two

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.

Business had not been good in recent years. Chanet, as the owner-captain of the cargo ship, had handled affairs badly and fallen into debt. He had finally reached the point where it had been necessary to sell a share in the ship or face ruin. Surprisingly, an offer had materialised quickly once he had put out feelers. He knew that he should have questioned why a top-class legal firm, acting on behalf of a client, would have been interested in a share of the Spirit. At the time, though, he was in no position to examine any lifeline too closely. With the proceeds from the deal, he had been able to refit the ship in time to win a number of commissions on the Puerto Barrios-Miami route. It was obvious now that his new partner had been instrumental in arranging for the business to come his way and once again he cursed his stupidity.

The last time they had been in port, the lawyers had informed him he would be required to attend a meeting with their client. Over coffee in the plush downtown offices, he had learned the extent of his indenture. The man he met had explained how, on her next voyage, the Spirit would carry something more than was stated in the official contract. Three thousand kilos of heroin was to be hidden throughout the ship. To ensure there would be no difficulties, Customs in both ports had been taken care of. He had argued with the man until he was cut off and the consequences of refusal starkly spelt out to him. Chanet had enjoyed authority of some degree or other for almost twenty years but when it had come to dealing with this mystery man, he had been made feel completely inconsequential.

He had been informed that three men would be accompanying the voyage to ensure there were no problems. Any chance that the entire crew might not have realised the extent to which the Spirit had been compromised disappeared when these taciturn men had boarded. Once out of port, they made no attempt to conceal their automatic weapons and swaggered around the ship, daring anyone to challenge them. A number of times headstrong members of the crew had been barely talked out of accepting this challenge by their shipmates.

On the bridge the radio crackled. “... If anyone can respond, please acknowledge ... We are adrift. Our engine’s failed ... last known coordinates ... Repeat, this is the Marlin ... four crew ... situation dire ... ”

The first mate, Tiozzo, looked at Chanet who nodded to proceed. “Marlin, this is the Spirit of Marseilles. Please repeat those coordinates. Over.”

After a couple of attempts the complete coordinates were communicated.

“We’re in your vicinity and proceeding to your location. Standby to fire a flare on our signal,” the first mate instructed.

The guard on the bridge stormed over angrily and wrenched the radio from Tiozzo’s hands. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, cabrón? You don’t deviate from our course!”

“It’s enough your people have commandeered my ship and undermined my command,” said Chanet. “But if you think for a second that we’re going to ignore a distress call in this storm then go ahead and pull the trigger.” He stared impassively into the furious gunman’s eyes. “Though you’d better be prepared to tackle the rest of the crew and then, if you should handle that successfully, you and your colleagues can look forward to crewing a thirty-man ship safely to our destination.” For a moment the man looked like he was seriously considering the plausibility of such an action. “No doubt, you’ll have a good explanation ready for the port authorities on arrival,” Chanet added.

The gunman lowered the weapon with a petulant expression. “Okay, Captain fucking Samaritan, but you can be damn sure I’ll be reporting this shit and then you better fucking believe it’ll be you who’ll have to do the explaining.”

It took an hour and a half in the treacherous conditions before they arrived at the coordinates. No signal flare was released and with radio contact having ceased half an hour before, Chanet feared the worst. At last, just as he was about to call off the search, one of the crew spotted a blinking light off their port side. Changing course swiftly, they came upon the Marlin. She was a recreational vessel by all appearances, listing badly, her hull half-exposed and ready to go under at any moment. From the ship’s rail, Chanet could just about distinguish four huddled figures perched precariously on the yacht’s stern. He wondered at the lunatics who braved these seas for fun and adventure.

Despite the difficult conditions, they managed to get alongside and haul the men one by one off the stricken Marlin. Three of them appeared to be in their early thirties and the last, presumably their skipper, was a little older. Considering the ordeal they had endured, none of them looked too much the worse for wear. Chanet reckoned that, after some hot soup and rest, they would be fine. The skipper insisted on thanking him properly before he would excuse himself. In spite of all attempts to dissuade the man, he persisted and Chanet reluctantly agreed for him to come up to the bridge. Chanet was not happy about the armed guard there but figured that the yachtsmen would be with them until they reached Miami and were bound to see the gunmen at some stage anyway. He had not thought of the problems this might pose when answering the distress call but he would have to address it before they docked.

Chanet called for some brandy to be brought up and guided the man to a chair. While they waited, he studied the skipper. He was a lean man, perhaps five-eight or -nine and appeared to be recovering rapidly, his shivering subsiding noticeably as the seconds passed. Chanet could see his puzzlement at the presence of an armed guard on the bridge but there were no immediate questions.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go below?” he asked after the man had drained his mug.

“No, no, we owe you our lives, if you hadn’t arrived ... I’m responsible for endangering my crew and yours. I have an obligation.” He spoke English with what sounded like an Eastern European accent.

