Rural Antioquia, October 1969
It must have sounded like an invading force. The looks on the faces of the villagers and farmers who came out to see the source of the loud rumble heading their way said it all. Pat and his team’s presence was being felt long before they arrived.
The leading truck smashed through overhanging foliage and kicked up a cloud of dust as it powered past a series of fincas – farms – leading the convoy up into the hills. Two armoured cars, three jeeps, a dozen men and enough firepower to lay waste to even the most spirited militia, or so Pat hoped.
Roaring over dirt tracks so primitive his teeth rattled, he couldn’t help but recognise the similarities to their mission of some four years ago. They were once again heading into the unknown with a clear objective and an expectation that it could get messy. As then, he hoped he would end the day being wealthier than he had been when he set out. The difference between this job and the helicopter raid of 1965 was that he wanted to get a signed contract in his pocket, rather than recover stolen loot.
This was a business meeting, Colombian-style. In some cultures, a phalanx of lawyers and advisors were needed as a show of force to assist the negotiating team. In lawless eastern Antioquia, where even the police feared to go, the rules were simpler: meet fire with fire.
‘Not far now,’ JB shouted, looking up from his map. Pat replied with a thumbs-up.
It was the Panamanian who had set this up, but under what guise was anyone’s guess. A coup in his homeland a year previously had seen his key ally, Omar Torrijos, installed as dictator and he had appointed Noriega as the head of military intelligence. Given that JB had already assumed the roles of businessman, diplomat, government official, CIA agent and military officer, the man now wore so many hats it was a wonder he could decide which outfit to put on each morning. Due to his elevated position in Panama he had to spend much his time travelling backwards and forwards but he still liked to get out in the field in Colombia. Pat believed that JB been more or less straight with him to date but, if the Englishman’s international operations over the years had taught him anything, it was that stand-up guys were that way only as long as it suited their agenda. The minute Pat’s goals wavered from theirs, he was in trouble.
Another factor that Pat was weighing up was the presence of the Colombians. Gregorio and Carlos Escobar were all over this too, but it was a business meeting, after all. This was De La Rue just expanding its operations but, if that was the case, how come they needed so many guns? What had their intermediaries told Pablo Escobar? Pat couldn’t be sure. And that gave him concern. They had told him that his connection to Pablo Escobar through his son could only be a bonus in building ties with the gangs. To have an in like this, to access one of the most sophisticated smuggling operations in the region, was a godsend. It was an opportunity to be exploited. He got all that. He asked them what exactly they had told Escobar about the boy. His Colombian friends replied, ‘Not a lot,’ and he had to assume that meant ‘Everything.’
Going by the shopping mall incident in Bogotá, Pablo Escobar must know his name, his address and where he worked. Did he know Roberto’s name was now Phillip? Probably. Did he know his routine? Possibly but, with security well-briefed to change routes on a daily basis, he was taking precautions. But what else did Pablo Escobar know? That was what was making Pat uneasy. He liked to go into any negotiations knowing that he had the upper hand, or at least that he had a trick up his sleeve. On this occasion he felt that he was the one exposed.
They rumbled around another bend and the sight of a man with a motorbike at the side of the road, kicking his machine off its stand and hot-tailing it into the distance, signified they were close. Pat gave his men the signal. They cocked their weapons.
The finca was at the end of the road, where a track gave way to a small courtyard in front of a two-storey ranch. The motorbike they’d seen only moments earlier lay abandoned outside. Pat clocked figures in all three of the upstairs windows, at the side of the building and, he imagined, waiting to flank his convoy as it entered the yard. He had to hand it to the gang. It was the ideal location. One route in, one route out, vantage points on all sides. They were taking no chances. After the last encounter, the helicopter raid, they obviously wanted to avoid surprises.
The vehicles pulled up and, as Pat instructed, turned to face the way they came. At that moment, five men emerged from the front of the house, each armed with a small pistol or rifle. The armed guards jumped out, their much more sophisticated revolvers and assault rifles ready.
Pat exchanged a look with JB. ‘Do we really need all this?’
The Panamanian shrugged. ‘Let them have their fun.’
They stepped out of the jeep and walked forward. Pat was dressed like his men, white shirt, black tie tucked in, over suit trousers. He felt slightly incongruous, dressed in a business-like fashion in bandit country, but he needed to underline this was not an attack. Combats and a flak jacket might have suggested he expected trouble. He was armed only with a pen.
The main door was ajar and as Pat took in his surroundings he could make out a figure loitering inside the building. Apart from the odd creak from the trucks there was silence. It was as if even the birds had stopped their chatter to see how this encounter played out. Pat had no appetite for a who-blinks-first standoff and signalled to his men to lower their weapons. They did so but their guns remained cocked. In contrast, the barrels held by the other side remained aimed at head height.
‘Amateurs,’ JB muttered, in English. Pat smiled.
‘Amigos,’ he said, this time to the assembled gunmen. ‘Relájese.’ The men showed no sign of relaxing. Pat looked up at the sicarios (hitmen) at the windows and behind the trucks. He gestured to his men to fall back and stepped forward, his arms open, hoping he was making the internationally recognised sign for, ‘OK, you win.’
