it out through his pursed lips, feeling his tension leave. He made the sign of the cross and felt the presence of God.
“Bless me Father for I have sinned. It has been ten days since my last confession.”
“How have you sinned, my son?”
“Father, I have lied several times. It is a danger of my business. I have slept with my mistress three times. But she is my love. The mother of my son. Oh, and one time I had sex with one of my secretaries, but she seduced me.” Ramon paused, embarrassed that the young woman had maneuvered him into bed so easily. Why are women so attracted to men with power? He roped in his thoughts and dragged them back to the confession.
“My son, you cannot continue to make excuses for your sin. They have caused separation between you and God. You must acknowledge your guilt.”
“I am not making excuses. These are reasons. God knows I try to do right.”
“No, my son, there can be no forgiveness if you don’t acknowledge your guilt.” In the silence, Ramon thought about his actions and the motives behind them.
I must rule, he thought. I can set my descendants on a course to be world leaders. I just have to be strong for a few years. It is worth the effort to get real power.
“For these and all the sins of my past life, I ask pardon of God, penance, and absolution from you, Father.”
“My son, I want you to read the entire book of St. Matthew. See how our Lord calls men to change. Say the Rosary six times, thinking on your relationship to God. Also, I want you to donate a large sum to the church as penance for your grave sins.”
From memory, Ramon quoted the prayer that ended the confessional.
“O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee and I detest all my sins because of Thy just punishments, but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, who art all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to sin no more and avoid the near occasions of sin. Amen.”
Even as he prayed, his cousin started whispering the Latin prayer of absolution and blessing. Ramon insisted the priests use the Latin prayers and masses when he was in attendance, feeling closer to God in the original language.
“My son, go in peace. Do your penance, and turn from your evil life to one pleasing to the Lord.”
“Thank you, Father.” Ramon got up, the pain and stiffness giving him a strange pleasure as if he was getting a little punishment for his sins. All was right in his world.
Outside the confessional his priest became his cousin Lazaro again. They shook hands and embraced.
“Will you be coming to brunch with me?” The ancient holy building always caused Ramon to speak in a hushed voice. After confession, Lazaro usually came to the apartment for a few hours to talk about life and politics. He was deeply involved in the liberation theology movement. Ramon, of course, espoused capitalism as the vehicle for man’s happiness. Both used the scriptures to support their dogmas. The discussions turned ugly during their last two meetings, and Ramon hoped to use today’s meal to repair their friendship.
“No, Ramon,” he said. “I have decided that for my own spiritual good, I must stay away from you. Until you truly turn to God, I must shun you.” Ramon stepped back from the verbal slap.
“It doesn’t seem to hurt your conscience to take my money for your communist follies, but you can’t be around me because I’m evil, eh? What about your FARC friends? All murderers and thieves.”
“That’s different,” Lazaro said. “They fight a holy war for the downtrodden.”
Ramon cursed and gave his cousin a sidelong look filled with contempt.
“You are full of your own cursed propaganda. Who are you lying to?” Ramon’s voice soared. “Yourself? Not to me. I know the truth about your FARC and their communism. They’re just thugs.”
“They are God’s tool to overthrow this corrupt government and share with the poor!” Now Lazaro’s voice echoed.
“I am more of God’s tool than you, you idiot. I’ll soon be rich enough to have real power. Then I can use it for the good of our family, and the good of the people. See how God has blessed me.” Ramon nodded and spread his arms. “I am rich and powerful. I rule my organization with a just hand. And soon, God will give me a country to rule. You wait.” He was pleased to see Lazaro trembling with rage. Ramon caught a movement in his peripheral vision and turned. One of his body guards materialized out of the shadow.
“This is not the place to discuss this. Call me.” Ramon spun on his heel.
“Change your life, Ramon, or I will recommend your excommunication,” the priest called out to Ramon’s back. He froze, and noticed the look of terror on his body guard’s face. After a moment, he marched back toward the tunnel leading to his penthouse.
