Incitement (5 page)

“We can’t let this attack go unanswered,” the Mexican repeated. It was clear to Madrigal that he was trying to stir up the room and, in doing so, force Madrigal to change his
position.

“Normally I’d agree but before we can retaliate, we need to be sure who to retaliate against.”

Madrigal had to be careful; he wanted to be firm without appearing dictatorial. Things ran more smoothly when there was the appearance of consensus.

“The report I received yesterday contains definitive fucking evidence. The Kosovars are behind the attack, and if we don’t retaliate they’ll be encouraged to go further. We
have to act now to show them that this time they’re not dealing with a bunch of putas.” The veins on Rodriguez’s temples distended while his voice rose.

“Cigarette butts are hardly justification to potentially start a war that could set us back years. Let’s wait to see what else this policeman, whom you rate so highly, comes up
with.” Madrigal was well aware of Campas’s pedigree but this was not the time to acknowledge it.

“We’re not in a fucking courtroom, we only need to satisfy ourselves. I told you months ago that the Kosovars, whom you were so happy to approach with talk of closer partnership,
represented our biggest fucking threat. Now they’ve done business with you and plainly evaluated you to be weak and vulnerable.”

Madrigal was somewhat surprised. He knew Rodriguez harboured resentment at what he felt was the subordinate role of the Mexicans generally and himself specifically but he had never gone this far
before. Clearly, his rage was directing him now.

“And you Caesar, do you agree that I’m weak and vulnerable?”

Something had changed in the shorter, stockier man’s voice and those in the room began to shift uncomfortably in their chairs. Rodriguez, lost in his fury, ranted on obliviously.
“You’re vulnerable if you don’t see the threat! When enemies perceive you to be weak then you are weak!”

Only when the last word had tumbled out did Rodriguez appear to realise the implication of what he was saying. He glanced around the room. Madrigal had ruthlessly clawed his way to the top of
Colombia’s drugs elite then, against all the odds, pulled the many widely divergent Central and South American drugs cartels together to form the Alliance. It was suicide to challenge his
strength so directly. “Luis, forgive me, I’m not expressing myself properly. There’s no question that you’re more than capable of dealing with any threat. It’s just I
appreciate the great number of demands made on you. A possible danger might be easily averted now with swift action but it will be more difficult if left to fester until later.”

Madrigal took a moment, letting the silence underline Rodriguez’s retreat for the others, before replying. “Here’s what I think. The operation, as you pointed out, bore all the
trademarks of a mercenary attack. Many mercenaries operate in Central and South America and, in recent years, some have probably gained employment in the Balkans. So, the cigarettes don’t
necessarily indicate someone in the employ of the Kosovars and can hardly justify an attack on an organisation that provides such a profitable sales channel.”

“Luis, I agree that we should not rush to conclusions,” interjected Cabieses, an elderly Peruvian. “Equally, we cannot just ignore the matter.”

“No, Tomas, we will stay on top of it. I suggest that as well as monitoring the official investigation, we pursue one of our own. Our network runs throughout the continent. If mercenaries
from this part of the world were used, we should be able to find out.”

“Perhaps we could also extend our investigation to Europe?” suggested Cabieses.

“Of course, we can also use our sources there to make discreet enquiries,” agreed Madrigal before adding a caution, “but we must be careful that the Kosovars get no inkling of
this. If they are responsible, we do not want to put them on their guard. If they’re not, then we don’t want to risk offending them.”

He could sense that some of them still had misgivings but knew they would not voice them. He warned himself not to become complacent on this issue and made a note to take time with some of them
later, one-on-one, to smooth any ruffled feathers. No position was unassailable.

Later, when the meeting was over and the others had left to return home, Madrigal sat alone in the conference room with the lights dimmed, thinking about the meeting and its
main topic. Something else bothered him about the attack but he was unable to put his finger on it. He put the matter from his mind, knowing that a little distance might help. He was used to this
and could not remember a time when there was not a myriad of problems to contend with. Under his direction, the cartels had prospered beyond all reasonable forecasts. From assassination squads to
investment houses and extremist militias halfway across the world, he had managed to blend divergent assets to create an impressive synergy with their core businesses. From his humble beginnings,
begging and stealing on the streets of Bogotá, to where he was now, he had never experienced contentment. He felt that there must be a purpose to his single-minded pursuit of power and he
was confident it would become clear someday. He remembered hearing once how a senior DEA official had said he was like Alexander in the breadth of the empire he had built. Apparently, the official
had added that, unlike Alexander, he was unlikely to ever weep. He knew how his enemies, both internal and external, regarded him. He could hardly complain. Many times he had used their fear to his
advantage. But it was not as simple as they believed.

He held the group he had met with earlier in secret contempt despite their perception of themselves as his peers. Greed was their only motivation. He had the same disdain for the agencies of the
Western governments who lined up against him.

Plan Coca was just another exercise in US imperialism. The reports of widespread sickness after the fumigation runs proved they didn’t care about the people of Putumayo. Coca and opium
provided many people with the only way to break the cycle of poverty. These were downtrodden people. True, thousands suffered in the countries where the end product was consumed but these were
weak, indulgent people whose hardships were self-inflicted. The suffering of these addicts was nothing compared to the struggles of the poor. Yes, it was sad to see lives wasted, but sometimes
there was no alternative.

