Incitement (27 page)

“Giving up what we’ve fought hard to build won’t accomplish anything at this stage other than to aid the Kosovars,” he explained. “If we move back along the
distribution channels, it’s an effective retreat. They’ll step into the gap. They’ll send more heroin to the US and pursue partnerships with those groups we abandon. They’ll
cut us out of that sector entirely.” He surveyed the room, aware some of them remained unconvinced. “They can’t compete with us on coca production but, if we hand them control of
the markets, we’ll eventually be forced to deal with them. In effect, we’ll be giving them what they want most – power over us. We have to persevere.”

The group discussion broke off into a number of smaller, self-contained conversations, a common theme of disgruntlement running through each. He had intended to ignore them when something one of
them said caught his attention. “What was that, Antonio?”

The man to whom he directed the question looked up quizzically.

“That last comment you made?”

“I only said, with everything else that’s going on, how annoying it was that the foreign contractors continue to behave as if they’re on vacation. They should have the decency
to limit themselves to Putumayo.” The man shifted uncomfortably under Madrigal’s gaze. “I know you’ve given orders that we are not to cause trouble around Cartagena but it
would be nice to teach them a lesson.”

“What contractors, what are you talking about?” he asked, growing more annoyed with Antonio’s vagueness.

“Rodriguez’s man, Saldivar, he was with me yesterday. He mentioned he had seen someone he used to know walking through El Centro a couple of nights ago. Someone he had worked with in
Venezuela.”

Madrigal’s instincts told him this was something he should pursue. “Did you look into it?”

“No, I didn’t see any reason. I assumed he was one of the US contractors from Putumayo, taking some time off.”

“Did Saldivar say anything else?”

“No, nothing.”

After the meeting had broken up, Madrigal contacted Rodriguez on a secure line. He asked a little about Saldivar’s background and was told about his extensive intelligence work before
Rodriguez had recruited him. He arranged to speak with Saldivar directly and, when he finished, he reviewed the little he had learnt.

During Saldivar’s eighteen months in Venezuela, twelve had overlapped with a man named Alvarez whom he had seen in Cartagena a few nights earlier. According to Saldivar, the Americans had
used Alvarez as a last resort, to eliminate specific individuals who were proving troublesome. Contrary to what Antonio had said, Saldivar thought Alvarez was either Spanish or Portuguese. Alvarez
had been close-lipped about his past, but Saldivar did recall some rumours that he had formerly served with the French Foreign Legion. From what Saldivar had said about his area of expertise,
Madrigal didn’t think him the type who would be used in a campaign like Plan Coca. So what else might he be here for? Of the likely possibilities, there were a few which did not augur well
for the cartel. The only other useful facts Saldivar had been able to provide were the time period during which Alvarez had been in Venezuela and the name of his CIA control. Hopefully, it would be
enough.

Madrigal received the completed dossier within two days. There had been a lot of false starts and deliberate misdirection to contend with but his sources were the best and had managed to produce
a detailed picture of the man Saldivar had seen. His name was not Alvarez but Larsen. His father had been Portuguese, his mother Danish. He was not a product of the romanticised Foreign Legion but
of the lesser known Jægerkorpset or Hunters, an elite Danish special force. A detailed history of his service record and reports on some of his subsequent labour confirmed his areas of
specialisation. Larsen was used for one of two purposes, to spread terror or to kill. Whatever his mission in Colombia, Madrigal was certain it had to be connected to the Kosovars. The photographs
he had obtained were all a few years old but would have to suffice. With the manpower at their disposal, he was confident they could locate Larsen if he was still in Cartagena. He called Antonio to
tell him to prepare for the search.