“If you insist. May I ask, what in God’s name were you doing so far from shore in a storm? Had you no warning of the weather?”

“We were –”

One of the crew from the Marlin appeared at the door, momentarily drawing their attention, and the skipper launched himself from his seat at the distracted guard. The gunman registered the movement and tried to react but before he could do anything, the skipper had grabbed him under the chin and pressed a knee into the small of his back. The skipper produced a knife and plunged it into the guard’s exposed neck. Blood spurted from the deep wound over the floor of the bridge. Letting the body drop, the skipper straightened up and retrieved a small plastic package, secured by tape, from under his sweater. He opened the package and removed a handgun. He exchanged a few words with his crewmate, and although Chanet didn’t recognise the language, the gist was clear. A progress report had been given and from the sounds of it things were going according to plan.

“Captain Chanet, you have been under duress for some time and I apologise that it must continue for just a little longer. If I may?”

The skipper took the radio, changed the frequency and began transmitting. In the same language as before, he issued instructions to whomever was at the other end.

“In a few minutes, a ship will pull alongside,” he said, replacing the radio. “We’ll relieve you of a portion of your cargo then dump the bodies of this one and his friends overboard.”

“And after?”

“You’ll be free to continue on your way. I realise you’ll be facing a difficult situation with the owners of the cargo when you reach your destination.” A smile touched the corners of his mouth. “If you prefer, I can sink your ship while you and the crew take to the lifeboats?”

“You’re taking the drugs?” Chanet asked incredulously.

“Yes.”

“And leaving us unharmed?”

“We’ve no quarrel with you. The abuse of the mayday signal was unavoidable and we regret any danger you were placed in.”

Chanet could not take it in. With difficulty, he assembled his thoughts enough to ask another question.

“The ship, it won’t explode after you depart, will it? I mean, we’ve seen your faces.”

“Who would you describe us to?” he shrugged. “The authorities? I can’t see it. As for the owners of the cargo, feel free to be as descriptive as you like.”

A short time later, a smaller cargo ship pulled alongside and the crew of both vessels set about transferring the drugs. Within hours of the distress call being raised, no trace of the Marlin or its crew remained. Chanet could almost have convinced himself that he had dreamt it all.

After slamming the door then throwing her keys on the hall table, Mesi hurried through the apartment into the bathroom. She had hoped to return more relaxed from her 2,000 metres at the pool. She had been so nervous about what lay ahead today that she had hardly slept, and starting the day with some exercise to take the edge off had seemed a good idea. And it would have been if maintenance had fixed the showers in the workout area as the residents had repeatedly requested. Living in the well-appointed apartment complex involved sacrifices. Besides the steep rent there was a daily two-stage commute involving car and train. The only way she could justify these to herself was if all of the complex’s amenities were working properly. Stepping hurriedly into the shower, she glanced at her watch again – fifteen minutes to get dressed and out the door. She would have some strong words for the building’s service contractor the next time she spoke to him.

She lathered the shampoo through her hair while her mind raced. Director Marshall had come to her late afternoon the day before. In light of the latest incident, he had told her, they needed to revisit one of her earlier predictive reports. While he may have discounted it at the time, he thought it was prudent to take another look in light of the Miami incident. It had been gratifying to hear but then he had gone on to tell her about the meeting he had called for first thing the following day. He had invited an array of heavy hitters and he expected her to provide the main presentation. He had given her a rough outline on what she should and should not concentrate on and while it all sounded straightforward enough at the time, it had entailed an enormous amount of work.

The first thing she had done was call Jean, an old friend from college, to say she couldn’t attend her dinner party that evening. That had not gone well at all. Despite the fact that ten others were expected, Jean’s primary reason for the party had been as an excuse to get her together with one of the other guests. Jean had decided that Diane’s total of just two serious relationships since the divorce eight years earlier was pitiful and that it was time for her to get her love life sorted before it was “too late”. Diane wasn’t opposed to the idea, quite the contrary, but for one reason or another their efforts had met with failure so far. Twenty minutes later, after having listened dutifully to the obligatory lecture about making time for a personal life, she had been able to concentrate on getting the material together.

The meeting was important for more than just the obvious reason of making a good impression on her boss. It had been more than ten months since she had taken the position as head of TAIT and the team had hardly progressed at all. By this stage, TAIT should have had a complement of fifteen agents and been on its way to establishing a profile throughout the DEA and beyond. Instead, the team consisted of just herself and two junior agents. She had raised the issue with Marshall often but never seemed to get anywhere. She would walk into his office, determined to get some straight answers regarding the reasons for the delay and a commitment for the future, but, somehow, he always managed to palm her off without providing either. Despite the plausible explanations about how long finalising the budget was taking, it had reached the stage where it was becoming a little demotivating. True, she had learnt a lot in the time since she had taken the job but unless she had the opportunity to apply it what was the point? As it was, the only function they served was as Marshall’s private three-man research team. If today’s meeting went well, she hoped all of this would change.

