Eye of the Cobra (18 page)

‘Suzie, what I do is dangerous,’ Wyatt said. ‘I cannot take risks for someone else. I must face the world alone. There has been too much pain in my life already.’

He folded her in his arms and kissed her softly, but after a time she pulled away.

She would make certain he chose her, not Debbie, a dress.

Emerson Ortega took another pull of the large Havana cigar and walked past the chimpanzee cage. He grimaced with pain. Even the action of pulling on the cigar hurt his face.

He had always enjoyed visiting the zoo when he was small. Not that he ever went with his parents to the zoo, like other children; at nine he didn’t know who his father was and realised he couldn’t rely on his mother - she was more interested in turning tricks then educating her only son. So he fought on the streets, stole cars, traded drugs, killed the people who crossed him, and developed an instinct for survival. Now he had his own private zoo, stocked with animals from all over the world. He earned over $350 million a week and was arguably one of the ten wealthiest men alive. And he was no longer Emerson Ortega.

He was slim and dark, five foot ten inches tall, with smooth black hair. And he was very scared.

He touched his face. It still felt very sensitive. He had not dared look in the mirror yet. His moustache had disappeared before the operation and he would not grow it back. He would look younger, the surgeon had told him. Ortega said he did not care, as long as he did not look like himself. But of course he did care - his looks had been his trademark. He had liked the fact that he was known, and feared.

Emerson Ortega was wanted by the United States authorities on cocaine production and smuggling charges. The CIA had tried to kill him on three occasions. On the last one they had succeeded. Emerson Ortega was now officially dead.

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 pros
perity. 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 dis
tance. 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 succeeds 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.’