A Touch of Malice (14 page)

Now, he returned the bottle to the shelf and grasped the podium once again, digging his thumbs into the wood platform as if trying to leave an impression behind.

Merrick continued, “The President of Colombia, Carlos Santoro, has assured me his people are doing everything in their power to find him. Tomorrow morning I will personally be making the trip to Bogota to meet with the president to offer my gratitude and extend whatever assistance we can to the search. We are hopeful that someone will be able to assist us with any information which can lead us to him. We have a special website set up, ‘Helpfindtrent.com.’ Anyone can leave an anonymous message and we’ll be sure to follow up on any leads which can lead us to him.”

Merrick glanced down at his watch at the precise moment in the speech in which he’d choreographed his exit. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a scheduled meeting with a young girl in the Make-A-Wish Foundation who wanted to have lunch with the president and I have no intention of keeping her waiting.”

He backed away from the podium and gestured for Fisk to take the stand. “Secretary of State Fisk will answer any questions you may have. He is quite familiar with the situation and will be able to brief you on any new information.”

There was a smattering of questions thrown at the president as he walked off into the back door to his private office. He didn’t turn, nor did he hurry his steps.

Fisk took the podium and placed his hands in the traditional two-hand stranglehold and with a pleasant expression said, “Okay, I’ll be glad to answer any questions you may have.”

The swarm of reporters took the opportunity to raise their arms and barter for Fisk’s attention with a wave of their hands. Reporters are supposed to be impartial when it comes to questioning cabinet members of the administration, but everyone inside the beltway knows which ones had liberal tendencies and which leaned more to the right. Fisk decided to begin with a reporter who favored his own political persuasion.

“Kevin,” he pointed to a balding man with oversized glasses. “What do you have for me?”

The man put down his hand. “Mr. Secretary, shouldn’t the United States be allowed to send troops to the area to help facilitate the search for Trent Merrick? And has President Santoro denied any such request?”

“First of all,” Fisk said, “President Santoro has been nothing but gracious with his time and assistance in the search for Trent. Our visit to Colombia is being received with great compassion for the Merrick family’s troubles.”

“But is it true that President Santoro is refusing any American troops in the area?” the reporter added.

“No,” Fisk said. “That is untrue. We have not been denied access anywhere. However, you must remember this is a very hazardous part of the world. It’s the natural habitat for some of the most dangerous creatures known to man. There’s piranha and anaconda and poisonous frogs just to name a few. So we’re very cautious about who we send and where.”

As the mass of reporters buzzed once again for attention, Fisk pointed. “Jessica.”

A young woman with brunette hair tied back into a bun said, “How did the president know his brother was missing?”

“Yes, Trent’s wife had a designated timetable to receive messages from her husband. When the latest timetable passed, she became concerned. She waited a few hours, but since no further contact has been made, she contacted the president.” Fisk held up a hand. “Let me make you aware of the fact that Trent’s wife, Jaqui, is not only extremely upset over this situation, she is also pregnant with their first child. So, please respect her privacy as she goes through this very difficult time. She is currently under doctor’s care and having a tough time with the absence of her loving husband.”

Fisk pointed. “Brian.”

A middle-aged man with gray sideburns said, “Exactly how much support is the Colombian president offering?”

“More than enough,” Fisk said, then pointed to a young woman with brunette hair tied back into a bun. “Veronica.”

“There was a report that Trent Merrick has been kidnapped by the FARC who control much of the southern part of the country. Is that true?”

Fisk was ready for that one. “Where was that reported?”

The reporter kept a somber face. “TMZ.”

Fisk smiled widely. “Was that the lead story?”

The reporter seemed to be thinking about the answer. “Is that important?”

“Well, the reason I ask is because I read that story on TMZ’s website as well. It was right under the headline story, ‘Donald Trump Gets a Butchered Facelift.’ When you have a report from a credible news source, I’d be delighted to respond.”

Fisk quickly pointed to an older woman with very pale skin. “Chelsea.”

“Mr. Secretary, is there any indication of foul play of any sort?”

