The Clayton Account (35 page)

‘Bank, eh?’ He pondered that one. ‘So, I should do like the old-timers, and keep the dough under my mattress!’ But maybe, thought Morales seriously, maybe it
was
the bank. It made little difference. In two hours he would be on his way to a new life. A rich, respectable new life.

He undid one handcuff from the agent’s wrist and told him to click it shut again, this time with his arms in front of him. ‘This way you can be a bit more comfortable when you die,’ Morales joked. He pulled his captive to his feet then marched him outside, following a few paces behind, gun in hand. As they passed the door, Morales picked up a shovel, then walked Julio towards the encampment’s edge.

Robles found movement quite difficult. The beatings meted out by the Arawac had done real damage – he was sure some ribs were broken – and the iron shackles on his legs banished any thought of making a run for the bush. He would try it if he thought Morales would shoot him, but he knew better. Others would be sent to bring him back and the battering would start again.

When they reached the tree line, Morales threw the shovel at Robles’ feet and ordered him to start digging …

The American’s last thoughts before the shooting started were that the hole was five feet deep and that he wished he had gone to London with Red Harper. Then the ground exploded a few yards behind his captor, as if a ghost had stood upon a landmine. He saw a bright flash and felt himself falling. There was no pain, no sound, just darkness.

Noriega had planned his attack carefully. All day he had prepared his men for action: 227 would accompany him to Medellín. He had the usual array of hand grenades and AK-47s and two prize weapons, recently acquired at a hefty price from an Ecuadorian smuggler who had stolen them from the army: a pair of 3-inch mortars and nearly one hundred rounds. But first he took precautions. Before one vehicle rolled out of Cali he sent his spies to Medellín. They were to pay particular attention to the manning of the road checks and then sit in the square, sipping coffee, like tourists. And count policemen going into City Hall. By mid-morning, Friday, the spies reported being in position and immediately thereafter the ragtag but lethal private army began to roll.

They left Cali at regular intervals throughout the day, a few each in a motley vehicle collection, some heading towards the coast, others along the north-western road to Bogotá. Their instructions were to assemble around six in the evening on a remote farm north of Manizales. A small party had been sent there in advance, to ensure the owner’s acquiescence. At six Noriega himself arrived and waited by his telephone. At 6.15 he received the call from Medellín. His intelligence, it appeared, was true: the entire police force in the area had been pouring into City Hall for the last half-hour. Just in case, Noriega ordered his observers to remain in place and to keep ringing every ten minutes. Then the assembled convoy moved north in
force
. They could reach their target within half an hour and, so long as the police remained assembled and the ten-minute messages kept coming, they would proceed to their objective.

Fifty men would go direct to Villa del Carmen, their task to kill Morales. Noriega knew the estate was well defended and although only a score or so opponents were expected, they would be well armed and have the advantage of home territory. Surprise and numerical superiority should provide some compensation for the attacking side. They would take casualties. The Cali force would open fire with one mortar, unleashing shell after shell upon the house. They might get Morales first time if they were lucky, but Noriega had provided his own armoured Mercedes 600 for the core of the attack. Six men would ride in it, push full-speed along the drive and then ram it up to the veranda. They were to saturate the house, whatever was left of it, with machine-gun fire and hand grenades. Above all they were to make sure they had killed the last drug baron of Medellín.

Noriega would lead the other attack in person. Three small teams would take the outlying refineries whilst the main one, close to the airstrip and where he expected Morales would hold most of his stock, he would take himself with 100 soldiers and the second mortar. There would be at least 2,000 kilos packed and ready there, he guessed. That would be his bonus, to be transported back to Cali under his own watchful eye. Noriega did not believe in exposing his men to unnecessary temptation.

The blast of the first mortar shell threw Robles and Morales to the ground, yet miraculously both survived. Robles, untouched by shrapnel, fell stunned into the grave he had dug, momentarily deaf and bleeding from the shock
wave
, but alive. Morales had been thrown to the edge of the same pit, struck by small bits of metal at the back of his left leg and shoulder, yet fully aware of what was happening. One after another the rounds fell, and his men, unable to determine where the shells were coming from, ran about the compound like chickens parted from their heads.

