Cybernarc (8 page)

But money was in many ways even more powerful than terror. Money
bought
terror—Medellin’s chief of police had lost 215 agents in just the first four months after the
narcotrafficantes
put a four-thousand-dollar bounty on each policeman slain—but money bought other things as well. Things such as policemen, who typically earned $140 a month, including hazardous- duty pay. Prosecutors. Judges. Army officers. Members of F-2, the army’s undercover investigative unit. High- ranking officers of the DAS. Politicians in Colombia. Politicians in the United States.

Jose had personally delivered hefty campaign contributions to more than one American congressman on his trips to the U.S. One "contribution” had guaranteed the lifting of restrictions on the export of ether—vital for the processing of cocaine base. Another had blocked the military appropriations that would have upgraded the search radars used by U.S. Coast Guard vessels. The reach of the cartels into the very lifeblood of the United States was growing each week.

And in Colombia, the drug lords had all but won. That was not to say that the government was controlled by the drug lords. Quite the contrary, in fact, for Bogota had viciously escalated the campaign against the cartels.
Los Extraditables,
as they called themselves— those subject to extradition and prosecution by the United States—had been hurt badly in the last few years by government crackdowns, raids, and arrests. Many of the biggest
narcotrafficantes,
the Ochoas and
Pablo Escobar among them, were on the run now and had lost much of their personal fortunes.

But the idea was not to dominate the entire government, but only to control certain key points. One of these points was Colonel Delgado, a high-ranking officer of the
Departmento Administrativ
o
de Seguridad,
Colombia’s equivalent of the American FBI. The DAS was deeply involved in combating the cocaine cartels; more to the point, it worked closely with various agencies in the United States, including both the DEA and the CIA. By buying Delgado, Roberto had established a link with someone in Washington, someone known only by the code name
Diamante
—Diamond.

Who Diamond was,
what
he was, Jose didn’t know, but he did know that Delgado had made the first contact, setting up the network by which Diamond could communicate with the Salazars. A great deal of critical information had already passed from Washington to Colombia, timely intelligence on CIA and DEA operations and surveillance plans.

Diamond, and the recent difficulties experienced by the Medellin and Cali cartels, had given Roberto his great opportunity. The summit last week had been called to make the other cartel families an offer: work together under the Salazars, and the Salazars would provide to all the benefits of their intelligence network in Washington. The ambush of the SEALs had been orchestrated, through Delgado and his links with the DEA, to provide an effective and convincing demonstration.

And today they would initiate the second part of Roberto’s plan. Diamond had provided the Salazars with another contact, a gringo with impressive connections within America’s Central Intelligence Agency itself. Michael Howard Braden was a pilot—of both fixed- and rotary-winged aircraft—and he had flown hundreds of missions throughout Latin America under contract for the CIA. For a percentage of Diamond’s profits, he would open a new cocaine pipeline into the United States, one which the Coast Guard and customs and the DEA would never be able to interdict.

For a
narcotrafficante,
it was a dream come true.

It was a bold idea . . . and a dangerous one. By using codes and security procedures that he, as a CIA contract flier, had access to, Braden had promised to fly unprecedented amounts of cocaine directly into the United States, using, of all things, American military transport aircraft and bases. Today’s flight would be a test of that promise. If it worked, the Salazars would have a second inducement to the other cartels—a secure way of flying ton after ton of white gold into the gringos’ heartland, with the Americans’ unknowing cooperation!

Que puteria!

But in Jose Salazar’s opinion, cooperation with the other cartels would be short-lived. Sooner or later the Salazars would have to eliminate their old competitors.

And Diamond would give them the key to do so, making
La Familia Salazar
the unrivaled masters of the Colombian cocaine trade.

Jose,
El Tiburon,
knew it was only a matter of time.

One of the Salazar Land Rovers pulled up on the driveway, not far from the hedge-bordered patio. Their guest climbed out and approached, carrying a large attache case and accompanied by two of Roberto’s Uzi- armed bodyguards. Jose stood, watching suspiciously. Roberto remained in the lounge chair.

"Howdy, Don Roberto,” the man said in his easy, drawled English as the two bodyguards took up unobtrusive positions nearby. A third watched from the second-story deck extending from the east wing of the house above the pool. Ignoring the display of weapons, the visitor offered his hand. "Hey, Jose. What’s cookin’?”

"Mr. Braden,” Roberto said in English, shaking the American’s hand. "A pleasure to see you again. I trust you had a enjoyable flight?”

"Smooth, Don Roberto. Smooth as that chick’s ass over there.” He gestured across the pool toward where one of the girls had climbed out of the water and was sunbathing on a towel. "I see you laid in my favorite entertainment.”

"Of course.” Roberto laughed. "My wife does not approve, but for a friend such as yourself, nothing is too good.” He sighed. "But, business first. What of the . . . problem?”

"Taken care of, Bobby. The SEAL who escaped was debriefed, but Diamond managed to handle the classification of the report. It won’t be a problem. And the SEAL, he’s dead now. He won’t be identifying anybody.”

"There were no, ah, loose ends?”

Braden grinned. "Nope. We used local muscle. We were gonna hit them ourselves, but the police beat us to it. There aren’t any loose ends left. Not anymore.”
"Perfecto, ”
Roberto said, relaxing somewhat. He
nodded toward the suitcase. "And you have something to show me there?”

