Incitement (3 page)

Madrigal nodded and took a seat.

“Before we get into it, Luis, do you mind if I ask about these developments with Plan Coca? Any reason to worry that our projected cash flow will be compromised?”

Wharton was usually a bundle of energy, constantly moving or fidgeting. For the moment, though, he stood totally still, his tension obvious.

Madrigal was tempted to play on Wharton’s anxiety and draw this out but he decided against it. “No, it’s nothing to worry about. We’ve known about this raft of fumigation
runs for some time. We know the area they’ll concentrate on, how many missions they intend to fly and what their follow-up action will be. We’re well prepared.”

Madrigal could see the financier relax visibly as his desperate need for reassurance was met.

“Still, the State Department seems reasonably optimistic about the projected results?” said Wharton.

“And we’ll give them every reason to believe the results are all they hoped for,” came the calm reply. “We’ve already allocated specific crops for the fumigation.
Ninety per cent of what they eradicate will have been specifically planted just so it can be destroyed. It’s unfortunate that the growers will be out of pocket but isn’t that always the
way when a foreign colonial power moves against the downtrodden?”

Madrigal knew his comment would draw little response from Wharton who tended to ignore anything not directly related to finance.

“You’re one hundred per cent confident, then, that last year’s projections won’t be affected?” he persisted.

“One hundred per cent. You can be certain that we will meet our projected levels for both cocaine and heroin to all our markets during Q3.”

Wharton winced at the direct reference to the drugs. Despite having been employed by the Alliance for five years now, he still displayed a continued reluctance to mention the underlying source
of their wealth, preferring instead references such as “the product” or “our resources”.

“Superb! Okay let’s get to that detailed breakdown of Q2. If you’ll turn to page three here,” the satisfied financier said, handing his employer a folder,
“you’ll see a rough agenda for the afternoon. We’ll be spending some time on the peso brokerage scheme we set up a couple of months ago ...”

Early next morning, a tired Diane Mesi looked around Campas’s cramped hotel room. Pairs of bleary sleep-deprived eyes belonging to the other team members stared back.
Everyone had worked through the night, trying to reconstruct the attack. The meeting was so they could share findings and decide the next steps. Through local intelligence they had known for months
that the Madrigal-Zaragosa Alliance maintained a significant heroin refinery in the region but had never managed to locate it. When they had received news of the explosion there had been no doubt
of the target. Before they arrived there had been conjecture that some opportunist, drawn by the large quantities of drugs, had carried out the raid. But once on site, questions started to crop up.
Campas had remarked to Mesi that they could be looking at something new. The way he had said it left no doubt that he considered anything “new” in their business to be distinctly
unwelcome.

Once the last team members had filed in, Campas called the meeting to order. He was not a physically imposing man: small with thinning hair and a hawkish nose. But he radiated such intensity and
sense of purpose that he had no trouble getting the tired group to concentrate. “Antonio, the perimeter guards?” The enquiry was directed at a tall man leaning against the wardrobe.

“Both killed by shots to the head,” said Antonio Guzman, a pathologist attached to the team. “We’re doing some further work on the shell fragments but I’d say
we’re dealing with subsonic rounds fired over distance. Cause of death would have been a complete shut-down of the nervous system, almost certainly instantaneous.”

“The nearest suitable cover to the compound is at least eighty metres, so we’re dealing with a reasonably skilled sniper,” somebody said.

“Snipers,” interjected the SWAT officer Campas had temporarily seconded when he had first heard of the attack.

“Why more than one?” asked Mesi. Although she was there as a courtesy Campas had encouraged her not to be reluctant to ask questions. The way he saw it everything began with asking
the right questions.

“Well, I can’t be totally sure but I think it’s more likely. Both guards were shot while they were the maximum distance apart,” the SWAT officer replied, turning to a
plan of the compound that had been stuck on the wall and indicating locations on opposite sides of the area. “For one man to do this, he would have had to kill the first guard then move at
least two to three hundred metres across the hill behind to get into position for the second shot.”