Then the explosions stopped and the machine guns opened fire.

Morales was back on his feet and running, shouting orders with such authority that for a moment it looked as though his men might rally. But it was too late: they were being shot at from the sanctuary of the bush and all they could do was blindly return fire. Having lost his handgun, Morales picked up a semi-automatic from a wounded man and ran straight into the forest. Noriega saw him, surprised to find him there, unmistakably his old rival. He let loose a full magazine as the man dived into the bush but could not be sure if he had hit him. He called on those around him to come with him and charged full-pelt in pursuit.

Morales could hear them coming after him and tore at the thick bush like a wild beast. He went for the high ground, only about a hundred yards to the summit of the hill, albeit in an environment that made progress difficult. The other side of the hill, he knew, was less dense in vegetation and more rocky. At the bottom flowed a river. If he could get halfway down before the others reached the summit, he was sure he could reach the water. Then he might live to fight another day.

He heard the bush give way as they gained on him so he turned and loosed six rounds in their direction. One man screamed. That gave Morales some pleasure and with it the extra stamina to press on. He heard a barrage of
shots
, and the whiz of bullets cutting through vegetation, but did not stop; he calculated that his own shots would have made the pursuers hesitate, or at least proceed with caution, giving him a few more precious yards. Then the bush became thinner and he saw the top within his reach. Morales emptied the rest of his magazine at his hunters, then threw aside his gun and, ignoring the pain in his wounded leg, started racing down towards the river.

Noriega reached the ridge first and saw him, a hundred and fifty yards below, almost by the river bank. He took careful aim and fired, then observed the man go down as his men joined him. He could not be sure he had killed him, just that he had seen him fall in the thick grass along the bank.

‘There,’ he told his followers. ‘Look where I’m shooting’ – and he continued to fire methodically, one round at a time, into the tall grass. His men followed his example with automatic fire. When their magazines were empty, Noriega asked for a hand grenade. He pulled the pin and lobbed it high. It bounced once on rocky ground, then passed over the point where Morales had fallen and exploded in the river. The men cheered as the water rose high and another three grenades were thrown. As the echoes of the explosions faded along the Porce valley, all that was left of Morales’ hiding place was a large, barren, smouldering patch of ground. Satisfied, Noriega and his men turned back towards the camp.

The team at Villa del Carmen had been almost as successful, with the first mortar round piercing the roof and exploding on the marble floor inside. The blast within the drawing room had expanded with ferocity and from all sides. Windows, doors and substantial chunks of masonry blew outwards. Then, slowly at first, as if the
work
of a demolition expert, the roof collapsed. The armed guards were thrown into confusion as they ran towards the house, assuming a bomb had been placed in it, and turned their backs on the attacking force.

Tupac and Amaya, who had been sitting in the vehicles, about to leave with their respective charges, knew there was no point in staying put. They revved both cars and made for the driveway. The Nissan Patrol led as Carmen Morales clutched her children and looked back in disbelief at the remnants of her home. Mortar shells kept coming down and weapons fire was exchanged, then they saw the black Mercedes accelerating straight at them down the paved drive.

Tupac turned left and Amaya right.

The Mercedes skidded to a halt between them, then started again in pursuit of the Patrol. Noriega’s gunmen could see the pick-up truck carried only one man and it was not Morales. The Patrol, with the smoked-glass windows, seemed a more likely target. As they both sped, first along the lawns then through the rougher grass, the Nissan had the slight edge. Suddenly the Mercedes’ sunroof slid open and a gun barrel appeared, followed by a head and shoulders. The rapid fire shattered the other vehicle’s rear window and continued relentlessly and mostly on the mark until suddenly the Patrol veered sharply, rolled over and came to an ugly halt amidst clumps of grass and flying dust. The six Noriega men left the Mercedes and walked towards the upturned 4x4, still discharging their guns. When they reached it and stopped shooting, the remains of those inside were an unrecognizable bloody pulp.

