The Lotus Eaters (49 page)

State shook his head. "Not a chance, Mr. President. They need us."

"Mr. President," said JCS, "we can prove to the Santanderns that the Balboans did it. We'll just release them the tapes of the whole incident." The general screwed up his face. "But then, they wouldn't necessarily believe we couldn't—didn't—fabricate the whole thing, would they?"

The press secretary bent down and whispered something softly in the President's ear. The President's eyed grew wide and he said, "Ladies and gentlemen, if you leave me alone for a few minutes to confer . . ."

When the room was cleared the President of the Federated States asked "No shit?"

"It's true, Karl. Your polls are soaring. Everyone in this country thinks you did it, and they're just tickled pink by it. And you
need
this. The people are happy the country's getting even with someone, and don't really give a shit if it's not the real guilty party."

"But what about all the civilians killed, kids even?"

"Just the cost of doing business. Besides, they were just foreigners. Nobody cares."

"And if Balboa decides to take credit?"

"They won't. Firstly because now no one would believe them. Secondly, they'll be too late once you've said we did it. Thirdly, because, as the general said, Balboa probably doesn't want Santander pissed at them. Santander is, after all, ten times bigger than Balboa is. Lastly, if they wanted to take credit, they would have done so already."

The President reached a decision. "Bring in the others."

* * *

"Mr. President, you're live."

Schumann looked into the camera, his sincerest-seeming expression writ plain on his face. "My fellow Columbians. I would like to announce that a raid was conducted against certain members of Santander's drug cartels who were implicated in the recent criminal attacks in the Republic of Balboa in which American citizens lost their lives."

"Naturally, I will not divulge any details of the mission. Operational secrets will be preserved in my Administration. But let this be a lesson to those who would resort to terror, wherever they may be. You cannot run far enough or fast enough. You cannot hide well enough. The forces of justice will overtake you."

As the President fielded questions, the press secretary marveled,
What a master. And he didn't even have to lie, exactly.

Of the roughly one dozen drug lords attacked, all had been killed or, more commonly, captured, along with sundry accountants, assistants, wives and mistresses. No one in Santander actually knew how many of each there had been. In any case, the losses did not, by any means, mean the end of the cartels. The money to be made was a magnet, one that pulled in greed as a normal magnet attracted iron. There were always new people to step up, nor had all of the old been targeted. At best, one could say that the efficiency of the remainder and the replacements might be somewhat less than that of those lost.

Or might not have, too.

That remainder, and the replacements, met with Guzman in one of the ornate to the point of tacky palaces which had been spared assault.

Guzman contemplatively held a golden crucifix on a golden chain. "This," he whispered, "is proof positive of who was behind the attacks. The Balboan, Carrera, gave it to me. I gave it to Escobedo. It has returned to me again via the Balboan Embassy."

"Having gone to all the trouble of pinning this on the gringos, why should they let us know who really did it?" asked one of the remaining drug lords, Señor Ochoa.

"So we learn the lesson," Guzman answered.

"Lesson?"

"Yes . . . don't fuck with them. They gave me a more explicit message along with the cross. They want me, and one of you gentlemen, to go to Balboa. They promise safe conduct."

Ochoa attempted a sneer, but found he didn't have the heart to pull it off. "Or what?" he asked.

"Or else the attacks continue until we are all dead. Along with our families. I was told we have a week, no more."

Carrera, Fernandez, Menshikov, the Sergeant Major, Soult, and a dozen guards from Fernandez's department were waiting at the small landing strip when Ochoa and Guzman arrived by Legion plane. Most of the party looked quite somber and serious. Fernandez was the exception; his people now had enough captured documents, laptops, and prisoners to keep them busy for years.

The Santanderns were received coolly but politely, and then led to a lunch under a wide canopy. Carrera was somewhat surprised that Ochoa looked, if anything, more the legitimate businessman even than Guzman.

"I had nothing to do with the attacks on your country," Ochoa began.

