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Ped only found out about the violence after the rally.
While he was inside the Walter E. Washington Convention Center preaching to the choir, hundreds of demonstrators wearing masks – each with two faces of Garland – sat down and blocked the intersection of L Street and Seventh.
A group of Garland supporters had started taunting the protesters as Hunter ass-kissers, and the cameramen filming them as fake news muck slingers. There was pushing, shoving. Suddenly it was all on. Rocks were hurled, police barriers upended, punches thrown, car windows smashed.
Ped had left the rally through a back entrance and was returned safely to his hotel room, where he was now watching an interview on Fox with a body language expert analyzing the DC debate.
His phone vibrated. An unlisted number beginning with 57, the country code for Colombia.
Ped hesitated, then took the call.
It was Emmanuel Lopez, son of Felipe, current lord of the Rosario cartel.
The last time Ped had seen or spoken to Emmanuel was the day before he flew to Miami to hand himself in to the DEA. The boy had squirted him with a water pistol beside the pool at the Lopez mansion in Tumaco.
‘Como obtuviste esto... How did you get this...’
‘Shut the fuck up, Garland. One of your gringo journalists, Mike Bullard, has shown up in Tumaco asking very specific questions about a batch of blow produced here. I don’t give two fucks about you Garland, or your wife, daughter, or your adorable grandson. I hope you púdrete en el infierno for what you did to mi familia. I’m only telling you this because I am still deciding if whatever this journalist is seeking could reflect badly on la organización. Deal with it.’
The line went dead before Ped could answer.
*****
Dee and Nigel Wiggs lived in a dramatic apartment block on Tamaki Drive with circular verandas stacked out front like giant petri dishes. Dee was a recently retired arts therapist, Nigel a hematologist. They were all packed and ready when Bec arrived, but were happy to open their suitcases and pretend to finish packing so she could film them.
There was an awkward moment when Nigel asked why she wasn’t using a proper camera, but he seemed satisfied with Bec’s explanation about the picture quality of her iPhone and stability achieved with the gimbal.
She focused on the Bali guidebook, which Dee said had arrived by courier the night before, courtesy of the travel agency. Bec got her to leaf through the pages while she filmed.
After explaining that her colleague, Jay, would film them arriving at the airport, Bec wished them a safe trip and great vacation.
*****
Envio Fantasma translated as ghost shipment. A Google search showed Tio Jairo was a fast-food joint in Buenaventura, a mile or so from the port city’s container terminal. That, and the obvious reference to aventura, was the good news.
The bad was that Buenaventura was 500 miles by road, and Google Maps was showing the current fastest route a tick under 16 hours.
The only commercial flight available was in five hours via Bogota, but he’d have to add eight hours for the stopover.
Delgado had the solution: private chopper. An outfit called Air Charter Tumaco had a three-seater available.
While they were waiting at La Florida heliport for the Robinson R44 to be refueled, Mike scrolled through a couple of news articles on their destination.
One was a piece about drug traffickers moving record amounts of cocaine through the port on shipping containers, fewer than three percent of which were checked by anti-narcotics police.
The second, titled Once Colombia’s Deadliest City, Buenaventura is Coming Back, was about how the place had become a member of UNESCO’s Creative Cities Network, based on its gastronomy.
Mike didn’t see much evidence of the union of fine food and culture when their cab pulled up outside the fast-food joint. He asked the driver to wait.
They were greeted by the smell of sizzling meat and fried potatoes. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting a sterile glow over plastic tables, mismatched chairs. Specialty of the house was hamburguesa de chicharonnes. Fried pork belly burger. The meat was like flavorless plastic, the cheese could have been mozzarella. The only ingredient marginally cultural was the Colombian beans.
Uncle Jairo either didn’t speak English or wasn’t prepared to, so the conversation was with Delgado in Spanish. Other than Envio Fantasma and Danilo, Mike didn’t understand a word. The shaking head and shrugging shoulders required little translation.
Out on the street, Delgado summed up: Danilo was a reasonably common name in Colombia, but not the name of any of his current customers. Envio Fantasma meant nothing to him.
‘You believe him?’
‘Not entirely. Did you notice when I mentioned Envio Fantasma, he glanced across at you, then to the hombres by the window?’
