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Hunter came at Ped from the opening bell. The debate in the ballroom of the Ronald Reagan and International Trade Center in downtown DC, just days out from the final primary, had been promoted like a world championship bout. Bare knuckles.
With so much at stake, staggering revelations pummeling both sides, no reason for either candidate to hold anything back, the gloves were seriously off. The live television and streaming audience were sure to set a record for a primary debate.
Candidates would normally use an opening statement in the final debate to eloquently outline their platform and the attributes they would bring to the presidency. Hunter used the entire sixty seconds trashing her opponent’s credentials for office.
Ped was caught off guard, with no teleprompter to help him. Squinting uncomfortably in the glare of the floodlights, he fell back on his pre-prepared spiel, which even he realized was flat in comparison to Hunter’s opening barrage.
He tried to come out swinging about Hunter’s teenage pregnancy and the lengths she went to cover up the abortion, but could tell from the huffy faces in the front row that DC was a completely different beast to Puerto Rico.
The congresswoman parried with a line about doing things when we were young we now regret, and somehow twisted the argument to trap Ped into admitting his staff tracked down the anesthesiologist and were behind a series of attack ads – after promising he wouldn’t go negative.
Hunter was relentless, accusing him of making up this, fabricating that, exaggerating or distorting this comment or that fact, faking a smile or grimace or look of confusion, engineering numbers, goading him whether his answers were from the public team or the backroom? She even teased him about what she’d find if she stumbled across his Kindle account from the last few months.
After two hours of pummeling without let-up, Ped was dazed, slurring his speech, hanging out for someone – anyone – to throw in the towel.
Hunter even managed to land a late shot after the bell: ‘Are you high, Mr. Garland?’
*****
‘I visit Pasto every January, sir. For the Carnaval de Negros y Blancos. A six-day celebration of culture. Very vibrant. Colorful. It has been recognized as a Masterpiece of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity.’
Mike recalled the name of Bogota’s airport.
‘You guys sure like your long names. Signwriting must be a lucrative occupation in Colombia.’
Delgado chuckled.
‘This one is not a Colombian title sir. The carnaval was so named by UNESCO. There is an excellent museum in the city, Museo del Carnaval. Perhaps you will have time to visit?’
‘Not this trip, I’m afraid.’
The cab wound its way through the city, past buildings in vibrant ochre, cobalt, and emerald defying the region’s dark reputation. Some stood tall, proud. Others, tired from the weight of time and challenge, leaned precariously.
As they got closer to their destination, the streets narrowed. Facades dimmed to faded hues of red, blue, yellow. A mishmash of peeling concrete, crumbling brick, and DIY lean-to, iron security bars the common architectural feature. Lines of laundry crisscrossed between windows, swaying gently in the breeze that carried the sounds of vendors peddling their wares, children laughing.
Despite the liveliness, Mike could almost taste the undercurrent of tension. The wary glances of residents, their eyes assessing him with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.
Walls of graffiti marking territories of rival factions or spouting political slogans were visual reminders of the complex layers defining the neighborhood, where resilience clashed with adversity.
The cab dropped them outside a non-descript apartment block. Delgado explained that Hugo – he insisted on using his first name only – had been a cop in the Grupo de Operaciones Especiales back in the nineties.
‘He was my primary contact within the Nariño Police Department. He would provide me with information about drug busts, activities of the cartels. He was especially helpful with a story that exposed corruption in the Seccional de Investigación Criminal. Hugo operated anonymously back then, and it’s crucial we maintain that anonymity, sir.’
‘Even though he’s retired?’
‘Absolutamente. Dangerous people. Long memories.’
The elevator wasn’t working, so they took the staircase. Their footsteps echoed off the concrete, interrupted occasionally by muffled conversations behind closed doors, the clinking of utensils, a baby’s cry.
When they finally reached the top floor, Mike wiped sweat from his brow as Delgado rapped a gentle pattern on the wooden door of the apartment.
It creaked open, revealing a man in his late sixties, early seventies.
Hugo apologized about the elevator.
‘I turned it off. There’s a security camera. Can’t be too cautious.’
‘No problem. I understand.’
Mike got his phone out, placed it on the coffee table.
‘Mind if I record...?’
‘Yes. I do mind. This conversation is not happening.’
‘Of course. Sorry.’
Over the next half-hour the former cop captivated Mike with war stories, bringing to life – and death – many of the accounts he’d read during his research, filling in some of the blanks.
