Arauca: A Novel of Colombia Page 4

  “No, sir,” Shipley answered with a false smile. “Just sign a letter authorizing the transfer. My secretary will prepare the letter.”

  During the next few days, Gerald cleared the slate to make his mother ready for her new life. He arranged for an auction to sell all of the equipment and tools, all proceeds going to pay down the loan. Better to sell now than let the equipment sit and deteriorate. He put out the word that the land was for rent. Three honorable farmers came by the house and leased the whole farm, dividing the land among them. The rent income worked out to a little less than two thousand a month after the property taxes were paid. Not nearly enough to put any money toward the loan, but enough to augment the Social Security check and let his mother live comfortably.

  That was eighteen months ago. He was almost down to $200,000 on the mortgage; less than half of where he started. The auction brought in $35,000, and his payments had reduced the principal by $4,000. All the rest had come from his work for the Colombian farmers.

  His fourth rotation into Bogota, he had been approached by a European-looking man at the Radisson hotel bar. Gerald was having his free ‘welcome drink” before he went to bed. The man started talking with him in accented English about how nice the hotel staff treated him each time he stayed there.

  “Yes, and the women are lovely, too,” he continued. “So difficult to entertain women when one has no money, isn’t it, Mr. Minor.”

  Gerald almost fell off of his stool. He had not told the man his name. After taking a sip of his whiskey, the man continued.

  “We would like to talk with you about a way that you can earn a little extra money to pay off the debt on your family farm.” Alarms sounded in Gerald Minor’s head. All the security briefings given to him when he first hired on warned about people who would approach him and offer money for information. I’ll just let him talk and hear what he has to say.

  “Go on,” he said cautiously.

  “Sorry to be blunt, but we have so little time. You are one of the men who program the spray coordinates into the aircraft. We want you to give us those coordinates. In return, we will pay you $10,000 per month.”

  “I’ll have to think about it,” Gerald answered looking at his beer.

  “Good,” I’ll see you in two weeks, on your rotation out.” He put down his drink, and walked out.

  Gerald knew that he should report the contact to George Allen, the Security Chief. But $10,000 a month would really solve his money problems. In just a few months, he could get the balance down enough to get refinanced at a lower interest rate. He was having trouble keeping all the balls in the air. His payment on his personal loan was two weeks late, and they were calling on his cell phone down here. After making the payment for the farm, there was so little left to live on.

  The next morning Gerald went up to George at the passenger loading station outside the Monroe office. George searched his bags looking for weapons and alcohol, just like he did with everyone else. Gerald opened his mouth to tell George about the contact last night, but the words caught in his throat. Ten thousand dollars a month. Gerald could not get the mantra out of his mind.

  Two weeks later, on the rotation out, Gerald went to the hotel bar looking for the man he had met two weeks before, but he was not to be seen. A lovely Colombian woman in her early thirties sat alone at a table in the corner. She stood 5’2”, 110 pounds, and had light brown hair down to the middle of her back. She was the most beautiful woman Gerald had ever seen. She dressed in tight black jeans, high heel sandals, and a black see-through blouse. Under the blouse she had on a low cut black bra.

  After a few minutes, Miss Black Bra got up and came and sat next to Gerald. “Are you waiting for someone?” she asked sweetly, in accented English. Her perfume was perfect: heady, but not too strong.

  “Yes, I was supposed to meet a man here,” Gerald answered, unable to keep his eyes off of the very fine breasts of the Colombiana.

  “Maybe he is waiting for you in a restaurant nearby, Senor Minor.” She smiled, and Gerald felt weak being this close to such a lovely, sensual creature. Drawn into her spell, Gerald allowed himself to be led outside to a waiting cab, and they both got into the back seat. Deep inside, he knew that this could be a kidnapping, but his greed and lust overcame his good sense, and the cab sped away.

