Pat recognised the tactic – he’d used it himself on others, many times. Arrange a meeting for a specific time but when your target arrives, keep them waiting. Make them stew. Let them know where the power lies in the relationship.
He sat, awaiting his audience with Pablo Escobar, and he knew he needed to be mindful of the gamesmanship; otherwise his blood would boil in the tropical heat of Medellín. That he had to jump through hoops for this hoodlum was bad enough. But it almost made him mad to think he was doing so when he was actually here to do him a favour. A huge one at that. Something that could set Escobar up for life.
Just remain calm, he told himself. Never let them see how annoyed you are. The young crime boss’s time would come. But it would not be today.
‘Señor Witcomb, sorry to have kept you waiting,’ Escobar said, as he strode into the front room of the villa, accompanied by the ever-present Silvio. Pat bristled at the faux formality and the apology. He knew the Colombian wasn’t the least bit regretful and he didn’t have to look at his watch to know that nearly an hour had elapsed since he arrived. The hill-top ranch was a ghost town; a marked change from their previous visit, when heavily armed sicarios had squared off with his armed escort.
‘Don’t mention it. Time is not a concern for me,’ Pat lied, keen to plough on without detour. He pulled out a document from his briefcase and unfolded it over the large wooden table. ‘These are the plans Silvio would have told you about.’ The only response he got was a disinterested shrug. Undeterred, he carried on. ‘The Calatrava estate. A complex of luxury homes for only the very wealthy of Bogotá.’
‘And why would I be interested in homes for rich people?’
‘Because,’ Pat said, ‘you’d be making money from them.’
Now he had the attention he desired. The two men leaned over the table and looked at the blueprints for the development of high-end bungalows, villas and apartments in one of the most desirable areas of the capital. Pat did not mention that it was only three kilometres from Los Lagartos club. He did not want to give his business partners any ideas.
‘Tell me how this works.’
Pat gave Escobar the same spiel he had previously given Silvio; real estate development invited funds from a wide range of investors: it would be almost impossible to determine the origin of his money, particularly as large amounts of clean cash would be coming from De La Rue’s HQ with regard to a legitimate bank loan issued for the construction of the properties.
Escobar marvelled at the size of the properties and, at first, needed convincing that the majority were single houses, so large were the plots. It was a far cry from the slums of Medellín.
‘In a way nothing changes,’ Pat explained. ‘The money still comes to me, is still processed by our firm, but it ends up in this building site. When the homes are sold the cash is returned, with profit. You could even think of it as funding the ordinary workers on the site. Thanks to your money they will be paid on time and not waiting on sales of the plots to further the development. This is just phase one of the complex. There are provisional plans to extend the site. When completed it will be one of the most desirable addresses in Colombia, which means the potential is there to keep investing and get a return for years.’
‘You mentioned a bank loan,’ Silvio said.
Pat explained that the loan was made by their mutual connection, Carlos Escobar. It would go to the construction company to begin the development and would be secured on their investment funds. Every dollar would be converted to pesos. Every peso would be accounted for. The profits accruing in the construction company’s account, minus his commission and the loan repayments, could be withdrawn as legitimate, clean money.
‘It is entirely up to you,’ Pat went on, ‘whether you keep this as your own investment, or involve your business partners – the others in your cartel.’ The look on Escobar’s face made Pat regret his choice of word immediately.
‘What do you know of a cartel?’ Escobar’s eyes narrowed.
An awkward silence lengthened between them as Pat searched for the right thing to say. ‘It is in our interests to keep abreast of any change in our clients’ circumstances,’ Pat said, smiling, trying to appear relaxed, even though he was suddenly aware of his heart racing. ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t expect anything less.’
Escobar looked to Silvio.
‘I said nothing,’ his associate said.
Pablo looked again at the plans. While he examined the drawings, he turned to Pat. ‘Tell me, señor Witcomb, how can we be sure our conversations are private – with or without you being present?’
Pat inhaled deeply, conscious of Chalky’s hidden device that he was sure was still running . . . and recording. ‘You can be quite sure,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t matter where in the world we operate, keeping secrets is the nature of our business as much as is making money.’
Escobar nodded to Silvio, who gestured to Pat to stand. ‘You will understand our concern,’ Silvio said. ‘And our need to make sure that’s the case.’
Pat hesitated and thought about protesting but, realising that might make him look guilty, stood up, his arms wide, awaiting the body search. ‘Of course. It is not a problem.’ He felt a trickle of sweat run down his spine. It was like someone had cranked up the heating and turned off the fan.
Silvio started wide at the palms and ran his hands along Pat’s arms, feeling under his collar, patting the armpits that were now drenched with sweat. He pulled out the tie tucked into the shirt and examined the back. He ran his open hands down Pat’s back and felt around his chest, running his fingers inside his waistband. He patted the pockets and then motioned to Pat to reveal their contents. Pat removed a wallet, which was examined. Pat then turned out the pockets. Silvio then ran his hands down the legs of Pat’s trousers.
‘Now the jacket,’ Escobar said.
Pat winced as the chair scraped back over the stone floor. Silvio picked up the jacket and fished around in the pockets, removing the handkerchief in the top pocket. The outer pockets were still stitched closed. When he turned his attention to the inside pockets, Pat felt sure the sound of his heart would give the game away. It seemed to get louder the closer Silvio got. As the hand snaked into the inner pocket, Pat wondered how far he’d get if he made a dash for it. Would his bodyguards outside react quickly enough to rescue him? Would he be better smashing the heel of his hands into their faces before making his escape? His whole body tensed. This was it. Fight or flight.
Silvio’s hand emerged empty. He looked for the other pocket on the opposite side and investigated there. ‘Nothing,’ he said, shrugging.
Escobar nodded. ‘Thank you. You were saying?’
Pat tucked his tie back into his shirt and sat down, trying to regulate his breathing. How had Silvio not found it? He looked for any sign of a double-play, but the middleman’s face gave nothing away. Regaining his composure, Pat continued: ‘It is up to you if you want to share this opportunity with others. It might be beneficial to have some personal investments no one else knows about.’
Escobar continued to study the plans. ‘You might be right. It troubles me it is only the wealthy who will benefit. It would be better if these were houses for the poor.’
Pat took the plans and folded them back up. It was time to leave on his own terms.
‘I think, señor Escobar, that once you see the fruits of this endeavour you’ll be able to build houses anywhere you like, for anyone you like.’
As soon as Pat was back in the car with his armed escort he searched in the pocket for the recording device. It wasn’t there. He began to panic. Had it fallen out? Would it be found lying on the floor in the villa? Had Silvio found it and was he concealing the fact in order to blackmail Pat later? He searched the other pocket and patted the jacket down. There, at the bottom, inside the lining he could feel something small and round, like a coin. Further inspection of the inside pocket revealed a tear, just big enough for the recorder to slip through.
On the journey to the airport he reflected on his good fortune. He also reflected on what he had chosen not to tell Escobar or his cronies – that he had selected one of the bungalow plots on the Calatrava estate to his own family home. What better way to oversee the development of Escobar’s investment? Another of the plots was going to Gregorio and his family. His De La Rue colleague would have to remain oblivious, though, to the source of large amounts of the funds going to the contractor. That would be another of Pat’s little secrets.