Tupac had continued on. There was nothing he could do. He reached the road, turned west and headed for home. That was what the boss had ordered, and there was
no
point in risking it at the airstrip now. He had just one more job to do, but the boss had also said not for a month.

When Noriega and his small team returned to the camp clearing, the fighting was over. Those of Morales’ men who had survived the vicious attack had dispersed into the jungle. There was nothing to be gained by following them. The dead they left alone, the wounded they put out of their misery. Then one of the men next to Noriega started chuckling.

‘Hey,
Jefe
, look at that!’ He pointed at Julio Robles, who was starting to come round.

‘Enterprising bastard.’ Noriega roared with laughter and the others joined him. ‘Dug his own fucking grave!’

One of the men picked up the shovel that lay close by.

‘Maybe I give him a hand, boss?’ he joked, throwing a spadeful of earth on top of Julio as the laughter grew and more men gathered.

‘Don’t,’ pleaded Robles, trying to make himself heard above the banter. ‘Get Noriega. I have something for him!’

The men turned to their boss and smiled expectantly. Noriega stood at the edge of the grave, then winked an amused eye at those around him. ‘You got something for Noriega, eh? Well, let me have it. I’ll pass it on.’

‘Tell him I’m Julio Iglesias.’

The men almost went into convulsions. They laughed and jested and one of them even started delivering a poor rendition of ‘All the Girls I Loved’.

‘Julio Iglesias, eh?’ Noriega repeated. Then, turning to the gunman next to him, he said lightly: ‘Pull him out.’

They stared at the cuffs and shackles and laughed again as Noriega said: ‘Guess Morales didn’t like your singing too much either.’

‘You … you promised me a job,’ said Julio deferentially.

‘That I did, Julio. That I did. What’s your real name, anyway?’

‘Julio Nieves,’ he replied, the first name that came to mind.

‘Nieves, eh? Like in snow! Now that’s a good name in our business,’ and the laughter resumed.

‘Cut this guy loose,’ Noriega ordered. ‘He is with us now.’ Then turning to Julio he said:

‘Get into one of the cars. Noriega keeps his word. If you are as good as you say at planning, I’ll employ you.’

Julio Cardenas knew he would have no problem there. He knew everything there was to know about cocaine smuggling. He had learnt it in the classroom, in Quantico, Virginia, at the Drug Enforcement Administration’s training school.

Red Harper would be furious at not being consulted. But what the hell: an opportunity like this, you simply could not pass.

At the DEA covert office in Miami, Lee Tavelli looked at the two sets of photographs through a magnifying glass. The first had been sent in by Julio Cardenas: three shots of Enrique Speer leaving his office and walking to his car, taken on Sunday in San José. The second set had come from the surveillance unit on South Street and there was no doubt in Tavelli’s mind that he was looking at the same man.

Was that it: the Morales–Salazar connection?

He called Harper in London. He would want to know anything new that came up, but Tavelli knew exactly what needed to be done.

Harper told him to go ahead and use all government resources to locate Speer if he was still in New York. He personally wished to remain in London a bit longer, until
the
British police had questioned Clayton and Sweeney. Then, depending on the outcome there, and Julio’s progress in Colombia, Harper would fly back.

Tavelli started searching on two fronts: the main hotels and the US Department of Immigration. He assigned two agents from his office to the former, starting with the five-star luxuries – these people usually lived in style – and then working their way down. Immigration might take longer, but somewhere within their system they would have the relevant information. Every foreigner entering America is required to complete a landing card. The form is filled in duplicate, one copy to be retained by the immigration officer on admission, the second attached to the visitor’s passport to be surrendered to the airline on departure. The inward portions of the forms stay at the airport for a few days and, once a good number are collected, they are transferred to immigration depots in each town. Eventually they are reconciled with the departure slips, but for the most part the system is quite useless. Millions of visitors enter the US each year and the only chance to intercept wanted persons or illegals is on the initial computer search. If this comes up with nothing, that is usually the end of all enquiries.