Carrera looked at Fernandez who answered, with a shrug, "So far as I know."

"I'll accept that, for now, then," Carrera agreed. "But . . . so?"

"So you can speak to me," Ochoa said. "I am not your enemy."

"Have you surrendered then?" Carrera asked. "Surrendered unconditionally? Have all of your associates?"

"Surrender is premature," Ochoa said. "We can have peace, however. I propose a permanent cessation to hostilities. I offer that all cartel operatives will be removed from Balboa, that all Balboan operatives be removed from Santander, and that we of the cartels do all in our power to ensure that Balboa is no longer used as a drug thoroughfare.

Carrera had told him, simply, "That might have been enough, once. Now? No, not good enough. Too much blood has been spilled. Too much more is threatened."

Elbow on the lunch table, Ochoa raised one hand, palm up. "What then?"

"Your operatives leave Balboa; mine stay in Santander," Carrera said. "You
ensure
no trafficking takes place through Balboa. You turn over all information on the old government's involvement in the trafficking, all well documented.

"I demand ten billion Federated States Drachma, within the month. In addition, your people will pay to the Legion another fifty million, monthly. You can call it whatever you want. It's tribute all the same. Money paid to us for you to stay alive.

"And don't whine about it. The market share your surviving members will gain from the competition I've eliminated should more than pay that amount. I did you all a favor, really."

Ochoa did sneer now. "That's ridiculous, impossible."

Carrera shrugged and said, "Enjoy your lunch." This caused Guzman to gulp, nervously.

* * *

"Come," said Carrera to Ochoa, after lunch was finished. "Let's walk and chat." Fernandez, Menshikov, and a half dozen of the guards followed close behind.

They talked of meaningless things on the way, Carrera pointing out the flowers that lined each side of the pathway down. "The prisoners put these in," he said. "They actually have a fair business going in growing flowers for the mainland. Some are even shipped south to the Federated States."

The Santandern, playing along, walked with eyes down, admiring the pretty plants. Then he heard something strange, a sort of a moan. He looked part way up and saw a thick wooden beam sticking up out of the ground. He looked around, eyes still low, and counted seventeen more upright beams.

Then his eyes traveled up the beam. "Oh, my God!" he exclaimed.

In a loose circle, there by the beach, fourteen men and four women hung on rough wooden crosses. The men all showed marks of hideous torture. Through the feet and wrists of each had been driven large spikes. Crusted blood marked their bodies and the wood. The emissary recognized many of his former business associates, and the wives and mistresses of others.

"You know," said Carrera, conversationally, "No one really knows what kills someone who has been crucified. The best theory I've read is that the strain on the diaphragm when the victim hangs by his wrists keeps his chest muscles from emptying his lungs normally. Eventually this tires the diaphragm until the victim suffocates. Of course, with the feet supported—by more spikes, as these are—the victim can push up, at the cost of some
ah, discomfort
, and rest the diaphragm. That way the victim conspires with the killers to draw each life out to its last strength. These . . . might live three days more. Less for the women . . . probably."

"We took these a little less than a month ago. They were turned over to my intelligence people. With some effort, we think they have surrendered everything they ever owned. A lot of pain, then a little period of relief for turning over a few score million in assets. Then more pain until more assets were given up. It must have seemed a good deal to these people at the time. I understand there are computer nerds in the Federated States tearing their hair out because so many of the assets we grabbed they had spent months and years trying to uncover. It was really quite a haul."

Carrera stopped briefly while the Santandern reeled in disgust. He continued, nonchalantly, "I imagine you think that you can better use the money I demand to get to me and mine. It's been tried. Or maybe you think you can hire soldiers to protect you. These thought that. And with a tiny fraction of my force we took them and did . . . this. I control a country's army, you know, while you just have a petty little concern.