Fisk had several dispositions he would use for his press conferences. There was the smart-aleck one liners to keep things light whenever undue pressure was placed on the White House to reveal something they had no intention of revealing. Then there was the terse adversarial disposition whenever the opposing side of the aisle would accuse the president of playing politics with a certain policy. Now, Fisk was going to be the grandfather who spoke to his grandchildren with endearing words to keep them calm and composed.

He took a big breath and leaned forward. “Folks,” he said, “the main reason President Merrick is visiting Colombia is because of what he brings with him when he goes.” Fisk held out a finger and wagged it side-to-side. “You. He knows that whenever he travels to a foreign country, he brings the media with him. He hopes the trip will shine an intense light of attention to the region and possibly ignite enough interest to uncover information that would otherwise be overlooked. And this is precisely what he is after.”

Fisk went on answering questions for another twenty minutes, but the question which never came up was, “Is it possible this was a ploy to lure the president down to an unsecure part of the globe?”

It was the one question Fisk wondered about himself.

Chapter 18

Pablo Moreno’s office complex was in the middle of the textile district in downtown Medellin. It was one of the more affluent sections of town with most of the city’s fashion designers passing by his office window each day with a rail-thin model on each arm. Moreno’s opulent taste in art was in full display around the tall white walls, with Salvador Dali’s work prominently displayed. Paintings of melted clocks and psychedelic butterflies mingled with a gold sculpture of a small, bald man wearing a toga and a life-size statue of an ancient soldier about to launch a spear.

Moreno’s desk was a large semicircle slab of marble, cut to his precise measurements. Now, he sat behind his desk and checked the current inventory on his laptop computer. The coca fields were yielding more than anticipated this harvest and he expected profits to soar over the next quarter. Sitting across from him were CIA agent’s Tevin Martinez and Chris Garber. Both of them were slouched in their seats, as comfortable as American football fans watching Monday Night Football.

“So when are they arriving?” Moreno said, busy scanning the spreadsheet on his monitor.

“They’re scheduled to land around midnight,” answered Agent Garber.

“Good,” Moreno said absently.

“We should just ambush them right there,” Agent Martinez said with a little gusto in his voice. “Why wait?”

Moreno suddenly looked over at the man. “At the Palmaseca International Airport? Is this your idea of a smart plan?”

Martinez looked away.

“Answer me,” Moreno raised his voice for emphasis.

Martinez made eye contact. He spoke softly. “No.”

Moreno cupped a hand behind his ear. “Excuse me? What did you say?”

Martinez matched Moreno’s volume. “No.”

“No, what?”

“No, El Patron.” The CIA agent said the words as if it hurt his larynx as speak them.

“That is correct,” Moreno said. “That is why we set up the ambush in the Amazon where the only witnesses will be a few alligators and some vultures.”

The agent nodded, seemingly wanting to say more, but his partner placed a hand on his arm, saying, “Tevin gets a little anxious sometimes, Mr. Moreno. That’s all. Please don’t take that as insubordination.”

That satisfied Moreno’s ego enough to return his attention to his spreadsheet. He glanced up momentarily at Garber to let him know he needed to keep Martinez in check or they would both pay for his defiance.

Moreno waved his hand at the two agents. “All right then. Go get ready for your meeting. Make sure there are no mishaps.”

“Yes, El Patron,” Garber answered.

As the men left the massive office, Moreno noted that Tevin Martinez did not respond to the command.

Once he was alone, Moreno dug deeper into his files. His income had been trending significantly upward, but so had his elaborate spending. Security alone took up almost a quarter of his payroll. Every time he entered a new market, the resistance had been such that he was forced to devote more time and money to alleviate the conflict. Growth meant investment and he was beginning to think they were growing too fast. Maybe he should keep his current lines open and scale back the new ventures until his receivables picked up. Being a cartel leader required much more business sense than pure violence. He’d seen less sophisticated men try to power their way to the top, only to stumble under their own damaged policies.