Marshall had indicated that one of her earlier reports was the impetus behind the meeting; that was the first positive. Follow it up with a strong presentation and some momentum could begin to develop. Maybe enough to shake the bean counters from their indifference. It was imperative, though, not to incur the enmity of any of the attendees. Unfortunately, the content of her presentation had some potentially unpleasant implications for more than one of them. There was no avoiding that. The trick would be to ensure that her delivery was done in such a way to ensure that neither she nor TAIT were associated with the unpleasantness.

She finished drying her hair and got dressed. Normally, she would have considered the clothes she was wearing far too dressy for the office, but, given the audience she would have today, they were perfect. She checked the mirror one last time then took a deep breath and headed out the door.

The conference room was dominated by the large table at its centre. Its sheer size accentuated the fact that, as yet, only a handful of the expected attendees were present. Robert Allenby sat in his chair, drumming his fingers impatiently as the others drifted into the room in ones and twos. Given the full schedule he had planned for that Friday, the meeting had hardly come at an ideal time. The sooner they started, the sooner he could get away.

Allenby’s role as advisor to the Plan Coca congressional subcommittee had been a godsend when he had accepted it two years earlier. Certainly, basking in the reflected glory of the Plan’s recent successes had been gratifying and had done no harm at all to his prospects. He had decided, though, that he had gotten all he could reasonably expect from the association and that it was time to begin moving away from the Plan and on to other projects. Only fools pushed their luck; the Plan had served him well and even in the unlikely event it could sustain its current run, there was no point in being greedy. A fringe benefit of removing himself would be an end to incidents like today. The subcommittee chairwoman had been unable to attend and asked him to sit in for her. Given the lack of bearing whatever Marshall wanted to discuss would have on his career, he resented the imposition.

At last it looked as if everyone had assembled and the short, bullish DEA Director Marshall walked to the head of the room. Despite Allenby’s annoyance at having to attend the meeting, part of him was intrigued as to why someone as senior as Marshall thought it necessary.

“Thank you everyone for coming at such short notice. I know some of you had to make significant changes to your calendars to make it to Arlington today,” the director began. “We’re here because of a report which crossed my desk yesterday morning. It related to a suspected act of piracy off the coast of Florida involving the theft of a large amount of heroin bound for our shores. In itself, it wouldn’t have warranted dragging you here, so to explain why I felt that was necessary I’m going to hand you over to Diane Mesi. Diane’s one of our senior specialists on cartel alliances and disputes.”

Allenby watched Mesi stand and walk to the head of the table. One quick look was enough for him to sum her up. Tall and thin, she was attractive, he supposed, although the rectangular glasses and stern features didn’t do anything for him. She had obviously traded on her looks to get this far and was sure to be hoping she could make the most of this chance in the spotlight. He looked at his watch and wondered how long he would be here.

Okay, she said to herself, take your time, it’s a good presentation, just let it speak for itself.

She signalled for the lights to be dimmed then walked over to the projector screen and brought up the first slide. The photo was of an open-plan office in disarray. Desks were over-turned, tables and walls strewn with bullet holes. Amidst the chaos were the bodies of at least four men and one woman. The corpses were covered in blood and lay at unnatural angles; the woman’s throat had clearly been slit. The picture’s impact could be felt throughout the room.

“April twenty-fifth last year, the Guttierez family and associates. Originally they hailed from the Dominican Republic. This office is over a nightclub they owned in Chicago. The Guttierezes were renowned distributors and retailers for the Madrigal-Zaragosa Alliance. They dealt in everything. Heroin, cocaine, synthetics. Our sources tell us there should have been a large store of each when this attack took place. Next.”

The image of the carnage-filled room disappeared and was replaced by another. The picture, taken from the quayside, showed a dark cloud of smoke billowing from a half-submerged cargo ship about 50 metres from shore.

“September twelfth, the Mariner’s Friend sunk dockside in an explosion in Port of Spain. Maurice Jackson, one of the main drug traffickers in Trinidad and Tobago, and some of his senior lieutenants were on board at the time. We suspect the ship contained a substantial amount of cocaine and meta-amphetamines bound for the US. Next.”

An aerial shot of the remains of a bombsite.

“February twenty-ninth this year, a major heroin refinery just outside the small border town of Conchillo in Mexico. We believe the attack was perpetrated by a small team of well-trained, well-equipped hostiles. They killed the building’s security personnel and virtually obliterated its structure. Next.”

A split image. The left half of the screen showed a luxury speedboat, black and sleek in the water and at least thirty feet long; it was just possible to make out the bodies which were strewn around the cockpit. The other half was a closer view of the same cream leather cockpit, which contained a scene reminiscent of the Chicago nightclub. There were two bodies visible. The first had been raked with multiple gunshots to the torso, leaving it a blood-soaked mess, and the second, which lay half over the side of the boat, had its throat ripped open.