  Less than ten minutes later, the cab stopped at a typical Colombian restaurant. On the way over, he found out the woman’s name. Luz Estella. Starlight in English. Gerald did not know this part of town. Much poorer than the Radisson, this neighborhood seemed to have a different heartbeat, but it was not a slum. The first floor restaurant was decorated with rough pillars made of large tree trunks, unfinished plastered walls, a wood burning grill behind the bar, and paintings of Colombian villages and mountain scenes. The tables and chairs were rough-hewn wood with the tabletops and seats sanded smooth. It looked like the restaurant had been transported whole from the jungle into downtown Bogota.

  The man who had made first contact with Gerald two weeks ago sat at the back. Luz Estella took Gerald’s arm and guided him to the man’s table. He stood, took her hand in his, kissed her on the cheek, and they exchanged pleasantries in Spanish. She turned to go, and kissed Gerald on the cheek.

  “Nos vemos,” We’ll see you, she said sweetly with a little lift of her chin, her voice filled with promise. She turned and vanished out the door.

  “Mr. Minor, so glad that you could meet me here. My name is Ino [ee-noh], short for Inocencio. Innocence in English.” Then he laughed at his joke. Ino went on, “Let’s order some food.”

  He waved to the waiter, and they brought bar-be-qued chicken on wooden platters and Club Colombia beer for both men. The chicken had been cut in half, flattened, and cooked over the open wood flame. There were also steamed new potatoes and a salad. It was delicious.

  “This is a typical Colombian dish from my part of the country. I am originally from Pasto.” Of course, Gerald knew exactly where Pasto was. San Juan de Pasto is a mountain city in the south of Colombia between two of the biggest areas of coca production. The city was the ancient capital of Colombia, built in a valley 8,700 feet above sea level.

  “I am glad that you have come to meet with me. You are to call my cousin, Salvador when you get back to Satellite Beach. He will give you instructions for getting your money flow started.”

  Ino picked up his leather briefcase and took out a brown envelope. He pushed it across the table.

  “There is a down payment of five thousand dollars. You will also find a signed contract between you and our company. Salvador’s telephone number is on it.”

  They made small talk throughout the rest of the dinner. Ino worked for a group of farmers in Putamayo. He told Gerald that these farmers were only trying to protect their crops from the sprayers. Their children were going hungry, and all of their crops, not just coca, were being killed. All they wanted to do was find a way to scare off the sprayers, or find a way to hide the crops from the surveillance aircraft. After the meal, Ino put Gerald in a cab, said a few words to the cab driver and said goodbye.

  Gerald wanted to believe Ino’s story because he needed the money. He had to help his mother. She was worried sick over taking all of his salary to pay back the loan. She had turned to some famous TV preacher who was sucking out her money and promising a miracle. His mother wouldn’t say how much she was sending him, but it was enough money that the preacher was taking time to call her on the phone and pray with her each week.

  Salvador turned out to own an import/export business in Miami. He created a business for Gerald, in Gerald’s name, and started importing leather goods from Pasto. Mostly they brought in fine leather briefcases and laptop computer bags. The bags were billed to Gerald’s company at around thirty dollars each. Gerald then sold them to Salvador’s company for $141.00 each. Gerald found out later that this helped out another of Ino’s cousins who owned a leather goods factory in Pasto.

  Salvador hired an accountant to keep up the busines
s and file the tax returns. Gerald’s import business just happened to make about $10,000 a month profit. As an added bonus, the accountant was able to find some other deductions to shield part of his Monroe Corporation salary from taxes. All payments, orders, and sales were handled by Salvador. Gerald sent off payments to the bank in Nebraska, along with extra money to pay down the principle. In return, Gerald kept a steady supply of coordinates flowing by email to Ino.

  At first, all of the spray planes had been hit, but that soon tapered off. The total number of bullet hits increased dramatically, but no aircraft were lost. However, the effect was to ground the aircraft nearly half the time while they were being repaired and inspected.

  But now, Gerald had to face up to the fact that an aircraft had crashed, and he had contributed to the death of his best friend.

