Salty Sky (2 page)

AS PABLO SET
the phone down, a headache began behind Francisco’s eyebrows.

Pablo shouted,
“¡Y aún así me siguen probando!”

The men lounging around the large room grew smaller, stopped moving, and averted their eyes. The young women quietly left the steaming tub; water dripped from their bare, brown-skinned bodies and puddled on the stone floor as they slipped from the room.

Francisco sat stoically as Pablo repeated the refrain
—And yet they still test me!
He knew what Pablo meant. Pablo had killed three presidential candidates, seven supreme court justices, scores of magistrates, hundreds of police offers, and thousands of rivals, and his fate was still continually in the balance. Francisco’s face tightened as Pablo’s flushed with anger at the audacity that they would believe the results would be different this time. Pablo was the world’s seventh-richest man, its most infamous criminal, and his country’s most popular citizen. If they wanted to test him, Francisco knew they would learn that Pablo maintained his propensity and capacity for bloodshed.

Pablo’s eyes closed as he slipped his head under the tub’s bubbling waterline. Black hair clung to the surface amid the white bubbles. He counted up to thirty, then down to zero, and surfaced with instructions to provide his men. Except for the location, the instructions
would surprise no one—except, perhaps, the targets—who always seemed surprised when the inevitable happened.

Francisco knew Pablo had little education, and excluding himself, his inner circle had less. Yet, successfully and repeatedly, Pablo employed the same two-part plan.
Plata o plomo
. Silver or lead. Greed or violence. Which did the man on the other side of the table desire? The silver always came first. Since Pablo developed this plan, silver had been abundant.

In this case, the silver had stopped working, so it was time for the lead.

Without haste, Pablo said, “Francisco, General Rodriguez and his staff are dining nearby. Please bring them to me for a discussion.”

Francisco was relieved that El Capo’s eyes were still closed, because he felt his face betray disagreement with the order. “El Capo, forgive me—did you say bring them here?”

“Sí, Francisco, aquí.”
Pablo’s reply smoldered despite no noticeable change in inflection.

Francisco paused before standing. He silently willed his uncle to reconsider. Better to handle the officers in the street or, better still, in their homes, with their families watching. Witnesses to relay the horror to others’ ears. Witnesses whose fear would crush their rage and keep them from plotting revenge. Since Francisco’s own brother’s death and the destruction of one of their family’s seaside villas by unknown enemies weeks before, his thoughts had grown colder, while Pablo’s seemed to grow more fervent.

If they were alone, he would have argued reason. But not now. Too many people heard the order. Francisco replied,
“Muy bien, Tío,”
and motioned two of the lounging men to follow him.

Pablo stood now in the giant tub, visually chafing at the challenge. In earlier years, he would have simply handled the challenge and not felt the chafe. But like all men whose lives tip toward having much to lose and little to gain, Pablo feared someone would take what was his.
Remaining sequestered in La Catedral, his isolation and his sampling of the product magnified his conflicting emotions of vulnerability and invincibility.

In times past, Pablo said to Francisco, “Ambitious men size up their reach. Their power. They want to know whether I’m the Muhammad Ali who fought Foreman or the one who fought Holmes. If these men sat at my knee, I would tell them, ‘Gentlemen, do not make this mistake. Do not dance with the
cartel de Cali
. Do not look for soft spots in the provinces. Medellín demands your unconditional love. There will be no successful invasion, and there will be no coup.’”

Francisco knew Pablo was warning him as he prepared him.

The last coup occurred when a twenty-five-year-old Pablo killed his boss, Fabio Restrepo. Restrepo was king of a small but bountiful empire, a growing drug refinement and trafficking business. Pablo yearned to be king and knew there was room for only one, so he took the crown for himself. He repeated the mantra “There is only one king” to all who needed to hear it.

Now Pablo was in his twenty-fourth year on the throne of a greatly expanded empire. He protected the empire’s borders but had lost the ambition to expand. This loss of ambition conflicted with Francisco’s long-held view of Pablo as a minor god.