“July nineteenth. Rene Salazaar and one of his brothers. The boat was found by the Coast Guard. The coroner’s report estimated it had been drifting for more than twenty-four hours before it was discovered. Salazaar’s other brother and two more associates are missing. We think they were on the boat and either conducted the attack themselves or were killed and dumped overboard. Given the length of time since their last sighting, we favour the latter theory. Next.”

A picture of a large container ship in port. Nothing was obviously wrong and there were puzzled looks around the room.

“November twelfth, the day before yesterday. The Spirit of Marseilles safely docked in Miami; no damage. Slight problem, though, for Rodolfo Dominguez, the largest wholesaler and distributor in the state since Salazaar’s demise. A wiretap yesterday recorded him ranting on his main telephone line. Very out-of-character for the normally reserved Dominguez but the cause for his outburst soon became clear.” She turned off the overhead projector and signalled for the lights. “As well as the coffee which was on the ship’s manifest, there should have been 3,000-plus kilos of heroin on board. Someone boarded the ship and, in the middle of the night during a heavy storm, eliminated the cartel personnel on board and made off with the drugs.”

“That’s it, five incidents in just over eighteen months. Each a setback for the Madrigal-Zaragosa Alliance and we have no idea who’s behind them. We don’t know if these are it or if they’re only part of a larger picture. What we’ve seen is enough to be of major concern but if there were more ...”

The attendees considered what they had seen and Mesi’s closing remark. There was a lot to take in and the sense of people trying to get their bearings was evident.

Allenby was the first to assemble his thoughts. “You’re obviously making a connection between them but ...” he hesitated, “couldn’t they be a string of unrelated incidents?”

Mesi waited to see if Marshall wanted to take the question but he gestured for her to address it. “My team monitors cartel activity, trying to identify new trends or strategies as early as possible.” She kept in mind the need to form her answer carefully. Allenby was a rising star in political circles and his profile had increased significantly in the wake of Plan Coca’s positive press. Exactly the kind of person she did not want to antagonise but also, unfortunately, one of the people most likely to take issue with what was going to be discussed. “We try to discern what way the power structures are changing and use that to predict future developments. By definition, we’re particularly interested in anything out of the ordinary. What

“I would have thought that in this environment, where violent criminals and enormous sums of money are not unusual, these type of episodes were quite common?” he remarked.

“There’s more order than you might think. Most of it down to Luis Madrigal, whom I’m sure you’re all familiar with. He’s worked tirelessly to foster an atmosphere of stability among the various South and Central American cartels. Up to a few years ago, the Colombians and Mexicans particularly had gone their separate ways.”

All of the attendees were riveted. The powerful presentation had set the stage and they wanted to know what the attacks signified. “Most of the division was as a result of the Mexicans bypassing the main Colombian cartels as a source of cocaine and their success in fostering their own indigenous heroin industry. Madrigal completely reversed the pattern by proving how everyone could benefit from cooperation. He’s been very careful not to make the mistake of treating the Mexicans as subordinates.”

“Just in case anyone here doesn’t quite appreciate the breadth of Madrigal’s organisation,” Marshall added, “the Alliance he formed with Ernesto Zaragosa now comprises groups from more than ten different countries. A consequence of his work had been the reduction in the occurrence of events like you’ve just seen.”

“But there’s quite a long time frame involved here,” Allenby commented. “Doesn’t that reduce the likelihood of them being connected?”

Mesi knew Marshall had given no advance notice regarding the subject of the meeting. With no time to prepare, the attendees would be cautious in accepting any hypothesis put forward due to the possible implications for their individual agendas. That caution could manifest as either a direct challenge to what she was presenting or a subtler discrediting.

“I’d have to disagree with you there, sir,” Mesi inwardly cursed herself for phrasing it so bluntly. “A year and a half in this context really isn’t that long. Besides, there are too many common hallmarks to ignore the possibility that some of them are connected. If you consider the excellent intelligence regarding where and when to strike, and also the precision in their execution.” She hesitated, aware of where the final observation might lead, before pushing on, “And, perhaps most worryingly of all, as far as we can determine, through all of our informants and wiretaps, none of the increasingly large quantities of drugs involved appear to have surfaced again. Ever.”

The last statement caused Dan Schutterop from the FBI’s Law Enforcement Coordination Office to look up from his folder quizzically. “If there were more incidents, say even ten more on a similar scale, and the drugs were being taken out of circulation, what would be the cumulative effect within the US?”

This was the question she had been dreading.

“Well,” she replied warily. “Fifteen such episodes in total could be enough to affect availability.” She knew the attempted vagueness of her answer would do no good.

“And that would impact prices, how?”

“They’d probably be pushed up,” she replied.