Each step down the tunnel was brighter. Is this a symbol of the modern church? Ramon couldn’t help but think of the irony that he was walking away from the church, but into the light.
How can I reconcile with my priest? He must understand that God is using me for his special work in Colombia. Yes, I have some weaknesses, as do all men. All real men have problems with women. Look at David and Solomon in the Bible. And my conflicts in business sometimes must be solved by violence. I can’t just call the police, you know. This made him give a little laugh.
Two years ago, he realized that his life was missing something. Something he had in the fullness of his youth. Walking through town one evening, he sensed a need to go by the great church on the square. As he climbed the stairs, his conscience burned as he remembered the money he stole from his second wife and the men he had killed during his rise to power. But he revved up his courage and entered the cathedral, not having seen the inside of a church for thirty years. The icons, statues, paintings and candles touched the memories he had tried for so long to repress. Now could God be calling him back? He touched the Holy Water, hesitating before making the sign of the cross. He looked sidelong at his body guard, seeing him gray and afraid.
“Are you surprised to see your Boss in church?” The guard nodded, shaken, his superstitions about the Catholic Church rising like spirits to torture his own conscience.
That day, he had called his cousin, Lazaro, to hear his confession.
But just now Lazaro, his own blood, had threatened him. Excommunication! The word brought a shudder to his shoulders as he waited for the elevator to his penthouse. But could the church actually get between him and God? Could they cut out his prayers from afar? Sentence him to hell? No. Only God could judge him.
The church has been my comfort from my childhood, but perhaps I’ve outgrown it now. My spiritual journey is taking me closer to God. Anyone can see that He is blessing me with success. I have prayed that He use me to bring a new way of life to Latin America.
We can rise from our culture of corruption and servitude to America and Europe. And my son will be the first of a dynasty leading Latin America for generations. The world has never seen anything like my family. He stepped into the elevator and zoomed toward the sixth floor.
Excommunication.
Let them. I don’t need the crutch of the church anymore. Besides, they are too concerned with communist follies. I can use my money to help the community instead of funding more priests.
He wal
ked into his kitchen and saw his chef preparing fruit for breakfast. He sampled some fresh pineapple and nodded.
“Father Lazaro will not be joining us this morning, Henry. I’ll take my breakfast on the terrace.” Afterwards, I’ll go to oversee the interrogation, he thought.
*****
In the back of the sanctuary, Lazaro Menchaca climbed the spiral staircase to the third floor. The door to his room had no lock, and he pushed it open. Only nine feet on each side, his kingdom held plenty of space for all of Father Lazaro’s earthly wealth. Bookshelves filled the farthest wall and the three top shelves turned the corner to extend over his desk. His bed stood on end to give him enough room to use his desk.
Lazaro took off his cassock, still quivering with rage at his cousin.
He stared out his window onto the squalor of the back alley. Time disappeared while he pondered on Ramon’s situation. Bad things must happen to Ramon before he will change. And I, as God’s messenger can speed up that process.
Ramon’s lifestyle of stealing and violence multiplied his enemies.
“Oh, Ramon. My friends in the FARC have been asking for you. You have not paid them for guarding your drug labs, and they would like to talk with you,” he said aloud to himself as he stared outside. But if I turn over his location to the guerillas, they would kill him. No, I don’t want him dead, I only want him punished. Then he might realize his error.
Just two weeks before, Maria Elena, Ramon’s second wife had called him, begging for any information about Ramon. She pled with him, as the priest who officiated at their wedding, to tell him something—anything—about where Ramon might be. But as his confessor, Lazaro revealed nothing to Maria. However, after this morning’s refusal to change, Lazaro felt he was no longer bound by his vows of secrecy. On his dresser lay the scrap of paper where he had written Maria Elena’s phone number. He picked it up and studied it for a moment.
The Grace Bay Agreement Page 16