The top-end cocaine being manufactured by the Rosario cartel in the 1990s was considered by many the finest ever to come out of Colombia. Batches were custom-made to order for extremely wealthy clients in the United States, Europe, the Middle East. Because of its value, production and distribution was tightly controlled by the Lopez brothers. Very few people were allowed close to the operation. Hugo knew of at least seven who took their knowledge to the grave.
‘No-one was caught?’
‘Many were caught, faced justice. Eventually. But we never uncovered the truth about those prima batches.’
‘Any suggestions where I should look... where I might find this truth?’
Hugo leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, steepling his hands together as if to pray, but pointing them at Mike.
‘There is one man. He used to be Felipe Lopez’s driver. He might talk. If you get him on one of his good days.’
*****
Bec was thinking of two passages in the New York Times handbook of values and practices for ethical journalism as she waited for the phone call to be answered: Staff members should disclose their identity to the people they cover... and may not pose as anyone else.
‘Good morning. Dee speaking.’
‘Hello Mrs. Wiggs. My name is Cate Bachelor. From Pacific Media Solutions. I’m sorry to trouble you at such short notice. I was given your name by Kirsty at the Aventura travel agency. We’re doing a promo video for the agency’s flights to Bali. You’re going to Denpasar tomorrow, right? Is it your first time?’
‘No dear. We go every year.’
Bec negotiated through a few minutes of small talk before popping the question.
‘Part of the promo will show the limo pick-up. As I said earlier, I realize its short notice, but would you mind if we filmed you and your husband getting picked up tomorrow?’
‘I’m not really the filming type, dear.’
‘I promise you Dee, it will only take a few minutes, and you and your husband will get to veto any footage we use.’
‘I guess that will be OK.’
‘Thank you so much. Kirsty has given me the limo pick-up time. How about I pop round, say, thirty minutes before?’
‘Very well. Do you know where we are?’
‘Yes, thank you Dee. Kirsty has given me all the details.’
*****
They found him in a slum on the outskirts of Tumaco, a coastal town near the border with Ecuador, far from Mike’s comfort zone. Delgado’s commentary wasn’t helping: The city had a murder rate four times the national average, and the largest concentration of coca plantations in the country.
The locals – mostly Afro-Colombian with pockets of indigenous – had counted on the 2016 peace deal between the government and Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia ending half a century of violence. They were still counting – the cost, the bodies, the displaced. Caught in the crossfire between mobs of dissidents with sinister names like las Guerrillas Unidas del Pacifico and Clan del Golfo fighting over the FARC’s cocaine-trafficking network. One mob was even called the Oliver Sinisterra Front.
The slum was a sprawling dump of salvaged wood and corrugated metal sheets held down by bricks. Clotheslines hung across dirt paths dotted by puddles of murky water. The air stunk of saltwater mingled with waste and decay. Stray dogs, ribs visible through patchy fur, roamed the maze of narrow alleyways scavenging for food amongst the filth. The only color was in the shirts of the barefoot kids who bee-lined for Mike’s white face, demanding to have their pictures taken.
Spanish rap was spewing from someplace nearby, a music style called narcocorrido, according to Delgado. The source of the sound was mysterious in a dump with no obvious electricity supply. Or running water.
Santos, which Mike didn’t believe for a minute was the former cartel driver’s real name, was sprawled across a piss-stained mattress surrounded by discarded syringes, crumpled aluminum foil, torn pieces of paper. The overpowering stench of unwashed bodies tussled for airtime with the acrid smell of burnt plastic.
The roadmap of track marks on the man’s arms, blanched clammy skin, the itching, fidgeting, the black mucus, said it all.
But Santos wasn’t saying anything. He just wheezed, eyes darting around the room for an escape as Mike pleaded with him on his hands and knees. The only reaction he got was a widening of the pupils when he mentioned the prima batches.
Mike decided to change tack.
‘Senor Delgado, how much would you say addicts round here pay for a shot of coke? Ballpark.’
‘I’ve heard you can get a gram for the price of a Big Mac. Twelve thousand pesos.’
‘Which is, what, three dollars-seventy?’
‘Something like that.’
Mike took out his wallet, counted off five Jacksons. Flapped them above Santos, just out of reach.
The pupils pulsed again.
‘A hundred American my man. Good enough for at least thirty grams, I’m thinkin.’
Santos snatched for the bills, but Mike raised them out of reach.
Five minutes later they had a name (Danilo), a location (Tio Jairo on Carrera 19 near the docks), and a curious phrase: Envio Fantasma.