  Beethoven landed and taxied to Monroe’s hangar. The passengers got up, and joy erupted. Even though they had lost Pete, everyone else had made it. The human wave flooded into the office to check their mailboxes, get money at the bank downstairs, exchange some equipment such as a faulty helmet, or pick up their renewed passports. Plenty of time to get to the hotel, take a nap and go out partying. Several of the men had Colombian girlfriends. A smaller group of married men hung out together. They would go to a nice restaurant, come back to the hotel for a cappuccino, shoot pool, and go to bed early.

  But there was no joy for Gerald Minor. He picked up his bags and started walking toward the bus that would take them to the taxi stand outside of the secure part of the airport. He saw George Allen standing on the ramp, and he almost lost control of his bowels. Fear fell over him. They’ve found out about me. For an instant he thought about running away. No way out of here but through the guarded gate. No way out……

  George looked at Gerald and felt sorry for him. This was obviously hard on him to lose his only friend like this. It was plain that Gerald had been weeping. Pretty unfeeling to interview the guy right now about security procedures, but if George didn’t do it now, he would not see him again for two weeks.

  “Gerald, sorry about Pete,” George said gently.

  “Yeah, he was a great guy,” Gerald answered. His face screwed up and he was weeping again. George moved around and shielded him from the others with his body. He picked up Gerald’s bag, and they moved silently toward the bus.

  “Look, I know it ain’t a good time, but I need to talk with you about how the data cards are handled. I think we might have a leak. We’ve got to get an idea of how the g’s are getting this intel. Do you feel up to talking for a minute?”

  Gerald nodded, and George began a gentle debrief of all the procedures to keep the data safe. As he went through each question, George took careful notes.

  “Since you know that others can sometimes look at your laptop, you don’t ever copy the coordinates onto your own machine, do you?”

  Gerald turned his head and looked at the ground. “No, I never copy them onto my computer.”

  George jerked like he’d been stabbed. This is the leak! Right here under my nose. This guy, like most Americans, was a terrible liar.

  “Well, OK, I guess that does it. We’ll be asking everyone who handles this data to be extra careful with it in the future, OK?”

  “Yes, sir.” Gerald perked up since it looked like the end of the interview. “Am I free to go now?”

  George nodded, hoping that he hadn’t given himself away to the kid. He walked away and turned to watch Gerald get on the bus. George flicked open his cell phone and dialed Whitehorse Jackson’s private cell phone number.

  “Well, if it isn’t George of the Jungle,” Jackson answered. George couldn’t stand that nickname, and only Whitehorse dared use it to his face.

  “Look, I’ve just interviewed one of my men. He’s the one passing spray coordinates to the FARC.”

  Chapter Three

  1920, Monday, July 8

  Golden Corral Steakhouse

  Junction, Texas, USA

  “I don’t think that God is pleased with your business or your lifestyle, Brother Parry.” The Reverend Bronson had a voice like a bass note from an old steam pipe organ. Stan Parry knew this was the reason Reverend Bronson invited him out for dinner and then “allowed” Stan to pay. They had just sat down: Stan prayed aloud before the meal, thanking God for the food. He prayed silently that the real discussion wouldn’t begin until after they had made their second run at the buffet tables. Both he and the Reverend were world class eaters.

  The pair of men appeared almost twins except for their clothes: Five feet, eight inches, bald, and both approaching three hundred pounds. Stan wore Levis and tennis shoes, with a thin white pull over shirt. The Reverend dressed in his black suit and brilliant white shirt. When they entered the restaurant, Stan noticed the manager make a face knowing he would lose money on these two.

  “Church members don’t understand what I do for a living, Reverend.”

  “They understand you are not abiding by Jesus’ words when he said…,” here the Reverend allowed his voice to deepen even further. “’If a man strikes thee on the right cheek, turn to him the other also.’” Stan knew the Reverend, like many church professionals, was a devout pacifist.

  “Now, Reverend. You know that there passage is speaking about individual interactions. Not war. Jesus also said that if his disciples did not have a sword, they ought to go out and buy one,” Stan retorted. “And swords were only used for one thing. God knew that mankind needs police. And that’s what I do.”