‘Not really.’
‘It was delicado... how do you say in English? Subtle. I believe he knew more than he was telling me, but was temeroso. Afraid.’
‘Dangerous people, long memories, right?’
‘Exactamente.’
‘So where to from here?’
‘Tio Jairo said many of his customers are sailors, dock workers, who eat here one night, move to other restaurants around here on other nights.’
After the hamburguesa de chicharonnes, Mike could see why.
They worked their way along the road and into nearby calles and callejones, trying restaurants and food vendors hawking empanadas, arepas, churros, and something called salchipapa, which Delgado explained was a cross between a hot dog and potato.
The alleys were bustling mosaics of sight, sound, smell. Fishermen in rubber boots, weathered hats. Colorful storefronts with hand-painted signs, murals. Glimpses through doorways of families gathered around tables, sharing meals. Street vendors hawking handmade jewelry, traditional Colombian sweets. Women haggling over the price of plantains. Salsa and reggaeton floating from open windows. The distant clanging of metal, low hum of engines from the port. All overlaid with diesel exhaust, the tang of saltwater, scents of fish and damp earth.
Any mention of Envio Fantasma, however discreet, drew a blank. The only Danilos they came across were ankle-biters. Mike was dejected. He had nothing tangible to add to their investigation. Coming to Colombia had been a waste of time.
They decided to take one last shot at Uncle Jairo, hoping to catch him with an empty restaurant. No witnesses.
It was empty all right. The door was locked, windows shuttered. A handwritten sign said Cerrado hasta nuevo aviso.
‘Closed until further notice. I’m sorry, sir.’
They got back into the cab.
‘¿A donde?’ said the driver, holding up piece of paper.
‘Que es esto?’ said Delgado. He opened it and passed it to Mike.
Eight words: Danilo Rojas. Centro Paliativo Ezequiel Moreno y Diaz.
Delgado asked the driver where the message came from.
‘Niño en una patineta.’
‘Kid on a skateboard.’
‘Mean anything to you?’
‘Saint Ezequiel Moreno y Diaz was a former Bishop of Pasto.’
‘And the other words?’
‘Palliative Center.’
*****
Jay was parked on a wooden bench outside International Departures, sipping a flat white from the Retro Express trailer shaped like a silver bullet.
He saw the limo approach, so slunk behind the trailer to film it pulling in behind a shuttle van, the couple getting out, the driver getting a trolley for their suitcases. Then he slipped into the terminal, turning to capture them pushing the trolley through the doors, past a parking warden in yellow hi-vis, walking over to look at the large electronic departures screen. Jay zoomed in on the flight to Denpasar, then introduced himself.
‘I’m afraid I’ve got some good news and bad news, Mr. and Mrs. Wiggs.’
‘Don’t tell me the flight’s delayed.’
‘No. Not at all. And that’s the good news. You’re on your way to Bali.’
Mr. Wiggs looked at him suspiciously.
‘Bad news is that I, that is me and Bec, are not really filming a promo for Aventura. We’re part of an investigative team working on a story about drug trafficking.’
‘What’s that got to do with us?’
Jay looked at the suitcases on the trolley.
‘Don’t worry. You’ve done nothing wrong, and the video Bec shot of you packing your bags will prove that. Not that I expect it will come...
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Sorry Mrs. Wiggs. Can I ask, have you got a guidebook to Bali in your luggage?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact. Your friend, accomplice, partner in crime, whatever you want to call it, filmed me looking through it.’
‘Perfect.’
‘You better explain yourself young man, or I’m calling the police.’
‘Relax Mr. Wiggs. We could be completely mistaken, and if so, I apologize. I’m pretty sure, though, if we go into that restroom over there, look in your suitcase, we’ll find a quantity of drugs has been inserted, planted, into the guidebook.’
‘Oh my God, Nigel! This can’t be happening.’
‘There’s no need to worry Mrs. Wiggs. I suggest your husband and I quietly and calmly go into the restroom. If I’m right, I’ll take the drugs off your hands and you both can forget all about this, go catch your plane.’
The old guy was too stunned to speak, as he nudged the trolley into the parent changing room and allowed Jay to film him opening the suitcase, sifting through clothing, picking up the guidebook.
