5

DRIVING THROUGH THE crowded streets was nerve-wracking. Aguilar had only driven cars a few times; his parents had owned one briefly, but they’d had to sell it. A friend had taught him to drive, and let Aguilar borrow his car from time to time, but he’d never handled anything the size of the Nissan Patrol. At the same time, he had to watch for crimes being committed or people in need.

But none of it made him more anxious than his noon appointment. Who was this Hernan Garcia? Why couldn’t he take his own car, or a taxi? Why did he need someone to pick him up in a police vehicle? Various scenarios flitted through Aguilar’s head, but he knew that whatever the reality was, it was probably something he couldn’t even imagine.

Nervous, he got to the address Montoya had given him five minutes early. Montoya had told him not to, so he stopped several doors down. There were no parking places, but nobody was going to complain if a police vehicle blocked the lane for a few minutes. He’d been driving with the window down, trying to force out some of the stink of Montoya’s cigarettes, and he waited with his left arm hanging out the window, enjoying the cool fall day. He heard a radio playing in a nearby apartment, the sounds of children playing in a hidden courtyard.

Then, he heard—from a building three doors ahead of his position—the unmistakable pop of gunshots. Three, then two more. Startled, he almost missed the sound of church bells tolling noon.

He put the Nissan into gear and rolled up to the front door of the address he’d been given.

A man stepped out of the door as he approached, carrying a briefcase in one hand and a pistol in the other. On his gray suit and shiny black shoes were damp spots that might have been blood. He looked over at Aguilar and nodded twice, then headed for the back door.

“Mr. Garcia?” Aguilar asked.

“Yes,” the man said. He opened the door and got inside. When he was settled in the back, he told Aguilar an address. “Right away, please,” he said.

“Yes, sir.” Aguilar put the car in gear and drew away from the curb. He tried not to let Garcia see how badly his hands were shaking.

On the drive, Garcia was silent. He sat calmly in the back seat, as if he had just come from a nice lunch with friends.

Aguilar had to look at a map to find the address he’d been given. It was in El Poblado, high up in the hills. He had never been up in that neighborhood—never had a reason to go there. But he wasn’t about to argue with Garcia. He followed winding streets that led past El Poblado’s cluster of high-rise apartment buildings, up to where the houses were spaced farther and farther apart, interspersed with trees and surrounded by high walls. The air was a few degrees cooler here than it was down in the valley.

Finally, he came to the address and started up the driveway. It wound up through a wooded stretch, and then took a sharp curve. Immediately after the curve, Aguilar had to slam on the brakes; there was a gate across the road, with a wooden guardhouse nestled in the trees beside it. “Now what, sir?” Aguilar asked.

“Just wait,” Garcia said.

After a few moments, two young men emerged from the guardhouse carrying guns. One of them, Aguilar saw, was Snake-eyes.

His anxiety turned to real fear. Was this Escobar’s house? Why else would Snake-eyes be at the gate? He gripped the wheel hard to calm the tremors in his hands. Sweat trickled down his sides, under his uniform shirt.

The other guy, still in his teens and armed with a shotgun, nodded to Garcia in the back. “I don’t know you,” he said to Aguilar. His hair was long, scraggly, and he looked like he was trying to grow a beard but couldn’t manage it yet.

“He’s cool,” Snake-eyes put in. “I know him. Hey, brother.”

“Hey,” Aguilar said, hoping he sounded half as cool as Snake-eyes had said.

The teenager opened the gate. “Head on up, then,” he said.

“Thanks.” Aguilar gave them both a nod and pressed on the gas. A little too hard—the SUV lurched, pressing him back against his seat and no doubt doing the same for Garcia. “Sorry,” he said, slowing down.

“No problem,” Garcia said. They were the first words he’d spoken since giving Aguilar the address. His voice was smooth, cultured. Aguilar wondered what his story was. Escobar’s sicarios seemed to be young men, but this guy was middle-aged, in his forties at least. And his suit wasn’t typical sicario dress, either. “Be calm, everything will be fine. You’ll just drop me off. You’ll get a small tip, and then you’ll be on your way.”

“Okay,” Aguilar said, his voice catching in his throat.

The drive wound through more trees, then came out into an open expanse, in the midst of which stood a large house. It was three stories tall, stucco-walled, with a red-tile roof. Aguilar wasn’t sure if he’d call it a mansion, but it was more luxurious than any house he had ever been inside.

At the front were four steps, leading up to a door tall enough to admit giants. “Just there,” Garcia said. “The foot of the stairs will be fine.”

Aguilar pulled the car to a stop. He waited there a moment, and when Garcia didn’t budge, he realized his error. He killed the engine, got out, and walked around to open Garcia’s door. Then the older man climbed out and thanked him.

As he started up the stairs, the massive door opened and a portly man with wavy dark hair and a mustache emerged from inside. He wore a blue shirt with white vertical stripes, blue jeans, and white sneakers. Aguilar had seen his picture many times.

Pablo Escobar.

He froze.

Escobar laughed. “You’re the new policeman?”

Aguilar’s voice caught again. He cleared his throat, then managed, “Yes, sir.”

“What’s your name?”

“Jose Aguilar Gonzales.”

“You’re the one partnered with Montoya.”

“Yes, sir.”

“He’s a good man, Montoya.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“Yes, sir. You’re El Patrón. Mr. Escobar.”

Escobar came down the stairs, shaking Garcia’s hand as he came. “Everything went well?” he asked. His skin was light, his features more European than native, but his accent was heavy—a Paisa accent. He had come from here, as Aguilar had.

“Very well,” Garcia said.