  “You are not a policeman, Stan. You are a soldier. You kill. And you design machines that kill great masses of people. ‘Thou shalt not kill.’”

  Even though he could feel his face grow beet red, Stan kept control of his anger. He didn’t look at the Reverend, but went to work cutting his tough, but tasty steak.

  “The Christian changes the world by using love as his weapon of choice,” the Reverend was on a roll now.

  “Look, when God needed to defend the Israelites in Second Kings, he didn’t use his love on the Assyrians, he sent down an angel who killed twenty thousand in one night!” Stan knew he was speaking too loud, but he couldn’t help himself.

  “My gunship is not an offensive weapon. It is used to defend villages and infrastructure against attacks by guerrilla forces.”

  “Stan, what I’m saying is you should get a regular job.” The Reverend leaned forward and put his hand on Stan’s forearm. “God uses evil people to advance his will in wars. A Christian has no business being in the business of war.”

  “I’ve tried other jobs, Reverend. After I got out of the Army, I ran a donut shop for years. But I was miserable. God made me a warrior. Just like he made King David a warrior. I see my work as helping poor governments in their fight against insurgency. I don’t think you will ever understand because you’re too prejudiced against violence for any reason. But I’ve known fine men and women in the military. People who knew that their work was important and good.”

  “I don’t know how you could ever say that your type of work is good,” the Reverend’s voice dripped with contempt.

  “Thou shalt not judge,” Stan said slowly.

  “I don’t judge you, Stan, but the Lord has. You can see how he has plagued you financially.” The preacher turned on his most persuasive style. “You are poor. God has stricken you because of your sinful lifestyle.” The Reverend reached across and grabbed Stan’s arm.

  “Turn back to him and leave this violence and killing to evil men, and then God will bless you with abundance.”

  Stan stared at the preacher, noticing his expensive suit, Rolex watch, and diamond pinky ring. Stan was painfully aware that he needed a new car, lived in a small rent house, and had no savings. The comparison was just too painful. Reverend Bronson noticed Stan staring at him, and they locked eyes.

  After a full minute of silence, Stan stood up and marched out the door with as much dignity as he could. He walked out to his truck and stood for a moment to think. Stan Par
ry knew that the Reverend had accomplished his goal. The purpose of the meeting was not to change Stan, but to be able to tell the congregation he had spoken with Stan and Stan would not listen to reason.

  Also, this meeting let Stan know that his days in that congregation were numbered. The Reverend was going force him out soon. Reverend Bronson ruled that church like a king over a village. But the Reverend would not have to force Stan out. He would not be able to attend there anymore knowing the attitude of the leadership. Perhaps the Baptists would be more reasonable.

  Stan opened the door to his old pickup. (No one locked their doors in Junction.) Hefting his bulk up on the seat and then wedging himself under the steering wheel, Stan thought for the ten thousandth time that he needed to lose some weight.

  He fumed as he drove the five minutes home. Bronson wouldn’t be so high and mighty if he had ever been in combat and seen what those guerrillas do to a society. If he had ever been a soldier….Then Stan started to laugh. Bronson could never have made it as a soldier!

  Stan felt God had a special place in his heart for soldiers. Great characters of the Old Testament were accomplished warriors. And in the New Testament, Jesus interacted with several Roman Centurions. Why didn’t I remember to say that when I was with that blowhard Bronson?

  2110, Monday, July 8

  La Oficina Bar

  Bogotá, Colombia

  Whitehorse Jackson sat in the back corner at a small round table watching the other patrons in the bar. He liked coming to this bar; it reminded him of a time when he still went out and recruited agents. The location was on the edge of the bad part of town, so he knew he wouldn’t run into any of the embassy crowd. They kept to Zona Rosa and Park 93. He needed to get out of his apartment and see someone other than his co-workers. Whitehorse had called his favorite drinking buddy for a few beers and some philosophical conversation.