“Go on, Ruben,” Campas prompted, seeing that he had more to say but was hesitant, unsure of the group dynamic and his new role.

“It doesn’t seem that the building guards raised the alarm or left their posts. This indicates the attackers used rifles equipped with suppressors, consistent with the subsonic
rounds mentioned.”

“And to be confident of a headshot with a suppressor, an experienced shooter would have preferred to be within a certain minimum distance?” Campas guessed.

“Exactly, probably no more than a hundred metres. When the possibility of a long range kill was raised, I walked the compound perimeter and I couldn’t find one suitable vantage point
within a hundred metres of both guards.”

“Anything else, Ruben? Don’t be afraid to speculate.”

“Stealth appears to have been a main objective of the initial phase of the attack, so I’m assuming speed was also important. The time between the first and last exterior guard being
killed would have to have been as short as possible.”

“Makes sense: the longer they took, the more chance of detection,” Campas said.

“So, why would they take the risk of one man moving at speed across the hill to take the second shot?” Ruben asked. “It’s not an easy thing to do, shoot, run over uneven
terrain and then quickly shoot again with confidence. Also, while he’s moving there’s a chance he’d attract attention.”

“I’ll go with that,” said Campas, nodding. “So, two snipers killing at a synchronised time?”

“Or at a signal, perhaps from a third party. One indisputable fact is the quality of the marksmanship; a head shot downhill from at least eighty metres with a suppressor.”

Mesi sensed some uneasiness creeping into the room.

“It strikes me that detailed reconnaissance would be required to plan this kind of attack,” Campas said. “Familiarity with the workings of the guards could only have come from
time spent observing the compound, possibly over a number of days. Ruben, when we’re finished start scouting the surrounding area, to see if you can find any evidence of their
presence.” He consulted a map of the area. “There’s a lot of ground to cover. Will you need me to draft in more manpower?”

“I’d prefer to limit the number, at least initially, to minimise the chance of us destroying any evidence. If you could spare two or three people that I can give a quick run-through
on how to proceed, that would be probably be best for now.”

“Okay. Oscar, Carlos and ...” Campas turned to look at Mesi, smiling. “How about it Diane? Would you be willing to help Ruben with what’s likely to be pain-in-the-ass
drudge work?”

“Absolutely,” she answered enthusiastically. She had shared with Campas how frustrated she had been at being continually assigned to back-office duties.

“Great, now what about the guards killed closer to the building?”

“One shot through the head at close range with a 9 mm,” Guzman resumed. “The other had his throat cut. The killer struck him with tremendous force just above the clavicle using
a heavy blade. The blow went through the carotid artery and was so severe that the spinal cord between the C5 and C6 vertebrae at the rear of his neck was severed. No defence wounds or signs of
struggle. Total surprise, I’d say.”

“Based on what we know so far about the attacks on the exterior guards, anyone want to say out loud what I suspect a number of us have been thinking?” Campas asked the room.

“Military training?” suggested one of the older members of the team. “It seems we’re dealing with a professionally planned and executed operation. While we know that the
cartels have used mercenaries in the past, I can’t recall them being used in this fashion.”

“I’m sorry, this may be a stupid question,” Mesi said, “but what do we think the motive was for the attack? Robbery? What is the minimum quantity of drugs the attackers
could have taken? Say, for argument’s sake, they were on foot, how much heroin could they have taken with them?”

“We hear of soldiers carrying twenty to fifty kilo packs while force-marching over long distances,” Guzman offered. “Even twenty kilos a man if there were just three or four is
a substantial haul. They could have timed the bomb to allow them to escape on foot. Alternatively, they may have had transport standing close by, ready for an all-clear once the attack had been
completed.”

“True but if you have this capability in planning and firepower, is this the obvious place to strike? Once you have the heroin, you still have the risks associated with transporting
it.”

“Maybe they only had intelligence about this location, or perhaps the fact that it is an unlikely target was why they picked it.”