During the days while he waited for Brewer to secure the contact in the harbour master’s office, Larsen revisited his original reasons for agreeing to participate in
Wallace’s crusade. Even before Africa disillusionment with where his life had brought him had set in, but that assignment had proved a revelation. He had met people there, some of whom he had
formerly worked with, who had travelled much the same road as him and should have been just as burnt-out and disillusioned. But there they were, in large numbers, fighting for a seemingly lost
cause. And the strange thing was how happy they were. They must have known how steep the odds were stacked against them but it had not mattered. They had found something they believed in and
perhaps just as importantly for many of them, someone they wanted to follow. Not the exiled president, as impressive as he had been, but the charismatic English mercenary who had decided to take up
that fight. The more time Larsen had spent in his company, the more the idealism had worked on him. The Dane had hated what he had become but believed it was too late to do anything about it,
resigning himself to simply waiting until events inevitably caught up with him. But during that time he had started to believe there might be another way. It had of course been impossible for him
to reveal why he had really gone to Africa; even if the mercenary had forgiven him, his men would not. He had chosen instead to quit the country, leaving behind him a warning regarding the forces
that were marshalling against the exiled president.

The episode had left him convinced that he too needed to find something he could give himself over to. Time had passed and it had begun to look less and less likely that an opportunity would
present itself. When Wallace’s approach came, he had convinced himself that the billionaire’s proposal could be his personal grail.

It turned out he had been wrong. About the crusade and about Wallace. His patron did not have the resolve necessary, and if the main architect had lost faith what did that say about the overall
strategy? Really, Larsen had only himself to blame. He had been too desperate. Yes, he may have taken a couple of weeks to accept Wallace’s offer but inside he knew that he had committed the
moment he sat across the table from Wallace in Chicago. The only choice left for him now was to try to keep everything going until their prime targets were at least consumed by the conflict.

The days passed with no word from Brewer and no response to his attempted communication. He was worried, wondering what was going on, and had resolved to leave Cartagena when, on the fifth day,
Brewer’s encrypted communiqué finally arrived. It stated that while he had still not secured a contact in the harbour master’s it was no longer necessary. Through alternative
sources, he had managed to learn the exact location from which the cartel would be making a major shipment in six days’ time. If Larsen could perform a proper reconnaissance of the area in
the interim, he and the team would have the perfect opportunity to strike. Unhappy with the sloppiness which had crept into Brewer’s work, he was tempted to abandon the mission. The problem
was that he was here now and if he didn’t go through with it, Wallace might not give him another opportunity.

He contrasted Wallace’s change of heart with the billionaire’s impatience for him to initiate their first major operation and his satisfaction when they finally did.

T
WO YEARS EARLIER
.

The Guttierez family controlled more than twenty per cent of Chicago’s drug supply. Working as distributors and retailers for the Madrigal cartel, they provided the perfect conduit from
large shipments to more manageable lots that local drug figures could handle. They hailed from the Dominican Republic and dealt with groups from every ethnic background, Jamaican Yardies to
homegrown gangstas. Within three short years they had established their position in the city and demanded everyone’s respect. Early run-ins with the established powers had convinced people
that it was easier to live with the Guttierezes than to try to push them out.

Leti Guttierez, the youngest member of the family, had carved out a reputation for herself beyond the illicit world the family laid claim to. She had bought the run-down Silver Salsa nightclub
and transformed it into one of the city’s most exclusive nightspots. The venue was a beacon for the Latin community. It grew in popularity and soon became the in-place to be seen. One of her
coups involved convincing a multi-platinum-selling diva from their home country to give an impromptu performance at the club. She had then purchased one of the major local radio stations and
changed its programming to cater to the increasingly important Latin American demographic. Leti’s good looks and connections in the record industry ensured that her regular public appearances
garnered a great deal of positive attention.

Manuel, the head of the family, was not as outgoing but vicariously enjoyed the celebrity his younger sibling attracted. He had ambitious plans for all of them over the next few years. Payments
to the right quarters ensured that they were never exposed to serious scrutiny. The local authorities were firmly in the family’s pocket and federal agencies’ investigations were
continually hampered by breaches in security. Occasionally, they would deliberately sacrifice a lower level figure or a relatively small shipment just to ensure no undue pressure was exerted on
their co-opted police contacts.