A large, balding man, one of five at the front of the house, kept his firearm trained on Pat with one hand and held out the other expectantly. ‘Tu regalo?’ They had been told beforehand to bring tribute. A sweetener to grease the wheels of negotiations. Pat gestured to one of his men from the armoured cars to step forward. He carried with him a black holdall. Pat took the bag and moved towards the man. Around him the guns twitched. Mindful that some trigger-happy loon might spoil the party, he nevertheless kept moving. He placed the bag at the man’s feet and stepped back. The fat man reached down, trying to keep his gun on Pat while simultaneously unzipping the bag. Realising that doing both was a struggle, he tucked the weapon as best he could into his straining waistband and reached again for the bag. Unzipping it, he revealed to the assembled gunmen a bundle of banknotes. Inside the bag was packed more of the same. That prompted some nods of approval.
‘Bueno?’ JB said. The man nodded and chucked the bag to an associate who scuttled inside the door with it. ‘Now we can do business, yes?’ JB said, addressing everyone in Spanish.
The large man moved to greet him formally, pointing to his chest. ‘With me.’
Pat and JB exchanged looks again. Pat smiled. ‘No. With don Pablo.’
The man smiled, pointing to himself again. ‘Si. Me.’
JB shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. The deal was with don Pablo.’
‘The deal will be with me.’
‘And you are?’
‘Big boss man!’ He patted the belly his shirt was struggling to contain. The men around him laughed.
Pat’s smile remained fixed. ‘Funny . . . but, seriously. Don Pablo. We are here to see him.’
The man shook his head. ‘He doesn’t run this operation.’
‘Not yet,’ Pat said. ‘But he soon will.’ He saw some of the sicarios exchange glances.
JB approached the large man. ‘Enough nonsense. Who can take us to meet don Pablo?’
‘I can.’ The voice came from the figure standing in the doorway.
‘And who are you?’ JB said, walking past the larger man. Some of the gunmen didn’t know whether to keep their sights on this one, or the tall westerner.
‘Gustavo.’
Pat could see this man was younger than the others, tall, almost lanky, but with a fuller moustache.
‘He is inside?’ JB said.
Gustavo nodded. JB motioned to Pat who was already on his way, Martinez following closely behind.
‘Close friend?’ Pat said, shaking the young man’s hand as they entered the building.
‘Family.’
They entered into a large room with a wooden table in the centre. Seated at it were two men. Another couple of guards stood as impassively as statues to the side of them. For a gang of thugs they had assembled an impressive show of force. Pat did a quick scan of the room. The furniture was basic. He doubted the house was lived in and, judging by the location, probably hardly used at all, certainly not as an HQ. He did have one of Chalky’s tiny listening devices in the lining of his jacket but he couldn’t see there was much point deploying it here. He imagined this crowd would vacate the place before his own dust tracks had even settled.
The older of the two men stood up but offered no handshake. Still more front, Pat suspected. He turned his attention to the other man. He looked younger than everyone else there, including the Gustavo chap, but the beginnings of a moustache suggested he was trying to look more mature. There was a mop of hair that had clearly lost acquaintance with a comb some time ago but there was something familiar about the face; across the eyes especially, which were alert and bright.
Of course, he thought . . . finally.
‘Pablo Escobar Gaviria – nice to meet you. I am Patrick Witcomb, of De La Rue, England.’
The young man looked to his colleague for a second, then stood up, puffed his chest out and took the hand that Pat extended. ‘And I am Pablo Escobar . . . of Medellín, Colombia.’
He smiled as they shook hands. Pat found his palm warm and clammy but his grip was firm. He pointed to JB. ‘My colleague, JB. And you are?’ Pat said, addressing the older man.
‘Silvio García Rojas. We have a mutual friend.’
There were more handshakes. Pat knew to whom he was referring. ‘Uncle’ Carlos had worked hard to get them to this point.
‘Please sit,’ Silvio said. They did, joined by Gustavo.
‘I have heard many things about you, don Pablo,’ Pat began. ‘Your reputation precedes you.’
‘And I you,’ the young Escobar said. ‘For different reasons, perhaps.’
‘Quite so. You are aware of what we do,’ Pat went on. ‘You have certainly taken a keen interest in our armoured cars – and their cargo.’ A hint of a smile passed across Escobar’s face but quickly vanished. He accepted a roll-up cigarette and a light from Gustavo. He inhaled deeply and his smoke sent a pungent aroma over the table. ‘You will know why we are here. We have established our business in Bogotá but, as I’m sure you can understand, we are always looking to expand. We are setting up a new operation in Medellín.’
‘You are right. We know,’ Silvio said.
‘Then you’ll know,’ Pat continued without missing a beat, ‘that we are keen to stop the attacks on our trucks – and to offer your operation our expertise.’
‘What would we know anything about any attacks?’ Gustavo said.