“Perhaps, but I have to admit that, like Diane, I have some misgivings,” Campas said. “The tactics employed and professionalism involved with this attack are without precedent.
This refinery is significant because of one thing only: the amount of heroin on site at any one time, both raw and refined. We estimate at least 2,000 kilos. To execute the attack and remove that
much heroin would have taken quite some time; very risky. Therefore, we can probably assume some of the heroin was destroyed in the explosion and if that’s the case then, outlandish as it
seems, why not all of it?”

It was clear to Diane that while some of the agents had considered this already, others had not. From the disbelieving expressions on some faces, it was not difficult to distinguish the two.

“So,” Campas concluded. “We need to pursue both robbery and destruction as motives.”

“Sal, do you think we might be dealing with a state-sponsored action here?” one of the younger agents asked.

“You mean, have the US extended the remit of Plan Coca without telling us?”

The Plan was a joint Colombian-US initiative to bring the drug war to the doorstep of the main producers in Colombia. The strategy involved applying military resources, in the form of fumigation
runs from the air and troop movements on the ground, to forcibly eject the growers from their territorial strongholds. Unsurprisingly, it had no shortage of opponents including some of
Colombia’s neighbours who had complained that the Plan would push the struggle into their territories.

“Yes,” said the agent, glancing at Mesi momentarily.

“No, I don’t think so,” came Campas’s reply. “Plan Coca’s a highly politicised operation in a welcoming sovereign state. I think the most likely possibility
is a serious falling out between two factions within the Alliance. What do you think, Diane? Any possibility this could be related to Plan Coca?”

“No, there’s absolutely no way military action in Mexico would ever be countenanced, not even a covert attack like this,” she said. “We’ve supported Colombia with
military aid for years, so our involvement’s welcome. Even though supporters of the Plan and other campaigners would like drugs to be a higher priority, at the moment it’s not important
enough to the US public for any politician or agency to even dream of risking the blowback of unsanctioned action in Mexico.” Mesi could see that the men were at least a little happier with
this explanation.

“Until we know more, let’s hold off with further speculation on motive, we need to concentrate on the work we have in front of us.” Campas paused and checked his notes.
“I think we’ve covered everything we have so far. Here’s how I suggest we proceed.”

The limousine wound its way slowly down the gravel drive, leaving through the large wrought-iron gates. Lawrence Wallace turned briefly on the back seat and looked back at the
sign on the estate’s entrance bearing Elizabeth’s name. It gave him some measure of contentment to know that the foundation represented a positive legacy to her brief life.

At the centre of the Illinois estate was a beautifully restored mansion in the Colonial Revival style, which would serve as the first of the foundation’s rehabilitation clinics. The
facilities there would provide comfortable in-house care for up to thirty patients at a time, and three times that number could be accommodated on an outpatient basis. Buildings in Seattle, New
Jersey, Detroit, Los Angeles and Philadelphia had already been purchased and were being prepared to go into operation over the next twelve months. The idea for the foundation had come a few years
earlier and the key to getting everything up-and-running had been to correctly identify the right people to oversee the operation. Through properly blending a team of people from the logistical
side, such as accounting and management, with those who were specialists in therapy and research, he had maximised the foundation’s chance of success.

Four years before, his daughter Carol had been mugged while returning from a shopping trip with Elizabeth, her four-year-old daughter. Whether Carol had resisted wasn’t clear. The
coroner’s report indicated that she had been struck more than thirty times around her head and shoulders. Terrified, Elizabeth had bolted and run straight into heavy traffic, was struck by a
car and died instantly.

The mugger had been picked up less than two miles from where the attack had occurred. He had been heading to a local crack house, desperate to feed his addiction, when he was arrested. He
received the maximum sentence allowable but that had been no comfort to Wallace. Grief and anger consumed him. He learnt that Carol’s had been the latest in a number of similar attacks in
that neighbourhood, albeit the first one to end so brutally. For a long time he struggled unsuccessfully to find a way to deal with his loss, but now he hoped the clinics would give their deaths
some small purpose.