One Thursday night, all three family members were partying at the club. Leti and the middle brother Ricardo were holding court in different areas of the nightclub, while Manuel stood by the bar
enjoying the music. Later, the finals of the salsa dancing competition, which the club had been running for three months and which had received citywide coverage, were due to be staged. Despite the
fact that it was a Thursday, more high-profile guests than usual were attending. The irony of a number of city councilmen and senior detectives getting sweaty on the dancefloor while over $20
million of various kinds of drugs sat upstairs in a secure vault amused Manuel. The barman tapped him on the shoulder and handed him a phone. One of his senior men, Freddie, was upstairs, having
returned that evening on a flight from Mexico. He was ready to make his report. Manuel had been eager to hear from Freddie about proposals they had put to Esteban Zaragosa regarding the possibility
of a substantial increase in the amount of throughput they could handle. He went to the two groups and extracted his siblings, pleading with their disappointed hangers-on that he would be stealing
them for only a few minutes. He told them that Freddie had returned and that the confirmation of a new phase in their endeavours was imminent. The three made their way up the stairs, but when
Manuel entered the large office area behind his brother and sister, he thought it strange that Freddie was seated behind his desk. Two more of their men were seated on the leather couch and no one
stood to greet them. Aware that something was amiss, Manuel tried to step back out but was pushed roughly from behind into the office and heard the door slammed shut behind him. Looking around, he
saw a man standing there levelling a silencer-equipped pistol at his head. Two other men emerged, one from behind a filing cabinet and the other from behind the desk. Like the first, they were
dressed in black trousers and bomber jackets. Each trained a pistol on one family member. His brother and sister were forced to the ground and the first gunman tripped Manuel so that he fell and
landed beside them.

Larsen nodded and his two companions shot the men seated on the couch, the impact of the bullets causing bloody stains on the wall behind them. He drew a large knife from under his jacket and
walked around the desk to stand behind the trembling Freddie.

“We want you to open your vault. If you do, we’ll walk out of here with no more fuss; if you don’t, we’ll kill you. Decide quickly before someone comes looking for
you.”

“You don’t know who you’re fucking with ... ” began Ricardo.

He stopped in mid-sentence as Larsen grabbed Freddie’s hair and, pulling his head back, dragged the blade slowly across his neck. Blood sprayed out across the desk, some of it hitting
Leti, prompting her to launch into hysterics. The loud thumping beat from the music downstairs dismissed from Manuel’s mind any hopes that his sister’s anguished cries might summon
help.

“No more delays, Manuel, either open the vault or lose a family member.”

Manuel looked from Larsen to his family members who were seated on the floor, a gunman standing over each. He thought about the contents of the vault. Could they absorb the loss? Yes. How long
for them to recoup the lost revenue? No more than six months. Would the gunmen spare them? Perhaps not but what choice did he have? Maybe their position and the implications of their murder might
dissuade the gunmen.

Larsen’s voice interrupted his considerations.

“Too slow.”

A nod to one of the gunmen and a pistol was placed to the back of Ricardo’s head. Manuel watched in horror as the bullet exploded through Ricardo’s face and his lifeless body fell
across the prone figure of the sobbing Leti.

“Your sister’s next. Three seconds. One, two ...”

“Okay, okay,” he shouted. “I’ll open it! Let me up!”

Larsen indicated for Manuel to move to the door of the specially constructed vault at the back of the office. Manuel entered the manual combination, punched in the six-digit pin code and pulled
the heavy door open. Taking a quick inventory of the room, Larsen confirmed the intelligence had been correct and that the anticipated hoard of traditional and synthetic drugs were present. Walking
Manuel back to the middle of the office, he signalled for the other two men to begin packing the drugs into a number of holdalls. Ten minutes later, after a series of trips down the fire escape,
they had removed the entire contents of the vault. After the last trip Larsen told them to wait downstairs for him.