Loudly, Pablo shouted encouragement to those around the room, “Remember, all empires are created and maintained from fire and blood.” As always when he spoke, heads nodded their assent.

Pablo left the tub and dried off. The prison walls in La Catedral grew too close for his kinetic life—a profitable life rooted in money and violence. He started grave robbing at age ten, taking granite headstones, filing off the inscriptions, and selling the blanks back to the distributors. As a teen, he stole cars. By twenty, he moved through mountain passes, carrying coca paste over the borders of Bolivia and Peru.

This was not Pablo’s first arrest, but this was the longest he’d
chosen to stay in prison—nearly twelve months. His first arrest happened when he was a young
narco
crossing from Ecuador. When he was released on bail, Pablo first tried to bribe his arresting officer. The noble officer refused the bribe from what he thought was a simple coca paste mule, so Pablo killed him.
Plata o plomo
. The prosecutor accepted the silver and dropped the smuggling case without a trial.

La Catedral was technically a prison and Pablo could not leave, at least not without the risk of not being able to return. However, he could operate his business from within its walls, and his people could come and go. He built this prison wing for himself—more a personal fortress than a prison—as part of his deal with the Colombian government. The deal gave Pablo two victories: First, it helped the Colombian government avoid deporting its most popular citizen; for ten years, even when Pablo served in parliament, the
norteamericanos
called for his extradition. Second, it bought his men time to eliminate the Cali cartel’s emboldened assassins.

La Catedral’s comforts were similar to those of the four hundred villas Pablo owned around the world. The guards were on his payroll. His multiple phone lines were private. He had twelve thousand square feet of housing, a jetted tub, a waterfall, a full bar, and a soccer field. The warden and government officials asked permission to enter his wing.

Pablo went to his room, dressed, poured a drink, and sat on his bed. One of the young women poked her head in to see whether he wanted her. She had been his favorite this past month. He had taken her from a novice to a skilled lover, and her passion for coupling increased with each lesson. Her new black silk negligee alternately hid and exposed her soft curves. Normally, he would pass his time waiting for the general by enjoying the young skin, but tonight, he silently waved her away with the back of his hand.

Eventually, there was a knock on his door.

“El Capo, Francisco has returned with the soldiers.”

Pablo finished his drink. He swirled the ice around the glass twice, set the glass down on the floor beside his bed, stood up, and walked out to the great room.

Francisco seated General Rodriguez and his staff officers in the middle of the room on an oversized leather sectional. As Pablo entered the room, Rodriguez and his men stood. Rodriguez’s rise to general correlated strongly with Pablo’s patronage. They served each other well. Rodriguez kept the army from focusing its attention on Pablo, and Pablo both eliminated rival officers in the chain of command and kept Rodriguez’s accounts stacked with silver.

Pablo wanted to know why Rodriguez now chose to distance himself from the benefits and responsibilities of their relationship.

Rodriguez said, “Representative Escobar, it has been too long. I hope you are finding these accommodations adequate until we can get this silliness with the
norteamericanos
behind us.”

It had been eight years since Pablo left office, yet Francisco noted that callers still frequently used the title. He assumed Rodriguez used the honorific because he would want to be called
General
until his dying day.

Before replying, Pablo located Francisco along the wall, and through their eyes passed an understanding. Pablo said, “It is fine here, General. If I stop enjoying my stay, I will leave. Can I get you a drink?”

Francisco had allowed the officers to keep their sidearms. He felt that holding their weapons gave the soldiers a feeling of security, a sense that this was a negotiation. This atmosphere would perhaps help Pablo get more nuanced information than would gunpoint intimidation.

“Coffee, please. The Argentinian Malbec was bountiful at dinner. The Argentines should be proud of their Malbec. Thank you for sending your man to pay for our dinner,” Rodriguez said, nodding over his shoulder toward Francisco.

Pablo answered, “Yes, the Malbec and Maradona, no?”

“
Sí
, and when will we see Maradona wearing Medellín’s colors?”

Pablo’s deepest public disappointment was when Maradona, possibly the greatest football player of all time, refused his entreaties to play in Colombia. Francisco was shocked that Rodriguez was bold enough to broach the subject. Perhaps he had consumed too much of that Malbec.