Moreno didn’t operate like most organized crime syndicates. He was a shrewd businessman who provided funds to the needy in the Medellin community. He’d set up a soup kitchen for the poor and a shelter for those without a place to live. He would have a crew visit local restaurants each morning and pick up stale bread and slightly overripe fruit to bring to the slums for nourishment. His reputation on the streets of Medellin was one of generosity and most citizens didn’t care where the charitable money came from, as long as he provided for them, he was considered an ally. Fewer enemies meant less need for muscle.

Now, he scrutinized his spreadsheet and searched for the next payment schedule. He was trying to avoid a serious examination of his little gambling habit. Something which did not show up on his file. He’d always kept it at arm’s length so he wouldn’t have to face the reality of his poor betting decisions. It was like a deficit which kept piling up and the only reason he didn’t have to shell out his full payment was simply because of who he was. Most of his collectors were simply too afraid to demand full payment, but the amounts were becoming astronomical and he needed to secure funds before it became a Camenos problem as well as a Pablo Moreno problem.

He considered a source of revenue which had recently fallen into his lap. Moreno picked up his cell phone and decided to make a call to their southern outpost and check on his current prisoner.

A prisoner with a large price tag.

* * *

Manny Padilla stood under the treetops of the rainforest and held the phone to his ear while Pablo Moreno gave instructions. He could practically hear Moreno sipping expensive wine with his feet on his marble desktop. And why not? Moreno was hundreds of miles away in the comfort of his office in Medellin, while Padilla’s fuse was shrinking. He was losing his ability to maintain his composure in this waterlogged campsite with a portable generator as their only modern convenience.

Padilla could see the open coca field in the distance, expanding as their business grew. The field had been under Padilla’s supervision the entire time, which meant he was the one accountable for how much pure cocaine the field yielded. And since Padilla knew his product could never be accurately audited, no one else could possibly discover how much harvest he’d skimmed for himself over the past two seasons. Only he and his two partners, who drove the product to his brother’s place in Brazil. They’d already sold the finished product a week ago and over two million dollars awaited his arrival. Except that’s when Moreno ordered him into this muddy hole in the middle of the Amazon to keep the American prisoner locked away. As soon as Padilla was back in Medellin, he could escape to Brazil to gather his money and move to Portugal with his wife and children where they would begin a new life. Who knows? Maybe even an honest one.

“Manny,” Moreno’s big voice boomed over the phone. “Are you listening to me?”

“Every word.” Padilla strangled the phone in his hand, while a slow drizzle began to drop from the treetops in clumps.

“Good. How is the American?”

Padilla walked to the prisoner’s tent surrounded by five of his soldiers. He pulled back the mosquito netting and found the American staring at the ground in the darkened quarters with his splint torn apart. He was hobbling around, leaving a trail of blood behind. The ants were attracted to the scent and he was attempting to stay one step ahead of the carnivorous creatures. The man was stumbling around because of his wounded leg, but it was obvious he was deliriously exhausted and would not be ambulatory for very much longer.

“He is still alive,” Padilla said, flatly.

“Manny, it will be good for business if he remains that way for the next twenty-four hours.”

The American prisoner meant nothing to him. As a matter of fact, because it was so important to Moreno, Padilla was more determined than ever to administer a slow torturous death.

“Yes, of course, El Patron. We will assure that he survives one more day.”

“Good. I am moving some of my men to the lake. The Americans will be sending a small team of spies to attempt to rescue him. Once they are dead we’ll move the American back here. I will call when it is done.”

Moreno said “my men” as if Padilla had no ownership over them. Here he was being the good soldier, saturated to the bone from humidity and it still wasn’t “our men.” It would always be Moreno’s men and it made Padilla feel good about his decisions to pilfer product from the man.

“I will wait,” was all Padilla could say.

“Good,” Moreno said, then hung up.

Had the conversation lasted another minute, Padilla was certain he would have erupted into the phone and that would not have been smart. Padilla needed to be smart one more day, then he would make it to his millions and leave this bug-infested jungle forever.