Eye of the Cobra (19 page)

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 even 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.’

‘And if the fucker turns on us?’

‘My brother, do you think I am stupid? When Talbot has done everything - then we kill him. Nice and slowly, like you did Ramirez.’

They left the office and strolled along the corridors, looking into the large, air-conditioned dining-room on their way. It was almost full, and gales of laughter rang from the tables.

Jules arched his eyebrows. ‘The men think between their legs. The girls are doing a good job, and naturally they will find out what everyone is thinking.’

‘Yes, there are always a few who get a little too big for their boots, eh? Then we fly them home early. We push them out without a parachute, and they disappear into the forests . . .’

Emerson looked out of a window, surveying the steamy jungle that surrounded the camp. Since the last attempt on his life, all he could think about was security; he was fast becoming paranoid on the subject.

‘Jules, I do not like this place. I will be happy when we move - the other plant is almost ready. It will increase production and it will be very, very safe.’

‘How much do you expect to be able to move out?’

‘At least thirty-six tons per shipment . . .’

‘It can be done. Talbot says he can do it.’

‘Can you trust him?’

‘He’s only interested in money. He told me he used to work for Air America, doing crazy flights for the CIA in Vietnam.’

Emerson smiled briefly. ‘I like it more and more. We only have to trust one man - Talbot. We use him, then we dump him.’

‘We think alike, my brother.’

The helicopter flew on through the clouds of spray, the huge waterfall invisible below it. Water droplets covered the plastic screen and he switched on the wipers. This wasn’t dangerous, this was fucking crazy. In the mirror, Larry Sykes watched the American’s face. The guy was no arsehole; he knew how risky this flight was, but he wasn’t showing or saying anything.

The American was blond-haired, with emerald-green eyes that missed nothing and a very pale, freckled skin. He was dressed in a green military jacket, khaki pants and black running-shoes. He looked an athletic forty, and on the ground, every movement he mad
e was purposeful. But there was a coldness in the emerald eyes that scared the hell out of Larry.

They’d shaken hands briefly, and Talbot’s grip had been like a vice-jaw; his hand was still aching from the contact. Larry was having reservations about talking to anyone about this particular operation. He didn’t like the look of Rod Talbot one bit, and he didn’t know who he was working for.

Talbot was sitting between Antonio Vargas and Jules Ortega. God, the three bloody musketeers. And what a hell-hole. He looked down at the map. Where the fuck were they? With all the bloody mist rising up from the jungle, it was impossible to see very far in front of you.

Next minute, the rock wall loomed in front, and he yanked hard on the cyclic-stick and the machine shot upwards. He could smell the fear on the men behind him.

The stone wall seemed endless in the mist, and he was scared he’d lost direction. Then, without warning, they burst out of the whiteness and into blazing sunshine. Larry sucked in his breath. It was incredible! The giant plateau stood high above them, surrounded by sheer rock walls. A lost world in the middle of the jungle.

‘This is where you’ve built our processing plant? You are crazy!’ he heard Jules Ortega cry out to Talbot.

‘Yes, right here,’ Talbot replied, without a trace of fear in his voice. ‘Don’t worry, gentlemen, the landing strip’s coming up.’ Then, more loudly: ‘Over to your right, Larry.’

It was a challenge to find the place. The plateau was covered in lush vegetation that lay like a thick carpet over its surface. In the distance Larry caught sight of a concrete slab in amongst the green, ending abruptly at the cliff edge. He put the chopper down carefully.

This was what Ortega employed him for - to fly him where few other pilots would dare to go.

Talbot climbed out of the cockpit and was assailed by the wet, sticky heat of the plateau. He glanced back at Jules Ortega, who he guessed might be too thick to realise that this was the perfect location.

‘You can’t be serious, Rod,’ Jules muttered from behind him.

‘I think we should listen to what ’e ’as to say,’ Emerson said quietly. Until now he had remained silent.

Talbot had already figured out that Vargas was Emerson after plastic surgery, but he kept up the charade. He wanted the Ortegas on his side. Anyway, Vargas was coming across as much more than Jules Ortega’s personal assistant.

‘Thank you,’ he replied, clearing his throat. ‘I have undertaken to handle distribution for you, but to do that you have to guarantee supply.’

‘So?’ Jules Ortega muttered angrily.

‘Your installation on the Vaupes river, I have it on good authority, has been located by my countrymen. It has probably been bombed by now.’

Jules glowered. ‘How do you know this?’

‘Unimportant. What matters is that it’s true.’

Jules nodded his head grimly. ‘Yes . . . yes, they have bombed our installation. But we got all the equipment out beforehand.’

‘So. I have built you a plant they cannot find. And even if they do find it, it is almost impossible to bomb.’

‘But how do we get in and out of this place?’ Vargas quickly asked.

Larry Sykes moved forward, eager to get in on the action.

‘Easy. This short runway, right on the cliff edge. It makes take-off simple, and landing . . . well, you’ve got me, Larry Sykes.’

Talbot stepped across and hit him hard across the head. Larry never even saw it coming.

‘Jesus!’

He fell across the concrete, his head ringing.

‘Shut up,’ Talbot snarled. ‘You’re here to take orders, not to show off.’

Jules Ortega roared with laughter. ‘I like you, Mr Talbot. Come, show us the installation.’

They walked down a long concrete tunnel into the bowels of the mountain. Talbot gave them a commentary as they went deeper and deeper.

‘This place is built to withstand a full-scale nuclear attack. In short, it’s impossible to destroy with conventional bombing. Located around the perimeter areas of the mountain is an aerial surveillance system, so that any hostile plane can be blown out of the air before it even gets in sight of the place. This is an impregnable fortress. The runway you saw from the air can be covered up in less than a minute, making the whole installation invisible.’