He turned to face Jay and opened the cover, revealing a block wrapped in latex.
*****
Centro Paliativo Ezequiel Moreno y Diaz was a cancer care home in Cali, a two-and-a-half-hour cab ride from Buenaventura.
The lobby, in contrast to the chaotic energy of Colombia’s third-largest city, exuded serenity, compassion. Soothing colors, soft music, staff in cheerful uniforms, walls adorned with uplifting quotes, tasteful artwork.
Danilo Rojas was sitting with his eyes closed, propped up on pillows in a private room cluttered with photographs of container ships. One showed him standing on the bridge in a white cap with an embroidered gold anchor; another in healthier days with his wife and two children. Faded prints of Catholic saints looked down sternly from the walls. There was a cross above his head. A bible lay open on the bedside table.
A nurse was reading to him from a newspaper when Mike and Delgado arrived.
‘Tienes visitas,’ she said, smiling and folding the newspaper, before placing it on a sideboard.
They’d been warned by the manager that el Capitán was in his final weeks, and having difficulty concentrating and talking. His eyes remained closed as Delgado introduced Mike, explained the purpose of the visit.
Until he mentioned Envio Fantasma.
The eyelids shot up. Cracked lips formed into a smile.
‘Déjanos por favor, Antonella.’
The nurse nodded.
‘Y Cierra la Puerta si no te importa.’
She left the room, closing the door behind her.
‘El senor Bullard esperaba...’
‘English please man,’ said Danilo, his hands trembling as he held onto the railing of his bed. The skin was mottled dusky blue, like molded cheese.
‘What day is it?’
‘Friday, Capitán.’
Danilo crossed himself.
‘Of course it would be. The Divine Mercy.’
He closed his eyes.
‘For the sake of His Sorrowful Passion, have mercy on us and on the whole world.’
The old guy’s breathing slowed, though the fluids continued to rattle in his throat.
Mike wondered if he had gone to sleep.
‘Captain Rojas?’
The hand rose again, slowly. The eyes remained shut.
‘Patience Mr. Bullard. I have waited many years for this moment. I have few words left inside me. Must pick them carefully.’
Between bouts of coughing, in and out of sleep or consciousness, lurching from lucid to fog, he told his story.
Danilo Rojas had been the captain of a container ship plying the route from Buenaventura to ports in East Asia. Yokohama, Busan, Shanghai, Singapore. Occasionally as far south as Sydney. And once to Auckland.
Before the voyage to New Zealand, in February of 1995, he was visited at his home by two men. It was a Monday. Angels Day. One of the men identified himself as a senior member of the Rosario cartel.
‘He told me to set up a trade – one coffee container exchanged for another that looked the same from the outside.’
‘Told you, Captain?’
‘It was a request. However, during those times, you did not dispute with tenientes of Filipe and Àngel Lopez.’
Danilo was paid well, by the second man – an American lawyer – for his cooperation and silence. It was only later, after the Lopez brothers were arrested and rumors began circulating that a large quantity of premium cocaine had mysteriously disappeared on an Envio Fantasma, a ghost shipment, that Danilo realized the two men who visited him had been working alone.
Mike was also joining the dots.
‘And the names of these two men, Captain?’
‘Pensé que nunca preguntarias. I thought you’d never ask, senor.’
One was the cartel’s head of security, Carlos Jiménez. The other, the lawyer, was...
‘Ped Garland.’
‘The malparido was known as Pedro back then, but yes.’
Mike gulped.
‘Jiménez was the guy who ratted on the cartel, right?’
‘Si.’
‘We know Garland is running for President. What about this Jiménez. You know what happened to him?’
‘No-one knows, senor.’
Mike covered his face in his hands, exhaled. This was incredible. He had to focus.
‘Can I get you saying this on video, Mr... Captain Rojas?’
‘I would like that very much.’
Mike quickly set up his phone on the tripod, attached the microphone, arranged it on a bedside table, which he rolled into position.
Danilo was a star, willingly summing up the key points in juicy soundbites like a pro. And there was more.
‘Pedro Garland was in Auckland to greet the ship when we arrived. He was on vacation with Sara and their twins.’
The old man raised his hand slowly, pointing to a framed photograph on the wall behind Mike. The image showed Danilo, in his captain’s cap, flanked by two young boys.
