09-Twelve Mile Limit (30 page)

Once, she whispered into my ear, “I feel like I’ve been waiting for you for a long, long time.”

I was surprised to hear myself whisper in reply, “That’s nice. I mean it. Very nice.”

Why would I encourage such feelings? Ask Tomlinson, ask anyone at the marina, I’m the cold one, the one who believes that emotion is a waste of energy. But it really was the way I felt.

Overtly, she gave no sign that we were anything more than friends. I liked that. No public touching or hanging-on; no holding hands or nuzzling. I liked that, too. Outwardly, we were two individuals. Inwardly, though, we were already joined in some indefinable way, and I found that surprising as well.

I liked her. I trusted her. More important, I already felt totally comfortable with her. I hadn’t told her about the satellite photos—that, I could never do. But I had shared with her my theories about what might have happened to Janet, Grace, and Michael if they’d been picked up. That included letting her read the State Department document that Dalton Dorsey had faxed to me.

Some of the data therein were as discomforting; some, I found fascinating. Why hadn’t I heard the data before? The data read in part:

ECONOMICS OF THE INTERNATIONAL FLESH TRADEAccording to [AGENCY DELETED] the global trade in the smuggling of humans is a $12 billion a year business, and the third largest source of profit for organized crime, including international terrorists.The flesh trade is surpassed only by drugs and the illegal arms trade in estimated annual earnings. It has become a favorite investment of criminals and international terrorists because the profits are high, the risk of being caught low, and the punishments much less severe than some crimes that are not nearly as profitable.The discovery of fifty-eight Fijians in the back of a refrigeration truck in Dover, England, all dead of suffocation, focused international attention on this brutal business. And, in late 1999, U.S. Immigration officers arrested Algerian terrorist Ahmed Ressam when he tried to enter the United States with a trunk full of explosives. He had been smuggled into Canada where he applied for refugee status, and his financial backing has been linked to cocaine and a white slavery operation in South America and Brunei.It is estimated that, each year, hundreds of thousands of illegals—many from China, North Africa, and the Middle East—pay up to $50,000 US per person to “Snakeheads.” A Snakehead is often a Chinese-American or an Arab-American stationed in New York City or Bangkok. A Snakehead provides illegals with false identities and passports and transports them inside the twelve-mile limit that marks the end of international waters and the beginning of the United States’s territorial sovereignty. Like me, Amelia found the statistics very surprising. “I didn’t know it was such a big business,” she said.

The paper also touched on another form of the flesh trade that was even more astonishing. We both read:

Another very different, but related, type of business that deals in the buying and selling of humans is what is known, generically, as the white slave trade.The term white slave trade has been passed down from a previous century, and it accurately describes what was then a booming illegal business: the kidnapping and transport of Caucasian women to foreign soil, where they were then sold to wealthy buyers. Over the last two decades, this business has grown faster than both trade in drugs and weapons, though Caucasian women are no longer the only acceptable form of human currency. Any woman who is young and attractive is a very valuable commodity.The United Nations estimates that 4 million women throughout the world are trafficked each year—forced through lies and coercion to work against their will in many types of servitude, particularly as sexual slaves.The International Organization for Migration has said that as many as 500,000 women from the former Soviet Union are annually trafficked into Western Europe alone, and then onto other foreign lands—most often North Africa, Brunei, and the Middle East. Because some of the women have already immigrated illegally, and because some percentage of the women choose to work as prostitutes, statistics are difficult to assess. Amelia whistled softly when she read that. “My God! Four million? I had no idea it was even going on, but four million women a year! Amazing.”

In a way, though, we both agreed: The sobering statistics also provided us with some hope. If Janet and Grace had been kidnapped for profit, it explained why we had not heard from them. They were a valuable commodity. It meant that they could still be out there somewhere, alive.

Just as I could not tell Amelia about the satellite photos, there was a second letter I had in my possession that I could not allow her to read. Some of the information in it was from a consular research paper, but it also contained classified data that I could not share.