“Go on in, have a drink. I’ll be right there.”

Garcia obeyed. After he was inside, Escobar descended the last two steps and held out his hand. “Thank you for bringing him up,” he said. He clasped Aguilar’s hand. When he drew his hand away, Aguilar’s palm was full of paper. He started to hand it back, then realized what it must be—his tip—and stuffed it into a pocket without looking at it.

“Thank you, El Patrón,” he said. “Thank you very much.”

“I look forward to getting to know you better,” Escobar said. “You must come up for a drink sometime. You and Montoya.”

“I would like that.”

“You may be wondering about Mr. Garcia.”

How should he answer that? It might not be good to show curiosity about such things. But the truth was, he had been wondering, ever since he’d seen the gun and the splattered blood. Instead of speaking, he simply shrugged.

“It was a personal matter, not business,” Escobar explained. “Between Garcia and his wife and her lover. Mr. Garcia will be on an airplane to Panama in a few hours. Mr. Garcia did me a favor, so I’m doing this favor for him. He’ll never set foot in Colombia again. None of this will fall on you, you have my word.”

“Thank you, El Patrón,” Aguilar said again.

“Until the next time, then,” Escobar said. Without waiting for a response, he headed back up the stairs.

The dismissal was unmistakable. Still, he’d had a conversation with Pablo Escobar, and had not only survived it, but been paid for his effort.

Aguilar got back behind the steering wheel and cranked the ignition. As soon as he rested his hands on the wheel, the enormity of what had just happened sank in and he started shivering uncontrollably.

He’d picked up a man who had just murdered his wife and her lover, then delivered the man to the crime lord of all Medellín, to be spirited out of the country ahead of the law. All while wearing the uniform of the Colombian National Police. Escobar had thanked him and stuffed cash into his hand.

What had he become? Who had he become? He no longer recognized himself.

Just weeks ago, he’d graduated from the academy, ready to fight crime and uphold law and order. So quickly he had barely noticed, he had become an accomplice to murder—someone he would have felt obliged to arrest, if it had been anyone else. Had he succumbed to the corruption that seemed rooted in Colombia’s very soil? Or was his a personal moral failing? He could never confess it to his parents or his priest, he knew. He would have to confess to God, but in his own way, without the intercession of clergy.

Perhaps the more vital question was, if he had so easily slipped across this line, where did his real moral line lie? Was there anything he wouldn’t do?

And if so, when would he find out what it was?

* * *

He didn’t have to wait long.

That evening, Luisa was working at the café. Aguilar treated himself to dinner at the most expensive restaurant in the comuna. Escobar had given him thirty thousand pesos, so he could afford it without worry. The food smelled delicious, but he could hardly taste it. All he could think about was the blood on Hernan Garcia’s clothing and shoes, the sound of the gunshots, and how disappointed Luisa would be if she knew the whole truth.

He would have to bring her here, someday soon. Maybe if they were together, he could enjoy the experience. As it was, he paid his bill with half his dinner uneaten on his plate, then walked the dark streets until it was time for Luisa to come home. He met her at the bus stop, and they walked back to the apartment together.

It was only after they were inside, sitting together on a couch, that she trained her deep brown eyes on him. “What’s wrong, Jose? Don’t tell me ‘nothing,’ I know you better than that.”

“It’s not nothing,” he replied. “But it’s nothing I can talk about. So the same thing, really.”

“Are you sure? You can talk to me about anything, you know that.”

“I’m sure.”

“Is it work?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Work.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out what was left of the money Escobar had given him: more than twenty-five thousand pesos. “I made this, though.”

She took it, flipped through the bills, and her eyes went wide. “For what?”

“For work.”

“Your salary? This is far too much.”

“No, a tip.”

“For doing what? Never mind, if you don’t want to tell me you don’t have to.”

“It isn’t that I don’t want to, baby. I do. So much. But I can’t. I… I just can’t, that’s all. Ever.”

Luisa moved against him, pressing herself close. She smelled like grilled meat and rich coffee. Suddenly, he was actually hungry, and regretted leaving that dinner behind.

“You can trust me, darling,” she said. “Always. And if part of trusting me means that you keep things from me, well, then that’s how it must be. None of it affects how I feel about you.”

“That’s good,” Aguilar said. “Because it affects how I feel about me, and I’m glad there’s someone who still likes me when I come home.”

“Not just likes. Loves.” She pressed her face against his neck, planted small kisses there. “Always, always, always. No matter what.”

* * *

After a while, they moved into the bedroom. A while after that, they fell asleep, tangled in the sheets and each other’s limbs.

They were still there when pounding at the door woke Aguilar. He rolled away from Luisa, struggled into some pants, and went to it. The door was shuddering from the force of the hammering, and he hesitated, wondering if he should go for his gun.

Then he heard Montoya’s voice. “Come on, Jose! We don’t have all night!”

Aguilar unlocked the door and opened it. Montoya stood there, out of uniform. His hair was in disarray, his cheeks thick with whiskers. “What is it?” Aguilar asked.

“You’re not dressed,” Montoya said.

“It’s two in the morning!”

Montoya glanced at his gold wristwatch. His manner was urgent, almost frantic—much different than the usual casual Montoya that Aguilar knew. “One-forty. Come on, get dressed.”

“Our shift doesn’t start until eight.”

“This is different,” Montoya said. “Not police work. Pablo work.”

“Now? In the middle of the night?”

“Right now. You have three minutes to dress. In street clothes, not your uniform.”

“I’ll be right back, then. I have to tell Luisa I’m going.”

“Tell her quick,” Montoya ordered. “And bring a gun.”