Mike was missing something here.
‘Hang on a minute. I’ve just read Garland’s book. His wife’s name is Patricia. Who the hell is Sara?’
‘Sara Montoya. She was Garland’s Colombian lover. She had twins with him in 1990. Rodrigo and Mauricio.’
‘Fucking hell.’
‘Which makes me want to... how you Americans say?... puke.’
‘I don’t follow.’
Danilo pointed to the sideboard.
‘There, the front page.’
Mike grabbed the newspaper. The masthead said El País, the language was Spanish, but the photo needed no translation. It showed a fired-up Ped Garland pointing an accusatory finger at Kate Hunter during the debate in DC. Mike had read how he’d attacked the Congresswoman for covering up a teenage pregnancy, then admitted it was his team that tracked down an anesthesiologist in Canada to prove it.
‘I have endured a lot in my life,’ Danilo coughed. ‘One thing I cannot tolerate is hipocresia.’
The old captain’s head slumped back against the pillows. Mike sensed a glimmer of catharsis in his eyes, as if the act of confessing had released a burden that had weighed him down for years.
Mike also realized his day was just beginning.
He thanked Danilo, took a still shot of the framed photo of the captain with the two boys, and left.
In the lobby, he posted a teaser to his social media accounts: I have evidence linking a prominent American politician to an active international drug trafficking ring and a ghost shipment of cocaine from Colombia in the 1990s. Watch this space.
*****
Mike Bullard’s post reached the journalist’s online followers, including Rodrigo Montoya, who until that moment had been enjoying breakfast at his brother’s house north of Auckland.
Word that Bullard had turned up in Colombia and was asking incómodo questions had filtered back to the brothers, who had been assured by their contacts in Nariño the American was under surveillance and would be dealt with if he stumbled across anything incriminatorio.
Problem was, with the names Montoya and Garland persona non grata with anyone connected to the Rosario cartel, Rodrigo had to rely on contacts in a criminal gang that had been at war with the cartel on and off for more than a decade.
When Rodrigo called to find out what was going on and was told the journalist had been tracked by the gang to Buenaventura, Rodrigo exploded.
‘He’s in fucking Cali now. Find the asshole. Silence him.’
The contact agreed, for the right price, to double the gang’s presence on roads to Cali Airport, and guaranteed the journalist would not leave Colombia alive.
*****
Bec and Jay were sitting in the rental car at a scenic lookout a mile or so from Auckland Airport, between a people mover full of Asian tourists and a low-hanging Japanese import with fogged up windows and a boom box thumping out Metallica.
Scenic lookout was a joke. The wipers were struggling to cope with the deluge obliterating any view of the runways. Aristotle was oscillating yellow in the blurred headlights of passing cars, thanks to the block of cocaine Jay had perched on the dash.
‘How much you reckon is there?’
Jay picked it up, balanced it on his palm.
‘Kilo maybe. Two pounds.’
‘What would it be worth?’
‘Here? On the streets of Auckland? I read somewhere Kiwis pay more than anyone in the world for this stuff. Four times what it goes for in the States. Something like $350 a gram. And that’s for run-of-the mill-blow. If this stuff’s as good as your analyst reckons, it could be worth two, three times that.’
‘Fricken hell Jay. That’s a million bucks. I don’t want to be caught with this stuff.
Jay smiled.
‘Didn’t seem to worry you in Bali. You sat on that packet of NuNu two days before sending it offshore.
‘That was only a couple of grams.’
‘True, but Bali has the death penalty. Here you’ll only get life in a comfortable cell, protected by human rights laws for Africa, be out in ten years. Assuming you behave yourself, which could be a stretch.’
She punched him on the arm, knocking the cocaine to the floor.
‘So what’s our next move, wise guy? No way I’m sitting on that for two days.’
Jay picked up the block, tossed it from hand to hand.
‘There’s gotta be a stash of this stuff stored somewhere nearby. That limo wasn’t one of the ones from the building we were watching, must have come from someplace else. We’re close to cracking this Bec, I can smell it.’
She glanced at her phone, noting the date and time: ‘Our bail deadline was up two hours ago.’
