Harper’s chiefs tried to shake the government into action. To a degree something had been done but the results fell short of expectations. They put pressure on Colombia, impeded exports, and denied visas to its people. But Latin American governments argued back. Sanctions only punished the innocent, they reasoned, and created economic crises that hurt the currency and gave credence to left-wing extremists. They maintained, not without reason, that the drug barons of Colombia were only half the problem. The importers, distributors and consumers Stateside were most definitely the other half. Hit
them
, they pleaded, and Washington had been forced to change tack. So America helped with money and the Latins assisted, sometimes with information, other times with troops, as best they could.
Harper’s operation was small by DEA standards and run on a limited budget with just half a dozen men. Medellín was no longer a prime target. Years ago, when the Escobars and Gaviria had been supremos in the Cartel, the industrial town on the River Porce had been the focus of US attention. When the thugs ran riot in the city, the Colombians had been forced to act. Perhaps if the drug barons had run their business with some order they would still be there today. At one point Medellín’s cocaine exports were equivalent, in dollar value, to twice Colombia’s other exports combined. But it had been the domestic lawlessness that finished Medellín’s hegemony.
Now history was repeating itself: two hundred miles further south, three thousand feet up the Cauca Valley, along the banks of the Cali River. The old colonial city, with a pedigree that went back to 1536, had been one of Colombia’s most important cultural and commercial centres until the cocaine merchants moved in. They took over the drug business with a gusto that made Medellín’s recent history seem pale by comparison. No longer bothering with surreptitious little shipments, they flew their own freighters, Boeing 727s, loaded to the gunwales with cocaine. Up they went into the night. North to Mexicali, just outside US radar range. Then they transloaded the cargo to smaller fleets for northern Mexican destinations.
Finally the mules, human mules, moved the cargo across the border.
The authorities, Colombian and American, turned their attention to Cali, but Harper kept his eyes fixed on Medellín. Morales was clever, educated, discreet. He controlled his men with an iron fist and dealt with affronts to the community in a way the courts would not have dared. He was a populist criminal and ten times more dangerous because of it, for his activities disturbed no one locally, just added prosperity to the region. His kind, to Harper, was the most menacing of all.
From his window – with the radiant bay, boats coming and going, their slipstreams like white lines on an Impressionist’s canvas – the southern Florida paradise looked truly idyllic. Yet from the Everglades to Daytona Beach deals were constantly being made. Goods would arrive and reach the customer and bags full of cash would find their way to the offshore banks. Harper caught sight of his reflection on the smoked curtain walling and ran his hand through his close-cropped hair. The sight of drooping eye-bags above his freckled cheekbones made him wonder: when next could he hope for a decent rest?
He shook his head in resignation, took another pull at his beer, and turned to Cardenas’ fax once more. Morales was up to something that required spending lots of money. That was a good lead. If Harper’s team could intercept the money, Morales would hurt. They might also be able to chart some of the money trail, maybe link a few new names to the laundry chain.
So it was time to go to work.
Salazar in New York would be a good start. The DEA knew he handled Medellín money, though proving it was something else. His New York office was already watched twenty-four hours a day. Red would ask for more men to be put on the job.
them
, they pleaded, and Washington had been forced to change tack. So America helped with money and the Latins assisted, sometimes with information, other times with troops, as best they could.
Harper’s operation was small by DEA standards and run on a limited budget with just half a dozen men. Medellín was no longer a prime target. Years ago, when the Escobars and Gaviria had been supremos in the Cartel, the industrial town on the River Porce had been the focus of US attention. When the thugs ran riot in the city, the Colombians had been forced to act. Perhaps if the drug barons had run their business with some order they would still be there today. At one point Medellín’s cocaine exports were equivalent, in dollar value, to twice Colombia’s other exports combined. But it had been the domestic lawlessness that finished Medellín’s hegemony.
Now history was repeating itself: two hundred miles further south, three thousand feet up the Cauca Valley, along the banks of the Cali River. The old colonial city, with a pedigree that went back to 1536, had been one of Colombia’s most important cultural and commercial centres until the cocaine merchants moved in. They took over the drug business with a gusto that made Medellín’s recent history seem pale by comparison. No longer bothering with surreptitious little shipments, they flew their own freighters, Boeing 727s, loaded to the gunwales with cocaine. Up they went into the night. North to Mexicali, just outside US radar range. Then they transloaded the cargo to smaller fleets for northern Mexican destinations.
Finally the mules, human mules, moved the cargo across the border.
The authorities, Colombian and American, turned their attention to Cali, but Harper kept his eyes fixed on Medellín. Morales was clever, educated, discreet. He controlled his men with an iron fist and dealt with affronts to the community in a way the courts would not have dared. He was a populist criminal and ten times more dangerous because of it, for his activities disturbed no one locally, just added prosperity to the region. His kind, to Harper, was the most menacing of all.
From his window – with the radiant bay, boats coming and going, their slipstreams like white lines on an Impressionist’s canvas – the southern Florida paradise looked truly idyllic. Yet from the Everglades to Daytona Beach deals were constantly being made. Goods would arrive and reach the customer and bags full of cash would find their way to the offshore banks. Harper caught sight of his reflection on the smoked curtain walling and ran his hand through his close-cropped hair. The sight of drooping eye-bags above his freckled cheekbones made him wonder: when next could he hope for a decent rest?
He shook his head in resignation, took another pull at his beer, and turned to Cardenas’ fax once more. Morales was up to something that required spending lots of money. That was a good lead. If Harper’s team could intercept the money, Morales would hurt. They might also be able to chart some of the money trail, maybe link a few new names to the laundry chain.
So it was time to go to work.
Salazar in New York would be a good start. The DEA knew he handled Medellín money, though proving it was something else. His New York office was already watched twenty-four hours a day. Red would ask for more men to be put on the job.
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