"Do you think you might be able to hire mercenaries? They often find it easier to rob the paymaster than to fight for him. No, mercenaries would be more dangerous to you than I am. I have a finite appetite and no interest whatsoever in taking your business from you. Besides, you can't offer them what I can, what they really crave; legitimacy, recognition, traditions, a uniform, a real army to be a part of. I think any you might hire will be second rate, no matter what they charge.

"Professional hit men? They could get to me, I imagine." Carrera turned to Menshikov and asked, "What are your orders if I am assassinated?"

The paratrooper answered, "Sir, to attack the Santandern drug cartels, butcher their followers, then take them, their wives
and
children back to Balboa for crucifixion."

"Will you follow those orders?"

"To the letter, sir."

To the shaking Santandern, who understood English perfectly well, Carrera said, "Perhaps it would not be such a good idea to kill me after all."

Ochoa leaned against a cross briefly, then recoiled in disgust, unconsciously wiping a blood stained hand on his trouser leg. He risked a sally. "How is it you are better than us? We both kill innocents; we both use torture. What makes you so moral."

"I never claimed to be more moral than you. As far as the drug trade goes, I really don't care one way or the other, as long as it stays out of Balboa. The only difference is that you failed to understand me; to understand that I would never give in, that no measure could deter me. So all the evil you did was wasted. But I did understand you, and I knew, as I know now, that you would give in. So the lives I took and the pain I inflicted were not wasted. That's the difference. That . . . and that I won, and you lost."

The Santandern took a last look at the writhing bodies of his former compatriots. One of them,
Señor
Escobedo, soundlessly mouthed a cry for help. The emissary turned away. "
Duque
Carrera, I will tell my associates that I believe your offer is fair. My counsel carries weight. I think we can agree to your terms."

"There is one more set of terms," Carrera said.

Ochoa raised an eyebrow.

"Nothing too onerous," Carrera continued, reaching into a pocket to pull out a small typewritten note. "These names popped up on some of the computers we captured. I want them and their families dead."

Ochoa took the note and read alone only the first name before going silent. "Piedad Andalusia, eh? Why her?"

"Because she sides now with the Marxists in Santander, likewise the Progressives in the Federated States, and so can be predicted to side with the Marxists of the Tauran Union at some future and inconvenient time," Carrera answered.

"We can do this," the Santandern agreed.

"I was certain you could."

Ochoa took a last look at the crosses and suppressed the urge to vomit.

Carrera said, "I was sure we could come to an amicable understanding. Now, back to the tent for a drink before your flight?"

As Carrera and the other turned to leave, Menshikov asked what to do about the poor people hanging on their crosses.

Carrera considered, then said, "Kill the women and the accountants, silently. I'd let them go but . . . no, too risky. Still, there's no further reason for them to suffer. Let the others die
naturally.
Bomb
my
people, will they?"

* * *

The fact that Balboa was behind the raid did not become widely known for some years, at which point it was far too late to matter. The ACCS crew, if they had ever entertained doubts, had those doubts dispelled when they were individually interrogated by civilian clad security agents who then swore the crew to secrecy. Shortly after the President of the Federated States' television address, strong young men with good bearing and very little hair began using hints that they had been in Santander for recent bloody missions as devices to attract women in places like Oglethorpe and Wilkes' Folly. Some were believed. Occasionally, so it was reported in various barracks, the technique worked. A few of the Volgans tried the same thing in Balboa, but were not believed.

In the Federated States' counter-drug operational funds for the next three years were severely curtailed as acquisitions from seized assets took a sharp downturn. (Fernandez' methods were much faster if lower tech.) For years to come, rarely would a Drug Interdiction Task Force accountant or computer hacker say the name of Balboa without a snarl. This was one reason why, when Balboa turned over extensive evidence that the old government, in Old Balboa, was deeply involved in the drug trade, that evidence was suppressed.

The fifteen children found at the various targets, such as had not been killed by the attack or released, were brought back to Balboa. Lourdes arranged to place the youngest in good homes. The older ones were to be supported by Carrera himself in a foster home until they were old enough to join the army.