“So, enough incidents could result in a drop in the availability of drugs and a general rise in prices, like what’s been reported recently?” Schutterop persisted.

“Possibly.”

The non-committal answer did nothing to dampen the apprehension that was creeping into the room. She recognised that some of the attendees would be delighted with what they were hearing while others would be displeased. Quite a few people had gone on the record as saying that little or no bottom-line impact should be expected from Plan Coca. As the Plan’s successes had appeared to mount, criticism of them had grown and lately it had reached such a level that it looked like some people’s positions might be in jeopardy. But if there were a variable of this magnitude at play, of which they had been unaware, then the apparently erroneous predictions would be mitigated, maybe even eliminated.

“Why are we only hearing about this now, if it’s something which Agent Mesi contends has been brewing for more than eighteen months?” asked Allenby, no longer even attempting to hide his anger.

She tried to think of something to say that might defuse the atmosphere.

“Diane came to me immediately after the Mexican incident, warning me of the possibilities,” Arthur Marshall boomed before she had a chance to reply. “I thought it was too early to jump to conclusions.”

The message was clear; they were not there to find scapegoats and Allenby’s attitude was not appreciated.

“Since the raid on the ship,” Marshall continued, “I’ve had a rethink, mainly because we caught Dominguez mentioning that the captain of the ship thought the pirates may have been Eastern European. Diane, please explain the significance.”

“As I mentioned, none of the investigations have made significant progress in finding out who was behind the attacks. The only lead was found during the Mexican investigation by Salvador Campas and his team of the attack on the heroin refinery.” Given the mood, Mesi could not see any benefit in mentioning her participation in the investigation. “Based on physical evidence at the scene, they pursued the possibility of Balkan, specifically Kosovar, involvement in the attack. Add that to the captain’s account and we might have something. Admittedly it’s not much but –”

“If there’s something to this then we’d be rightfully concerned, but before we get carried away, what’s the basis for looking at the Kosovars? What was this physical evidence which led Campas to suspect them?” The question came from Will Samuels, whose shaven, bullet-shaped head matched his direct no-nonsense approach perfectly. Samuels was the DEA’s chief of operations and de facto number two to Marshall.

“Cigarette butts found at the scene. They were a brand sold primarily in the Balkan region. The attack appeared to have military aspects in training and execution. The Mexicans suspected mercenary involvement from the outset.”

“Anything else?”

“Subsequent checking of flights found that a number of Albanians had entered the country shortly before the attack. Enquiries with Europol revealed three of them had links to the Fifteen Families.”

There was a pause before Samuels realised Mesi was finished.

“That’s it, that’s the basis for saying there was ‘Kosovar involvement’?” asked Samuels incredulously.

“Campas did have serious reservations,” she conceded. “He pointed out that it wasn’t guaranteed that these men were involved and even if they were, they could have been contracted by any number of third parties.”

“Diane, I understand that it’s your job to look for these tenuous connections but you have to agree this is very flimsy?” Samuels said.

“Can we afford to ignore it?” Schutterop piped up.

“But we’re not ignoring it; this meeting is proof of that. We can’t chase everything down. Sometimes we have to use judgement in regard to what we let go. In my opinion this is one of those cases.”

So far, the meeting had not gone too badly. Other than Allenby no one had criticised her directly and she certainly didn’t want to get on the wrong side of Samuels, but there was something she thought he was glossing over.

“I hope you’re right and this is a groundless fear but whether we believe the Fifteen Families are targeting the Madrigal-Zaragosa Alliance isn’t the only consideration. If the Alliance themselves believe it, they’ll retaliate, and what happens then?”

Samuels pushed himself back from the table and stood up, clearly agitated.

“I don’t like this!” he shook his head. “What reason could the Kosovars possibly have for engaging the Alliance? They don’t have anything to gain.”

“That’s not strictly true,” Schutterop offered.

“Excuse me?” said Samuels, sounding annoyed; he knew the FBI man’s interest in stirring this up.

“It’s just that they do have something to gain,” Schutterop continued. “They’re in direct competition with the Alliance, just like lots of others, exactly the same way as Chrysler and Toyota compete internationally.”

“Can we get back to the matter at hand and leave the business news for some other time?” Samuels turned back to Mesi. “Do you believe the Kosovars are gunning for the Latin Americans?”

“I’m not sure.”

“And what about the fact that you’re saying the drugs disappeared. Wouldn’t the Kosovars, if they had gone to this trouble, want to distribute them?”

“Maybe they did, maybe they redirected them to Europe,” she replied, aware the answer sounded very weak. “Or maybe they destroyed them.”

“And why would they do that? We’re talking about a combined total of hundreds of millions of dollars.”

“Which is still small potatoes in relation to the long-term value of the US market,” pointed out Schutterop.