‘Perhaps nothing,’ Pat said. ‘But we hear you are in the protection business, a bit like us. You might be in a position to influence these matters.’
Pablo remained content to let his relative do the talking but he was clearly concentrating on the exchange. Gustavo said, ‘And why would we want to give you our money?’
‘As I’m sure our mutual friend explained, this might not seem crucial to your business at this precise moment, but very soon it will. You would be provided with security for transporting money and more. You would receive assistance, not just locally but internationally and, shall we say, politically. We can help with logistical problems and fiscal complications.’ Pablo Escobar looked bemused, but Gustavo and Silvio nodded. ‘We don’t just protect your money, we protect you,’ Pat said. ’We have influence everywhere.’
Now Pablo seemed to understand. ‘Normally we “influence” things with this,’ he said and, laughing, he pulled a pistol from behind his back. Gustavo grinned, leaned across and the two of them high-fived.
They’re still just kids, Pat thought. They have a lot to learn. ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘We know how effective that strategy can be. But sometimes more subtlety is required. Sometimes, all you need is this.’
He reached into his jacket pocket. There was a discernible tension in the room and the gang members, seated and standing, twitched their firearms. Pat produced his fountain pen and placed it on the table. There was a brief pause as though the watching men weren’t sure if the pen was going to explode. Then Gustavo laughed. It took another second for Pablo to join him.
‘Contracts, agreements, procedures,’ said Pat. ‘They allow the wheels to turn, obstacles to be overcome. And they cover up a multitude of sins.’
The meeting proceeded. Gustavo had questions about logistics. How exactly would this work? How many armoured cars would they have in Medellín? How readily could they be at their disposal? How could they count on legal, diplomatic or political assistance from their mutual friends? As Pat answered his points one by one, he was impressed by this young man’s grasp of the technicalities. He would go far. And yet, fate had decided someone else in his family would be king of this little operation.
Pablo Escobar was reserved. Perhaps he still needed to be convinced of the merits of this arrangement. Yet Pat was in no doubt that he too was taking everything in and studying how he and JB conducted themselves.
After a lengthy discussion, during which Pat thought they were making headway, he and JB took their counterparts outside to inspect the armoured cars, Martinez always a step behind. Escobar peered inside one of the vehicles and appeared impressed by what he saw. He turned to Pat.
‘Providing we do this, why should we trust that you will be able to protect anything of ours in one of these? They are easy targets . . . I understand.’
Pat felt his blood temperature rise. ‘If you asked the last people to rob us they wouldn’t share that view.’ As soon as the words left his mouth he felt a tinge of regret. The subject of the raid that killed Escobar’s young lover was always going to come up at some point but he had hoped that when that moment came he would handle it with more finesse.
Escobar’s eyes narrowed. ‘I would do that but you killed them all.’
‘Not all,’ Pat said, trying to keep a lid on his emotions.
‘So I heard.’ Escobar was now so close Pat could smell the smoke on his breath. ‘How is my son?’
Pat was aware of JB moving closer, though his eyes remained locked with Escobar’s.
‘He is fine. He is doing very well in fact. He is . . . ’
‘Mine.’
‘And the only reason he is alive is because of me.’ Pat lowered his voice, conscious that the sicarios were listening. The last thing he wanted was a full-scale argument. Gustavo and Silvio had Escobar’s back. One wrong word and it could all kick off. ‘You know about his existence because of us. His life is with us now – but one day he will know all about his past.’
Beads of sweat formed on Escobar’s brow. The light had dulled from his eyes. His countenance had taken on another complexion. ‘His past? His future should be with me.’
Rifles cocked around the truck as the mood darkened. As much as Pat wanted to put this punk in his place he knew his words were crucial if he was to prevent this turning nasty. ‘Don Pablo, I salute your passion for your offspring,’ Pat said, slightly bowing his head, his tone softening. ‘It is admirable. It has never been my intention to deny this boy his heritage. It is right that he should know about his father.’ Going by the continuing blank look on Escobar’s face, Pat wasn’t sure if that was enough to satisfy him.
‘How about you get to meet the boy?’ Gustavo said, placing a hand on his relative’s shoulder. ‘What do you think, Pablo? You get to see he’s all right, you can say, “Hello,” – we take it from there?’
Pat looked to JB who shrugged as if to say, it’s your call. He then nodded to Gustavo. ‘That could be arranged. Of course.’
Escobar nodded. ‘Yes, I want to meet my boy.’
Gustavo patted him on the back. ‘Nice one, cousin. We move forward.’ The tension began to lift. They stood and discussed potential future meetings, establishing points of contact. As the visitors prepared to leave, Escobar shook Pat’s hand and thanked him for making the journey and for agreeing to their various demands.
‘Tell me, señor,’ the young Colombian stared into Pat’s eyes, ‘when you flew in the helicopters and you killed everybody, including even innocent victims, was that all really necessary?’
‘We had to take back what was ours,’ Pat said calmly. ‘We would do the same again.’
‘Well then,’ Escobar said in a low voice, ‘you won’t be surprised when I do the same.’