The small talk between the general and El Capo continued until the coffee arrived. After stirring in his
leche
, Rodriguez asked, “Representative Escobar, may I inquire as to why you requested our presence at La Catedral this evening?”

Whenever this group came together, Francisco was jarred by the differences between Pablo and the general: the general’s lack of Indian blood; his proper, well-enunciated Spanish; his formal education and his acute attention to personal appearance. But mostly, he contemplated the differences in each man’s sense of pride.

Pablo’s pride was in possessing absolute control of his destiny and those within his orbit. If, instead of killing you, he bribed you for cooperation, it wasn’t because he didn’t think he could kill you. It was because bribing you gave him the result he wanted quicker or easier. He could kill you later if he desired.

The general’s pride was that others believed that he was a man who controlled not only his own fate but also the fate of others. The general did not visibly mind lacking the power he projected, and Pablo found this a useful trait. Knowing that the general valued appearance more than silver, Pablo traditionally tolerated this talk as equals in front of crowds.

“Yes, General. I am concerned. You see, I haven’t seen much of the world this year. So, I don’t understand some of the changes. I hope you can explain them to me.”

“Of course. I will do my best, Representative. What may I explain?”

Pablo suddenly sighed, looking tired of the game before it even began. Francisco thought he had spent too many years like a cat flipping mice in the air to enjoy the drama.

Pablo asked, “Why have you not accepted my most recent offering of silver?”

The general stammered, his fear showing. His shaking hand rattled his coffee cup on the saucer. He became aware of the arc of rough men surrounding the door.

Pablo sipped his coffee, awaiting an answer. To Francisco, Pablo seemed to fill more with fatigue than rage.

Once they started, the general’s words flowed quickly. Francisco listened to some of what was said but mostly watched the mannerisms of the general’s men to see whether there were any worth saving. Certainly, one of these young officers was bright enough to understand the hopelessness of their situation, to step up, be spared, and receive Pablo’s patronage to replace General Rodriguez? But Pablo saw nothing of the kind, nothing that would provide any of the men earthly salvation.

Finally, Pablo held up his hand to stop the general. “Thank you, General Rodriguez. I understand now.”

The general regained his composure. His shoulders rolled back, and he was the powerful man again, an inch taller and two inches broader. He handed his coffee cup and saucer to one of his men. Although there had been no physical altercation, his thin hair had become disheveled during the explanation. He ran his hand through it to smooth it down.

“It is always a pleasure, Representative Escobar.” The general nodded to his men to prepare to leave.

“Likewise, General. Good night.”

With that, Pablo raised his eyelids to Francisco. The cannons in his men’s hands erupted, and the officers were dead.

When the echoes from the gunfire subsided, Francisco asked, “El Capo, shall I take them to the jungle?”

“No, Francisco, you may leave them here. I will dispose of them.”

Francisco questioned El Capo’s judgment for the second time this evening. Killing the men here was a poor decision, but making no move to hide the killings was far worse. It would lodge a fiery stick into the government’s eye. Francisco considered what this act could do other than force the government into an action neither side wanted.

Unknowingly, Pablo had been right when he spoke to the general: He had not seen much in the past year, and there were changes he did not grasp. He no longer understood the influence of his true opposition—not the Cali or other young bandits, but the powerful
norteamericanos
. The shell government in Bogotá largely conceded its sovereignty to the
norteamericanos
, who sought to eliminate their own country’s drug problem by meddling in other countries. It made no difference. The
norteamericanos
’ policy ignored the law that supply will always rise to meet demand; a snake can always tunnel a new hole. Francisco understood that it was easier for the
norteamericano
politicians to gain favor by making war in a strange country, rather than among their own citizenry.

The Colombian politicians and generals still accepted the silver or received the lead, as General Rodriguez’s prone body attested, but Francisco doubted their ability to stop the foreign army exploring the countryside. Inside these stone walls, Pablo didn’t feel this invading army’s buildup. He hadn’t seen the planes at the airports and the hard-faced men in camouflage driving through the country in armored vehicles.