“I agree there’s very little to go on but part of the reason for the meeting was to get people from different backgrounds together and see where the discussion goes,” interjected Marshall. “Diane, for the benefit of those here unfamiliar with their history, can you tell us why it’s reasonable to say the Fifteen Families are in competition with the Madrigal-Zaragosa Alliance?”

A quick look at Allenby and Samuels convinced Mesi that her hope of getting through the meeting without becoming dragged into the argument between the pro- and anti-Plan Coca camps was a lost cause. She took a deep sigh. “When the struggle in the Balkans exploded and Milosevic turned Sarajevo into a killing field, the plight of the Kosovars became widely known. The West, principally the US and NATO, rallied to support them and as a result the KLA came to prominence. What wasn’t made widely known at the time was what the KLA had evolved from.” Her gaze drifted involuntarily to the representative from the State Department. “Their roots are in an armed brigade which has been maintained down through the years by the Kosovar Albanian traffickers. Many of the leaders of the KLA were the same people who had made a fortune smuggling heroin, weapons and illegal immigrants.”

She paused to see if any of them wanted to ask any questions. Nobody did. “When the struggle escalated, the traffickers, sometimes collectively referred to as the Fifteen Families, boosted their activities. Some of you may remember a number of dramatic seizures by the European authorities during the mid nineties. This was a direct consequence of the Kosovars scaling up their operations. Just as many ordinary expatriate Kosovars donated money to the rebels, the traffickers too channelled their profits to help combat the Serbs. The difference here was in the amount; hundreds of millions of dollars worth of donations came from these crime lords.”

“Where is all this going?” interrupted Allenby. “I went to considerable trouble today to attend this meeting. Had I known I’d be getting a history lesson, I wouldn’t have bothered.”

“I’m sorry, if you’ll just bear with me a little longer. During this escalation period, the willingness of the Kosovars to resort to violence to gain a foothold in many countries’ drug scenes meant that no one challenged them for too long. Ultimately, they became number one throughout Europe. It’s estimated now that they handle at least eighty per cent of the heroin consumed there.”

“Which is unfortunate but still a matter for Europol and not our concern –” Allenby began again before a warning look from Marshall silenced him.

“When the struggle in the Balkans subsided,” she resumed, “the KLA came to power and debts had to be paid. There’ve been criticisms from some quarters that Kosovo will evolve into a virtual drug state with the primary mission of helping the Fifteen Families maximise their profits. One way to increase profits would be to start looking for fresh markets, and according to our statistics the amount of heroin in the US which originated from Golden Crescent has climbed steeply in recent years.”

“What have relations between the Alliance and the Fifteen Families been like up to now?” asked Schutterop.

“We know that the Colombians and Kosovars have been working together to import and distribute South American cocaine to Europe,” Mesi replied. “But on the heels of these attacks, there may be reason to wonder whether the Fifteen Families have grown tired of being a minor player in the US and essentially well-paid agents in the European cocaine business.”

“The Kosovar regime is committed to supporting a growing number of armed struggles,” agreed Schutterop, “many of which have served as familiar thorns in the side of Western Governments. To meet these obligations the Kosovars would need ever-increasing funds.”

It was quite clear to Mesi and, she assumed, to everyone else in the room, that Schutterop, a Plan Coca sceptic, had identified that the stronger the case for a Kosovar campaign against the Alliance, the more his original assessment of the Plan’s limited capabilities would be bolstered.

“You’re saying their objective is to seize the US market from the Madrigal Alliance?” Samuels asked Mesi.

“It’s just one of the possibilities, everyone agrees that the best time to strike is when your rival is otherwise occupied. Maybe Plan Coca was the distraction they needed?” she replied, meeting Samuels’ fierce stare. “Look, I’m not saying it’s the only area we should be looking at.”

“You’re a specialist in trend detection and analysis. Of course you’re going to advocate some outlandish global view,” said Allenby, raising his voice. “And doubtless it’ll have support at this meeting because it exonerates the inaccurate predictions of more than one of the attendees. But the truth is, ascribing Kosovar involvement for these incidents is questionable, bordering on irresponsible.”

She tried to placate him but he continued, talking over her.

“For the record, I want to stress my objections. Any link between these attacks is pure speculation. I suggest what we have are a number of unrelated local rivalries that have flared up within a particular time span and which Agent Mesi then misinterpreted. All I can concede is that it’s a coincidence that they all share common features.” Allenby’s tone was as dismissive as the look he levelled at her. “Incidents like this probably happen more regularly than we know. The fact that we caught these on our radar and that they coincided with Plan Coca kicking into top gear means they’ve been attributed more significance than they warrant. The shortages we’ve experienced were predicted by those of us who had a little more faith in Plan Coca.”

“So you’re one hundred per cent happy to dismiss the possibility of any escalation? You’re recommending, for the record, that we drop this here?” Mesi asked, angry by this stage but trying not to show it.