It was from a U.S. State Department intelligence guru named Hal Harrington. I’d met Harrington the year before when I’d helped get his daughter out of some trouble. Turned out that Hal and I had more in common than I was comfortable admitting. That meeting had resurrected aspects of my past that I’d thought were long behind me. Trouble is, the memories, the aftershocks, of a violent, clandestine life are impossible to forget, so they never really go away.

Harrington belonged to a highly trained covert operations team that was known, to a very few, as the Negotiating and System Analysis Group—the Negotiators, for short. Because the success of the team relied on members blending easily into nearly any society, each man was provided with a legitimate and mobile profession.

Harrington was trained as a computer software programmer and made a personal fortune by sheer intelligence and foresight. Other members of that elite team included CPAs, a couple of attorneys, one journalist, and at least three physicians. There was also a marine biologist among them, a man who traveled the world doing research.

Harrington is now one of the most powerful and influential staff members at the State Department, and he specializes in Latin-American affairs. Because I had his private numbers, and because we share a mutual interest in the well-being of his daughter, Lindsey, it was not difficult for me to get in touch with the man.

The night before Amelia and I left for Miami, Harrington’s letter arrived via special courier. The first two pages were background, and it was good for me to refamiliarize myself with the complicated politics of the country we were about to visit. It was also good to be reminded that it is one of the most dangerous places on earth.

Colombia illustrates the stark contrast between the rich and poor, and the widespread neglect of human rights. This problem is compounded by extraordinary violence. Colombia has the highest murder rate in the world. Armed conflict has led to the mass displacement of innocent citizens by political violence—many thousands of Amazon Indians and farmers have been forced off their land as a result of conflict between the national, guerrilla, and paramilitary groups.The main source of the conflict, of course, is strife created by the drug trade. In recent years, however, Colombia has also become a center of two other very profitable international businesses: the sale of illegal weaponry and the transporting of illegal immigrants and kidnap victims for sale. I hadn’t heard that before. Harrington had included the information for a reason.

The paper went on to say:

Throughout the 1970s and 1980s, Colombia’s illegal drug trade grew steadily, as the drug cartels amassed huge amounts of money, weapons, and influence. The 1970s also saw the formation of such leftist guerrilla groups as the May Nineteenth Movement (M-19) and the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC). The violence continued, and many journalists and government officials were killed. After going into specific detail about FARC, and the politicians believed to be associated with the movement, Harrington’s paper continued:

The notorious Medellín drug cartel was broken in 1993, and the Cali cartel was later undermined by arrests of key leaders. Drug traffickers continue to have significant wealth and power, however, and many leftist guerrilla groups remain active, perpetuating a condition of instability.In November 1998, the country’s president ceded a state-sized region of land in South Central Colombia to FARC’s control as a goodwill gesture, but the rebels negotiated with the government only fitfully and continued to mount attacks.That region is now one of the most lawless and dangerous on earth. It has become the safe harbor for Islamic extremists and other terrorists. It has also become the center of a power struggle between the different factions of guerrilla groups, the paramilitary forces (vigilante groups formed usually by wealthy landowners protecting their own interests), and the state itself. Also sometimes involved in the fighting there are U.S. drug interdiction forces, the CIA and the DEA.The conflict has become the dirtiest of wars, in which each side resorts to whatever tactics are necessary to gain an advantage. Summary executions, disappearances, extortion, intimidation, and torture are all part of daily reality. Flying southward over the Caribbean in first class was not a good time to let Amelia read such a letter. But, once in Cartagena, if she insisted on accompanying me into the mountains, I would put the letter into her hands and insist that she read it.

The rain-forest mountains of Colombia. There was a pretty good chance that’s exactly where I might be headed.

Harrington’s personal, and classified, letter made that clear.

