Dead Halt

Chapter Three

He sat motionless in the back of the car, a blindfold secured firmly over his eyes. The two men on either side of him were both armed, their revolvers tucked into shoulder holsters which were hidden discreetly underneath loose-fitting, lightweight jackets. He knew he wasn’t in any danger. But he was still apprehensive. He pushed the uncertainty from his mind and let his thoughts drift back over the events of the day… It had been raining when he had left his New York apartment for John F. Kennedy Airport that morning. A hard, driving rain which had reduced visibility to a few feet. He had made it to the airport with minutes to spare, but the 747 had developed engine trouble as it was preparing for take-off and the passengers had been transferred to another Jumbo. The flight for Bogota, Colombia, had finally taken off two hours behind schedule. When it had touched down at El Dorado Airport five hours later, a chartered Cessna had been waiting to fly him on to Medellin.

A taxi had taken him to the Intercontinental Hotel where a reservation had already been made for him in the name of Warren. It was the name on his passport, not his real name. He had to take every precaution. A letter was waiting for him at the reception. He opened it in his room. More bad news. One of the men he was to meet that afternoon had been unavoidably delayed out of town and couldn’t make it back in time for the original meeting. A new meeting had been rescheduled for eight o’clock that evening.

As instructed, he had left the hotel at seven-thirty and taken a taxi to the Joachim Antonio Uribe Botanical Gardens. A Mercedes was waiting to take him to the meeting. The guards had blindfolded him before they set off: the stakes were too high on both sides and it was a precaution he was prepared to accept. That had been a good twenty minutes ago. Perhaps more. He had lost track of time. Not that it mattered. He had no idea where they were going anyway …

When the Mercedes finally stopped the back door was opened and Warren was helped out of the car. A voice barked out an order in Spanish and the blindfold was removed. He was standing in front of a log cabin in a small clearing surrounded by dense jungle. He counted eight guards standing on the perimeter of the clearing. All carried Uzis. Another two guards stood on either side of the cabin door. One of them knocked on the door which was opened by a swarthy, thickset man in his early thirties. A holstered automatic was visible under his jacket. His name was Miguel Cabrera, the elder son of Jorge Cabrera who presided over one of the most powerful drug families in Colombia. The two men had already met several times during the past five months. Cabrera smiled as he approached Warren and extended a hand of greeting.

“I must apologize for the way you were brought here tonight,” Cabrera said in faultless English. “But you must appreciate that we cannot afford to take any unnecessary risks. I am sure you understand that.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Excellent. I must also apologize for delaying the meeting today but, as I explained in the letter, I was unavoidably detained in Manizales. And as I am the only member of the family who speaks English, it was essential that I be here.” Cabrera gestured to the open cabin door. “Please, after you.”

Warren entered the cabin. A mahogany table dominated the small room. Eight matching chairs were positioned around it, and a leather padded chair stood at its head. Two men sat at the table. Ramón Cabrera was in his mid-twenties with long black hair which he wore in a ponytail at the back of his head. The brothers were complete opposites. Ramón was the brawn, Miguel the brains. That suited the cartel perfectly. Miguel had set up numerous international deals, using all the business acumen he had learned from his father. It was no secret that he was being groomed to run the family when his father stepped down. Ramón had been head of security for the cartel for the past four years and in that time he had become one of the most feared and hated men in the country. Despite their differences, the brothers were inseparable.

Twenty-two-stone Jorge Cabrera was fiercely proud of his sons. He sat at the head of the table, a handkerchief in one hand, a cigar in the other. He dabbed his sweating face with the handkerchief then placed the cigar in the ashtray beside him and beckoned Warren into the room. Miguel closed the door and made the necessary introductions. Ramón reluctantly shook Warren’s extended hand. Jorge Cabrera ignored it.

“Please, won’t you sit down?” Miguel said to Warren, indicating a chair. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Bourbon if you have it,” Warren said, sitting down.

Miguel poured a generous measure from a decanter on the sideboard and placed the glass in front of Warren. He then took his seat on the right of his father. Ramón, who was seated directly opposite Miguel, leaned forward and whispered something to him under his breath. His father banged his fist angrily on the table and ordered him to be quiet.

Miguel looked at Warren. “My brother does not trust you.”

Warren swallowed nervously. Miguel smiled ironically. “Do not worry, he does not trust anyone. I sometimes wonder if he even trusts me.”

Jorge Cabrera spoke quickly in Spanish, his eyes never leaving Warren’s face; and when he’d finished he pushed the cigar back into his mouth and dabbed his forehead with the damp handkerchief.

“My father welcomes you to Colombia. He says he has been looking forward to meeting you ever since I first told him about your proposed deal.”

Jorge Cabrera nodded as if he understood what his son had said then launched into another bout of Spanish. Miguel was quick to translate whenever his father paused to take a draw on the cigar.

“You said the decision to deal with us was based mainly on the fact that we are one of the most powerful families currently exporting narcotics to Europe and America. This may be true. But how do you gauge power? Is it financial? Is it how much influence we can exert within the government? Is it the number in our workforce? We could speculate all evening. What is true, however, is that we are the leading family when it comes to the processing and distribution of cocaine. In fact, that is now our sole export. Cannabis and barbiturates we leave to the other families. Neither of them has the drawing power of cocaine. I will tell you something that your Drug Enforcement Agency would give their right arm to know. We exported almost fifty percent of the cocaine which was sent from Medellin to your country last year. But most of it was channelled through Florida. And we lost a considerable amount of that because your DEA is getting wise to our routes. After all, there are only a limited amount of routes into Florida. That is why your plan was like a breath of fresh air to us. Not only would it be a new route outside Florida but, more importantly, only we would have access to it. We already have a distribution network in the area. It can be enlarged without any difficulty at all. It’s now up to you to give us the go-ahead and we can send out our first shipment.”

Warren took a sip of bourbon then turned the glass around slowly in his hand. He finally looked up at Jorge Cabrera. “We’re ready whenever you are.”

Miguel translated for his father. Jorge Cabrera nodded and spoke softly to Miguel who then turned back to Warren. “My father has asked that you and I work out a date between ourselves before you fly back to New York.”

“I was hoping to fly out tonight.”

“Impossible,” Miguel replied, shaking his head.

“I don’t understand,” Warren said warily.

“The airport only operates during the day. Medellin is surrounded by mountains. It is far too dangerous for an aircraft to take off or land at night. I will see to it that you are booked on the first flight out in the morning. But tonight you are my guest. Do you like seafood?”

“Yes.”

“Then we will dine at Las Lomas. It serves the best seafood in town. Some would even say the best in the country. We can talk further over dinner.”

Jorge Cabrera nodded to Ramón who got up and retrieved an attaché case from the sideboard. He placed it in front of Warren then returned to his seat and sat down again.

“Open it,” Miguel told him.

Warren unlocked the case and lifted up the lid.

“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. All in untraceable notes,” Miguel told him. “It is merely a gesture of goodwill on our part.”

Warren flipped through one of the bundles then looked up at Jorge Cabrera. “Gracias.”

Jorge Cabrera nodded then stubbed out the cigar to signify the end of the meeting.

Miguel got to his feet and moved to the door. “I am afraid you will have to be blindfolded again for the journey back to your hotel. I will have a car pick you up at, say, nine-thirty to take you to the restaurant.”

“Yes, that would be fine.”

“Until then,” Miguel said, shaking Warren’s hand. Warren smiled to himself. It was all going according to plan …