“No, that isn’t what I said. Of course we need to look into it,” Allenby backtracked, realising that he could be exposing himself to future difficulties. “It’s just that we need to keep things in perspective. We’re under-resourced as it is and barely able to keep pace with real, concrete problems. I’m questioning the benefit of pouring too much effort into what’s probably going to be a wild goose chase.”

“There may be something to that view,” conceded Marshall. Seeing that the meeting was deteriorating into argument, he stood up to signal its close. “I tend to agree with Will that the Kosovar link is a long shot but I also think it’s unrealistic to say that none of these incidents are connected. I’m going to have Diane spend some time seeing if the Kosovar theory can be corroborated or dismissed. If in the course of her work she needs any assistance, I know I can count on each of you to give her total cooperation. I think that’s it, there are dossiers for each of you to pick up on the way out.”

The train doors closed and Mesi watched the platform slowly disappear. The combination of lack of sleep and nervous anticipation, followed by the events of the day, had taken their toll. Drained, she sank deeper into the seat and resolved to get an early night: something quick to eat when she got home then straight to bed. Although tomorrow was Saturday it made little difference; she would be working every weekend for the foreseeable future.

The events of the meeting were still playing on her mind. While her presentation had gone well, the rest of it had been mixed. Why had Marshall referred to her as a specialist rather than as the head of TAIT? Was there any significance in this omission in front of the external audience? Did it show a lack of commitment on his part to the team or was she simply reading too much into it? Marshall certainly had other things on his mind. While he may not have shown it outwardly he must be feeling some strain. After all, if the worst scenario came to pass and a conflict occurred, one that detracted from Plan Coca, it would have happened while he was at the DEA’s helm. His professional legacy could be at stake, so perhaps the introduction had simply been a result of understandable preoccupation.

More significant had been her inability to avoid being pulled into the dispute. Even before she had begun her presentation, she could see the way the two camps had naturally aligned themselves on opposite sides of the table. She had known then that some clash was inevitable but she had hoped they would leave her out of it. Unfortunately, once Schutterop had forced her to speculate on the cumulative effect of the attacks, people like Allenby and Samuels tabbed her as anti-Plan. Thinking about it now, she was not so worried about Allenby. There was little chance of them crossing paths regularly; she was too low in the pecking order to justify his interest. Samuels, however, was another matter; as chief of operations, he could certainly influence her future in the DEA.

One positive she took away was the task Marshall had set her, to investigate further and establish one way or the other whether there was cause for concern. Yes, it meant seven-day weeks until she could offer something conclusive but it might help TAIT’s cause. A good job might convince Marshall to break the budgetary deadlock.

The train stopped at a station and she watched some passengers leave. One woman stepped down, walked to a waiting man and together they headed off down the platform, arms interlinked. She would have to give Jean a call to see how last night’s dinner had gone and check how annoyed her intended date had been. Lately she had found herself leading an increasingly solitary lifestyle, a trend she wanted to reverse. Being in her late thirties and having a demanding job made it difficult to meet new people. In college it had been easy; there had always been one party or other to go to and she had enjoyed the exhausting social schedule. Even during her brief time with the investment bank, building a full life outside work had been effortless. Most of her colleagues had been of a similar age and at the same stage in life, interested in making the most of life following the lean financial years of college. After the divorce, though, it had become harder. She had met Alan straight after college and they had been married just six months later, too quickly as it turned out. Less than two years later, when they had finally accepted their mistake, they split. A little time to herself afterwards to get her head together had stretched to months and had then been compounded by her radical career change.

During the first year with the DEA, she had lost touch with so many people, not all of it due to her being neglectful. The demands of the new job had played their part but by the time she had been ready to rekindle the friendships, a lot of the old crowd had moved on with their lives and, she had realised, so had she. Perhaps it would have been easier had she still shared the same professional background. But how many of them were interested in the street price of crack along the eastern seaboard and, for that matter, how much did she care anymore about the current rate of deficit spending?

Well, she knew she needed to make a concerted effort to reverse the trend in her personal life, and she would. Just not right now. When she had successfully completed Marshall’s assignment, the situation with TAIT would become clearer and things would get easier.

“... all the latest gossip from Hollywood.”

“Okay, something to look forward to later in the bulletin, no doubt. Thanks for that, Mark.”

Sandra Whittaker, the co-presenter of the evening news bulletin, swivelled away from the entertainment reporter to face the camera.

“Over the past months, the joint-initiative Plan Coca, the strategy designed to bring the struggle against the Colombian drug cartels to their own backyard, has intensified its operations. We have a report now from Caroline Williams, our correspondent in the Putumayo region of Colombia, on the campaign’s latest success. Following this segment, we’ll be talking to Senator Charles Dalton about the benefits the Plan is already demonstrating here in the US.”