There was a text message from Mike. She read it out: ‘Have discovered link between PED GARLAND and shipment of cocaine to Auckland from Buenaventura port in the 90s. Rodrigo and Mauricio Montoya are Garland’s ILLEGITIMATE children.’
‘Fricken hell.’
Bec tried to call Mike. It went to voicemail. The phone beeped again.
Jay put his hand on her arm.
‘Who is it?’
‘The detective.’
‘Hansen or Robinson?’
‘Robinson.’
‘Ignore it.’
‘Fricken hell Jay. If Garland’s involved, this is... huge.’
‘Correct. And well outside the bandwidth of a bottom feeder like Robinson. Forget about him. Let’s keep our eye on the prize. Where are the Republicans at with their primaries?’
‘Haven’t been following it that closely.’
‘Can you check? The timing might be important.’
Bec entered the keywords Garland and delegates, scanned the top few results.
‘They’re up to the last primary. DC. He only needs two of the nineteen delegates to seal the nomination. Fricken hell.’
They sat in silence, digesting the news, the challenge.
The rain had stopped. Colors indistinguishable during the downpour were taking form.
Jay broke the silence.
‘Wasn’t the limo booked to pick up a second couple?’
‘Yes. At a place called Remuera. Why?’
‘I could follow it after it drops them off at the airport. Might lead us to the stash. Last piece of the puzzle.’
Bec scrolled through the notes on her phone.
‘Here we are. They’re leaving on the Jetstar flight.’
He looked at his watch.
‘She’ll be tight. What say I drop you back at the Pearses to work on the video, hopefully hook up with Mike and get his info? Then I’ll come back to the airport to tail the limo.’
‘You’re forgetting something.’
‘What?’
‘The million dollars of cocaine at your feet.’
Jay tucked the block inside his shirt, got out, climbed over the wire fence between signs saying Alcohol Ban Area and No Fishing Permitted in Pukaki Creek.
He disappeared for a couple of minutes before returning, pretending to zip up his fly for the benefit of their fellow sightseers.
*****
Mike was clenching his muscles to stop him wetting himself.
He was slumped as low as possible in the back seat, beads of sweat trickling down his temple, tracking the cab’s movement through the streets of Cali on his phone.
Alone.
Delgado had messaged him half an hour earlier to say he’d gone into hiding, advising Mike to leave the country. The former cop in Pasto and the drug addict in Tumaco were dead. Uncle Jairo’s burger joint in Buenaventura had gone up in smoke.
Mike was too rattled to look out the window. He locked his eyes on the pulsing blue dot on the phone, willing it to slide faster along the road toward the airport.
It inched along Via Cali Palmira, dawdled through a clover-shaped interchange, then finally swung north onto Via Aeropuerto De Palmira.
Two miles to go.
Two inches on his screen.
He clutched the bag holding his laptop, bracing for a quick exit.
One inch.
Half an inch.
The first bullet detonated the windshield, sending shards of glass flying and Mike sinking lower to the floor.
Automatic gunfire exploded around the cab, which had come to a stop under a tree. Mike had no idea if the driver was still alive. The gunfire intensified, bullets whizzing like angry hornets, the road outside transformed into a war zone.
It took Mike a while to realize the car wasn’t being hit.
One hand was instinctively shielding his head, the other still clutching the phone. He tapped the camera icon, hit record, then lifted the screen and rotated it quickly through three-sixty. He brought it back down, hit play. The shots seemed to be coming from two groups – one sheltering behind a corrugated metal shack on the other side of the road, the other from behind trees to the east. Instead of targeting the cab, they were blasting away at each other.
Heart racing, adrenalin surging, his mind a whirlwind of fear, Mike’s world narrowed to a single, desperate desire – escape.
As the survival instinct kicked in, he reached up, opened the door, rolled onto the grass, took a deep breath, sprinted for the airport gates.
*****
The photo on the screen of Rodrigo’s phone hit him like a haymaker to the throat, but the post beneath was the sucker punch: Meet the twins Rodrigo and Mauricio Montoya, illegitimate sons of Republican Presidential candidate Pedro Garland. More to follow that will BLOW your mind.
The photo could only have come from Danilo Rojas, which meant...
The phone sounded.
It was Cali.
Los bastardos from the Rosario cartel had intervened to let the journalist reach the airport.
He had got away.