Harrington’s letter read:

Hello, Commander Ford. This will be brief because I don’t have a lot of time, and I suspect you are similarly engaged. I checked with our intelligence assets in Colombia and the U.S. Here is the result of that inquiry.Earl Stallings. In the U.S., there are thirty-seven men of color over the age of twenty-one named Earl Stallings. In the last five years, three have included Florida as a part of their address. One of those three, Earl E. E. Stallings, has been arrested several times on charges that range from selling Internet pornography to assault with a deadly weapon to drug trafficking. On a charge of felonious drug trafficking, he spent twenty-seven months in prison, Raiford, Florida.Hassan Atwa Kazan. Worldwide, there are 103 men over the age of twenty-one named Hassan Kazan. In the last five years, four have included countries in the Western hemisphere as a part of their address or in electronic communication outside the Middle East. One has included Colombia. Here is more information on that man:Kazan is in our South American files as a suspected low-echelon smuggler of cocaine, weapons, people. He’s known to associate with FARC sympathizers and known criminals. The bar at the Hotel de Ascension, Cartagena, is a favorite meeting place. I have yet to confirm if he is or is not an albino, as you described.To be thorough, I also cross-referenced Kazan’s name and additional specifics with our Middle Eastern files. I now provide you with this new information. A man named Hassan Atwa Kazan is suspected of participating as a freelance middleman involved in the financing of the terrorist cells of Jihad and Al-Qaeda, as well as the Kurdistan Workers Party, or PKK. The PKK, as you know, is one of the earth’s most indiscriminately violent terrorist organizations. It is possible that Kazan can be linked to one or all of these organizations through a well-organized network of smuggling operations, most probably for his own personal profit.I can’t be certain it is the same man. However, there is sufficient evidence for me to take the following action: In light of your experience in these matters, and since you have a special interest in this suspect, I am authorizing you to investigate this individual as a sanctioned agent of our nation. I have upgraded your service status from Inactive Reserve to Active Special Duty Line Officer. I have also changed your pay grade from O-4 to O-5, which advances your agency rank from lieutenant commander to commander. Congratulations, and welcome back into the service of your country.Furthermore, since the Executive Order of 18 February 1976 has now been revoked, and by the power vested in this body through the National Security Act of 1947 and the War Powers Act, I also authorize you to use whatever means necessary to assemble evidence against the aforementioned individual (and associates) and I fully and legally license you to exercise Executive Action within the limitations and restraints with which you are already familiar. Those were startling words to read: Executive Action. For me, they are a legal euphemism for a license to assassinate. I’d read those words before, in similar documents. For some reason, though, the phrase had never hit me so hard. Was it because I was now a different man? Or was it because I hoped I was now different?

The last paragraph was written in ink, the penmanship rushed, the wording far less formal. Harrington had added:

Doc, My Colombian pals tell me that there are two main camps where they warehouse kidnap victims. They keep them until they’re ransomed or sold, then fly them out. One camp is near Cali on the Pacific Coast, outside a little village called Guapi, pronounced WAUP-ee. The other is in the state of Amazonia, way south in the jungle, a camp called Remanso, pronunced Ra-MEN-so, which I’ve been told is an Indian word that means “still waters.” Lots of Indios still in that area.Good luck. I’ve notified a few of our friends that you’ll be in the area, so you’ll have some help. Also, keep in mind that your enemy, the late Edgar Cordero, still has his organization in place, and they get pretty good intel. So do the Islamic extremists, and they’re all tied in together. Stay on your toes, watch your 6. There was a final p.s.: “Lindsey is back on the drugs again. Dating a worthless beach bum. I love her so much, what can I do? H2”

We passed through the customs gates of Cartagena’s modern airport and exited out into the equatorial heat and glare of a December afternoon. There was a line of rusted yellow Toyota cabs, men selling lottery tickets, women in bright dresses hawking fresh pineapple, mangoes, bananas.

Amelia stopped, bags in hand, and said, “You’re kidding. You have a limo waiting on us? I’m impressed.”

Yes, there was a limo. She was impressed, and I was surprised. Among the taxis was a black BMW sedan and a man in a black suit standing beside it, holding a sign that read Dr. Marion Ford.