The camera homed in on a close-up of the captives. They were herded by, each stolidly refusing to acknowledge the presence of this intrusion. They walked wearily, hands
behind their head, faces downcast. In stark contrast, the guards clearly enjoyed the camera’s attention and barked commands incessantly. The picture panned to the right, focusing on Caroline
Williams, an immaculately groomed reporter in a pressed khaki outfit.

“A resounding success for Plan Coca. Three days ago, a main stronghold of FARC was successfully overrun by the Colombian army’s Counter Narcotics Brigade. The Brigade has
received extensive training from US experts and has been equipped by the US military under the direction of the MILGP.” Williams’ voice and body language were upbeat, matching the
content of her report. “Despite strong resistance, they were able to take control of the FARC base, capturing many of the rebels. The Colombian government has been quick to stress the
importance of this development, particularly in the face of recent criticisms that, up to now, the Plan had achieved nothing more than a series of ineffectual fumigation strikes.”

While she continued her introduction, the shot moved out to take in the man who stood next to her.

“While there were no major coca crops close to the base, the government has identified it as a main distribution and coordination centre of the rebels, the loss of which will
significantly hamper the drug traffickers. With me is Henry Maynard from the US State Department who was closely involved in planning this operation. Henry, is this only a short term blow to FARC
or are we looking at something more?”

“No doubt about it, this is a major success for the Brigade,” Maynard responded enthusiastically. “They’ve justified the time and effort we’ve committed to
their training. This base was a prominent part of FARC’s distribution network.”

“And what will its loss mean to the rebels?”

“Without it, they need to rethink the distribution channels and replan future consignments. This doesn’t win the war in itself but it shows that we’re starting to get to
grips with fighting the producers on their own turf.”

“Some dissenting voices in Colombia have said this base had nothing to do with the drug trade and that the Colombian government is using the resources earmarked for Plan Coca to crush
the Marxist resistance?”

Maynard shook his head resignedly, leaving the viewers under no illusions regarding what he felt about this carping. “FARC is not a resistance movement, Marxist or otherwise. It exists
solely for its own financial gain and has no real political platform. The sooner we recognise that we’re battling criminals and not revolutionaries, the sooner we’ll
win.”

“Critics have suggested those in charge of the plan could be more judicious in their target selection, concentrating solely on drug-related targets?”

“It’s simplistic and self-defeating to assume that we can clearly distinguish resistance targets from those connected to drugs,” explained Maynard. “No such
distinction exists for FARC and if we’re to defeat them we can’t create one either. We need to dismantle FARC totally. I don’t think anyone wants to see another instance where we
state an objective and then seek to obstruct ourselves from realising it.”

“The next step as you see it?”

“Continue what we’ve started here. Now that we’ve shown our ability to win what were previously thought to be strongholds of FARC, we’ve got to press on. I think if
we can combine this kind of success with continued fumigation runs, we’ll do permanent damage to the Colombian cartels’ production capacity.”

“Thank you. So, Plan Coca overcomes an embattled start and begins to gather momentum. This is Caroline Williams for IBNC in Putumayo region, Colombia.”

The waves grew increasingly more powerful, sweeping the decks of the boats, which pitched wildly in the storm. The crew of the larger vessel were finding the footing difficult,
constantly having to right themselves, but this was minor compared to what the four men who had just boarded the smaller yacht had to contend with. The line between the two boats had no sooner been
released than a gap of forty feet appeared between the vessels. The men on board the yacht struggled through the violent throes as it was hurled one way then another, finally wrestling themselves
to the boat’s cabin. Once it was confirmed that they had all made it safely off-deck, the signal was given on the trawler to start transmitting.

Larsen and the other three men braced themselves in the yacht’s cabin, nobody talking while they waited for what was to come. The forecast had warned that the storm was on its way but they
had only one shot at this and had to go. The weather was beneficial in that it helped their gambit appear more authentic, but that was only if they didn’t capsize. Despite all the rehearsals
they had carried out, the storm had the potential to ruin everything. The boat rolled violently and Larsen caught himself just before he slid from the bench. He checked to confirm that the items
secreted under his sweater were still in place and he visualised the expected sequence of events once more. Glancing at his companions, he searched for any hint of weakening resolve but found
none.

He reminded himself again of the bigger picture, how much it mattered and the part this would play in the overall progression. The small handheld radio sheathed in plastic crackled into life,
announcing that contact had been made. His thoughts returned once more to what he had learned of the green, yellow and red all those years before.

The
Spirit of Marseilles
, her decks heavily laden with cargo containers, made slow progress through the rough seas. The storm, however, was not the main source of the
captain’s worry. Circumstances had required that Christophe Chanet agree to carry more cargo than the coffee listed on the manifest. He was in an unenviable position. If the ship was
intercepted by the US Coast Guard and its illicit load found, it would be impounded and he would face charges. If the cargo was successfully delivered, another mission would doubtless await. Even
here, on his own bridge, he could not put the predicament from his mind and lose himself in the rudiments of negotiating the storm. The guard who stood at his shoulder was a constant reminder of
what he had committed himself and the crew to.