“In the early hours of this morning, Plan Coca experienced its most significant breakthrough to date.” The picture opened with a close-up of the reporter’s head and shoulders. “For months, the authorities have been trying to locate a major cocaine processing plant in this part of Putumayo. Yesterday, they succeeded. Fierce ground fighting ensued between the army and the FARC rebels who until recently had undisputed control over this area. The battle raged for most of the day but, with the help of tactical air strikes, the army eventually forced the rebels’ surrender.”

Footage was run of the interior of the large building. The pictures showed rough workbenches, primitive processing equipment and rows of palettes. Each palette was stacked high with large clear plastic bags and each of these bags was filled with white powder.

“We’ve learnt from the authorities that this victory exceeded even their most optimistic projections,” Williams’ voice resumed, in tandem with the images. “Given the size of the plant and the amount of cocaine seized, it’s now thought that they’ve found the main production centre for the entire region. Although firm estimates are difficult at this stage, it’s speculated that as much as forty per cent of the region’s total processing capacity may have come from this plant.”

The footage ended and Williams was joined by a short man dressed in green fatigues.

“I have Lieutenant Javier Blanco with me to discuss this latest success. Lieutenant, can you put this development into context?”

“We knew that the rebel forces had constructed a number of processing plants for the coca harvests of the region,” the soldier replied. “The rebels guard these plants zealously; the revenues generated are their lifeblood and enable them to continue their campaign of terror. Initially we suspected that there would be many similarly sized plants, each capable of producing a small amount of processed cocaine.”

“But that wasn’t the case?”

“No, to our surprise, this plant was many times larger than anything we had envisaged. Based on our estimates of its peak capacity, it could account for ten per cent of Colombia’s total annual production.”

“Why the deviation from the practice of having many smaller plants?” the reporter asked. “Doesn’t this maximise potential losses when they lose a plant?”

“I suspect that the rebels sought to benefit from the obvious economies of scale for production and distribution. This is not a political struggle we’re dealing with but a criminal one.” Blanco’s disdain for the rebels shone through. “A movement truly committed to the advancement of legitimate political views would never have tied itself so closely to the proceeds of drugs.”

“FARC’s position has been that they’re not directly involved in the narcotics trade but merely levy a tax on the cartels, just as they’d tax any multinational doing business in this area. You don’t believe this?”

“Absolutely not. We and our colleagues in the US Administration consider the rebels and the cartels to be indivisible. To find where one stops and the other begins is impossible. The more success we have against FARC and the ELN, the closer we will be to eliminating the cartels.”

“Thank you Lieutenant Blanco. So, another impressive success from Plan Coca and optimism that a drug-free Colombia is one step closer. This is Caroline Williams for IBNC in Putumayo, Colombia.”

The report ended and the broadcast returned to the studio. A wider shot than before showed the distinguished figure of Senator Charles Dalton alongside Whittaker.

“Senator, before we talk about the broader aspects of the Plan, a question about your own role. You’ve been one of the biggest supporters of Plan Coca and, consequently, you’ve come in for strong criticism from some quarters. Do these mounting successes represent a personal vindication?”

“It’s not a matter of vindication. This is far too important for anyone to be keeping a personal score sheet,” the senator replied, looking aggrieved. “The reason I supported Plan Coca was its ability, beyond any other strategy, to deal with the crisis that’s crippled our country.”

“And your reaction to this latest report?”

“Developments such as those we’ve just seen are great news. If we can defeat the drug producers and traffickers at source then we all benefit. From those spared addiction, to all of their families, friends and co-workers, not to mention the easing of the burden on over-stretched law enforcement and social services.”

“And apparently the benefits are already being seen on the streets of some of our major cities?”

“Yes, Sandra, I thought it was vital to show end-to-end commitment to the Plan. With that in mind, my office established contacts with various police forces around the country, enabling us to receive direct feedback from the professionals who fight the war at street-level.”

“Allowing the closest possible monitoring of the situation?”

“Precisely, no one is in a better position than our police. Some time ago we set a benchmark against which we could measure subsequent improvements.”

“And you’ve started to see evidence of such improvements?”

“Indeed. In the past three months, the data clearly indicates that the availability of cocaine and heroin in key cities has declined and that the price has risen accordingly. This is the best news we could have hoped for. It’s grassroots confirmation of real progress.”

“Can this progress be quantified?” she asked.

“Well, it’s important to note that this is an informal study, by simple virtue of our limited resources. That said, I’m confident that the research is a reliable indicator. Our figures show street prices climbing an average of fifteen per cent across the board and by up to twenty-three per cent in some areas. Experts say this translates to a more than ten per cent drop in the availability of heroin and cocaine.”

“And to those critics who dismissed your findings when you announced them earlier, maintaining that these price rises could be due to local fluctuations?”

“Rubbish!” Annoyance flickered then disappeared quickly as the senator’s positive mood rallied. “An isolated price hike might be discountable but consistent rises in so many areas and of such significance? I don’t think opponents can continue to begrudge Plan Coca the praise it rightfully deserves.”