Braden laid the case on a pool-side table and snapped it open. It was filled with neatly ordered stacks of money, U.S. hundred- and thousand-dollar bills. "Like we agreed, Don Roberto,” Baden said as Jose began counting it. "Half down—five million. Your boys are loading the flake onto my plane now. Tonight, I’ll be off. With a refueling stop in Florida, the
stuff wil
l be in Washington by tomorrow morning. Next week, I’ll be back here with the rest of the money for that load, plus down payment for the next shipment.” He pursed his lips. "A sweet deal, amigo. While the DEA and Coasties are knocking themselves out chasing Beechcraft and Aztecs carrying a few hundred kilos, we’ll be funneling the stuff in five, ten tons at a clip.”

"A sweet deal for you, Senor Braden, since you are purchasing the product
at...
how do you say? Bargain- basement prices.”

"Aw, c’mon, Bobby! We’re all gonna get filthy rich with this new deal, and you know it!”

The current price for eighty-percent-pure cocaine smuggled into the United States was twenty thousand dollars a kilo. Braden’s organization was paying half that, ten thousand a kilo, knowing that they could cut the product with lactose, turning one kilo into two, and sell the on the streets for fifteen thousand each, a three- for-one return on their original investment.

For their part, the Salazars were willing to take less than the going rate as middlemen with their eyes on long-term gains. By dumping vast amounts of cheap cocaine in the United States, the street price would go down—way down—undercutting the price set by the other cartels and establishing the Salazars as
the
people in Colombia to do business with.

If the security the Salazar organization offered didn’t convince Medellin and Cali, perhaps that would.

The only way they could manage it would be if the new pipeline worked. This test flight would carry only one ton. Braden’s C-123 could easily carry twelve times that much, but Roberto was not yet ready to entrust that much to a single flight.

Let Diamond and the CIA pilot prove themselves first. After that, each flight north would carry two hundred million dollars’ worth of product or more. The Salazars would corner the coca production markets in South America, and Medellin and Cali would come begging for a piece of the action.

Que bueno.
Jose finished counting the stacks of money, then nodded to Roberto.

"Well, Senor Braden,” the older man said, smiling. "Perhaps you would like to relax for a while. You have time before dinner for a swim.”

Braden eyed the girls by the pool and grinned. "You know, Don Roberto, that’s the best idea I’ve heard yet.”

"I will go see to the refueling and loading of Senor Braden’s aircraft,” Jose said. He left the two men by the pool and started across the lawn toward the garage. He would take one of the jeeps out to the 1,200-meter runway and supervise the operation himself. He wanted to evaluate for himself the people Braden had brought along as assistants on this flight.

There was always a chance that the CIA contract pilot was still serving his former employers, despite his recent service to both Diamond and the Salazars. If there was even a hint of betrayal, Braden and his people would die . . . unpleasantly. That DEA agent they’d captured at the summit last week, he’d taken a long time to die, and
El Tiburon
had learned some new tricks from the ex-army officer who handled Roberto’s interrogations. Perhaps he would get a chance to try them out on this smug and offensive gringo.

As Jose approached the garage he paused, aware of a new, sweetish odor. It seemed to be coming from inside. The door was open. Stealthily, Jose slipped into the building.

Inside were several jeeps and Land Rovers, as well as two new Mowag Rolands, huge in the semidarkness. Roberto was proud of the Rolands, chunky, four- wheeled armored cars with squat turrets mounting .50 caliber machine guns. Roberto had purchased them directly from Mowag of Kreuzlingen in Switzerland, intending to use them to patrol his property along the north slope of the Sierra Nevadas. Bandits—and rivals in the drug trade—had been raiding his marijuana crops there, but the knowledge that a pair of armored cars were in the area ought to discourage that activity in short order.

The smell was stronger inside the garage.

Moving swiftly, Jose stepped around the rear of one of the Rolands. One of the
pistoleros,
a teenage boy named Rudy, was leaning against the armored car, smoking a cigarette laced with
basuco.

Jose lashed out with his hand, slapping the cigarette to the concrete floor, then grinding it beneath his heel. "
Huevon!”
he snapped. "Stupid prick!”

Basuco
was a crude cocaine base, similar to the crack cocaine that had already proven so deadly in the United States. Mixed with tobacco and smoked, it was cheap, addictive, and provided an intense high.

It was also usually laced with lead from the gasoline used in its processing. There were side streets in Bogota and Colombia’s other major cities that were home to hundreds of the shambling wrecks who had addicted themselves to
basuco.
Lead poisoning was neither a fast nor a particularly pleasant way to die.

"Hey, fresco, Jose
—’’the boy began, a lopsided grin on his face. "Take it easy—”

The
narcotrafficante’
s left hand closed on the soldier’s collar, tightening, lifting him against the hard metal of the Roland. His right hand slipped his Beretta from its holster and brought the weapon up to within a centimeter of the kid’s nose.

"I am Senor Salazar, campesino,” Jose said, his voice filled with a venomous fury. "And you will not smoke that excrement while you work for me. When you were a punk
sicario
on the streets of Medellin, that was one thing. While you work for me, you will have a clear head.
Claro?”

The kid’s eyes crossed as he tried to focus them on the muzzle of the automatic.
”S-si. Claro, señ
or.
I just .
..
I mean, sometimes just for fun . . . Everybody, all my friends—

Jose released the kid’s collar, then jacked back the slide on the pistol, chambering a round. Holding the muzzle against the kid’s upper lip, he fished into his pocket and produced a fifty-peso coin. He put it in the kid’s hand. "Toss it.”

"Señ
or?”

He brought the muzzle of the pistol up until it rested squarely between the kid’s eyes. "Toss it. Now. Don’t drop it.”

The coin flashed in the dim light, spinning. The boy caught it, slapping it down on the back of his wrist. His hands were trembling, but somehow he kept from losing it.