This from a man who’d pointed a finger in the face of Pablo Escobar, the mass murderer in charge of the Medellin drug cartel that Jonathan had personally helped to dismantle in the nineties.
“You’re among the bravest men I know,” Jonathan assured.
Felipe said, “This man Ponder frightens me. Because you mention him, I assume he is involved in what you must do.”
“He is.”
“Then be careful. Extraordinarily careful. This man is known here as El Matador. The killer.”
Jonathan made a face. “That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think? With all respect, your country is full of matadors.”
Felipe shook his head emphatically. “Not the same. Not like this Ponder. He reminds me of Pablo. He is that- how do you say it? — ruthful.”
“Ruthless,” Jonathan corrected. “After taking down the original Pablo, I’d think that the wannabe Pablo would be easy.”
“We had two governments and thousands of people working to take down Pablo. Things are different now, no?”
Jonathan didn’t bother to point out that elements of the Colombian government was more hindrance than help the first time around.
“Ponder is a gringo,” Felipe continued. “You know how we Latinos are. Gringos lead, we follow. Ponder has paid the politicians well to allow him to make his cocaine in the jungle. The policia and the politicos all say that they are running the drugs out of our country, but they only care about the makers who do not pay well enough. Ponder, he pays good. Very, very good.”
Jonathan was confused. “So if the pockets are all fat, what’s the killing about?”
“Farmers and villagers who resist are killed in the worst ways. He hacks off hands and feet, then arms and legs as people watch. He makes people suffer horribly before he cuts their throats. He takes villagers’ children to labor in the coca fields. Many parents never see their hijos again.”
A bullshit bell rang in the back of Jonathan’s head. “Come on, Felipe. You make Ponder sound like a monster from a bedtime story.”
“Those stories all come from someplace. I’m telling you, he is the man that children of the future will learn about from their grandparents.”
“It doesn’t make sense, though. You terrorize the people, and they start to plan their retaliation.”
Felipe made a puffing sound and threw up his hands. “It might not make sense to you, but it is always the way things are done.” His eyes twinkled. “When there is no Senor Jones on your side, fear is all that many people have.”
Jonathan caught the barb, but he wasn’t sure how to interpret it. Was Felipe suggesting that he liberate entire villages while he was liberating the Guinn boy? Surely not.
Felipe said, “I still do not understand why a man like El Matador would come all the way to America to kidnap a child.”
“That’s the million-dollar question for us, too,” Jonathan confessed. “But his is the name that keeps popping up. Tell me about these coca fields. Where are they?”
“Places where you have been before, I suspect. In the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta. No better farmlands to be found in all of Colombia.”
Jonathan had indeed been there before. He recognized the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta as some of the most punishing terrain in the world, where jungles were impossibly thick, and where Indian tribes lived undiscovered until the early 1970s. The mountain range ran north-to-south just east of the city of Santa Marta and featured Pico Cristobal Colon, which, at 18,000 feet, was the fifth most prominent in the world. Back in the day, it was as lawless a place as any on earth.
Funded by billions of U.S. dollars, the paramilitary groups of the 1990s had been driven out by the Colombian government, but the open secret that no one wanted to acknowledge was that a drug war that attacks only the supply side of the equation is doomed to failure. As long as U.S. senators and their aides continued to party in their private offices on the products that they pledged to eradicate, a native population for whom cocaine is the sole source of income will find a way to keep the manufacturing chain going.
And where incomes are made by breaking the law, there’s always someone smart enough to hijack the process through graft. Political corruption was a constant throughout the world.
Felipe poked the air in Jonathan’s direction. “You need to be very careful, my friend. No one will want you there. And it’s not just El Matador. Heaven only knows who the DAS is working for today-and whoever it is, it could change tomorrow-and the Indians don’t like anyone.”
Jonathan had to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. Truly, Colombia’s national security apparatus- Departamento Administrivo de Seguridad (DAS)-had been more or less up for bid since the 1960s. Every time they’d seemed to find some measure of stability over the years, someone would assassinate someone else, and then it would be time to spin the loyalty wheel again.
The native tribes, meanwhile, had grown weary of being pushed around over the past four hundred years, and they’d become famously distrustful of everyone. Literally, everyone who was not a member of their immediate tribe.
“As long as I sleep with my eyes open and develop three-sixty peripheral vision, I should be okay, right?”
“You make light, Senor Jones.”
“What choice do I have? Unless, of course, you would like to join my team and give me guidance along the way.”
It was Felipe’s turn to laugh. “I will show you a map. I’m not a warrior anymore. I’ve seen too much death. I’ve caused too much of it. I cannot do it anymore.” His eyes narrowed, and he regarded Jonathan with a fatherly glare. “I am surprised that you still can.”
Jonathan didn’t like the dip toward sentimentality. “I don’t kill,” he said. “I save people.”
“I mean no offense, Senor Jones.” He looked to Harvey. “You truly are a man of few words.”
Harvey shrugged. “But once I start talking, I’m freaking brilliant.”
Felipe clearly didn’t understand the humor, but he smiled anyway. To Jonathan: “So, short of putting myself in danger, how can I help you?”
“I need supplies,” Jonathan said.
The old man cocked his head. “The kind of supplies you used to need?”
“More or less.”
“Paper or hardware?”
“Both, actually. But in nowhere near the old quantities.”
Felipe’s eyes narrowed. “Jose said that he would provide these things.”
Jonathan leaned back in his chair and crossed his right knee over his left. “Being cautious has always served me well,” he said. “Besides, I have my share of enemies here in Colombia, and I’m more than a few hours away from my reunion with Josie.”
“I see,” Felipe said. “So, weapons for you and Mr. Smith. And one for the other Mr. Smith, just in case?”
Jonathan nodded. “Exactly. And I don’t have much time. What do you have in stock?”
There was that smile again. “Come. I’ll show you. You can shop for yourself.”
Felipe led the way back into the house, past the kitchen on the left, and into a back bedroom that was far better kept than the rest of the rooms they passed along the way.
“This is your room?” Harvey guessed aloud.
“It is not much, but it suits me,” the old man said. “I’m sure your home is much nicer.”
Harvey was about to say something about his tent, but opted not to. The building that housed the hostel was bigger than it looked from the outside, comprising two connected structures to form one. Felipe’s room was at the very end on the back side.
The old man beckoned them all the way in, and then closed and locked the door behind him.
“You’re going to like this,” Jonathan said. Obviously, he’d been here before.
A large wooden chest rested against the back wall under the window that looked out onto the chairs where they had just been sitting. On either side, at about head-height, very Mediterranean candle sconces flanked the
