And that is what Miguel started smuggling, hence his nickname.?
Lombardi took a map out of the envelope and unfolded it on the desk.
?This is Colombia, and this area, on the Caribbean coast, is the Guajira. As you can see, what the province lacked in soil fertility, it made up for in geographic location. Just look at this length of coastline. If you wanted to smuggle marijuana to the US, you either sent a boat to the Guajira coast, or you sent a cargo plane. Miguel knew the farmers who grew the stuff in the mountains, and he knew the coast like the back of his hand. So he became a
A smuggler of marijuana. The Colombians refer to it as
Anyway, he made a killing in the seventies. But then, in the late seventies and eighties, cocaine became the drug of preference internationally. And the balance of drug power, the money, and the focus of law enforcement moved to central Colombia. To people like Pablo Escobar and the Medellin Cartel. Carlos Lehder, the Ochoa brothers, Jose Rodriguez-Gacha . . .
?Miguel did not like cocaine, and he didn?t have the natural contacts for it, so he stuck to
made good money, but he never reached the dizzy heights of wealth and power like Escobar or Lehder. However, in the long run, this was to his great advantage. Because when we started hunting the big cartels, Miguel was quietly going about his business. And in the nineties, his family stepped into the vacuum after the removal of the big guns.?
Another photograph came out of the brown envelope.
?This is Miguel Sangrenegra?s eldest son, Javier. He is short and stocky, like his mother. And we think he has the old lady?s brains and ambition too. He was the one who put pressure on his father to expand the family business into cocaine. Miguel resisted, and Javier sidelined the old man. Not immediately, but slowly and quietly retired him in a way that meant everybody?s respect remained intact.
?Now let?s talk about Carlos.? Another photograph, this time of the youngest brother. Grainy black and white. In a sunny street in a South American town, a younger Carlos was getting out of a Land Rover Discovery.
Griessel checked his watch. He still had to pack. He wondered what the point of this story was.
?Carlos was the runt of the litter. The least intelligent of the brothers, bit of a playboy, with a taste for young girls. He managed to get a fourteen-year-old girl from the neighboring town of Barranquilla pregnant and Javier shipped him off to Cape Town to avoid trouble. He needed someone here he could trust. To oversee his operations. Because, by 2
?Carlos was doing okay. He kept out of trouble, managed his side of the business reasonably well with the help of a team very loyal to Javier?the four guys we have in custody. And then he got into the mess with the prostitute?s daughter. And now, as you know, Carlos is dead.
?Enter Cesar Sangrenegra.
The Death, they call him. If Javier is the brains of the cartel, Cesar is its strong arm. He is a killer. Rumor has it that he has executed more than three hundred people in the last ten years. And we?re not talking about ordering the death of opponents. We?re talking about personally twisting the knife.?
The last photographs came out of the envelope. Lombardi spread them over the desk. Men with amputated genitals pushed into their mouths. The bodies of women with breasts removed.
?And this is the necktie method. See how the tongue is pulled through the slit throat.
is one sick puppy. He is big and strong and very, very fit. He is totally ruthless. Some say he is a sociopath. When his name is whispered in Guajira, people tremble.?
?So what?s he doing in Cape Town?? Matt Joubert asked.
?That?s why we?re here,? said Boef Beukes.
?You see, there is a simple code in the Guajira,? said Lombardi. ?When someone takes from you?money, possessions or whatever?it is said that he walks with
on his back. It means ?snakes.? He walks with a snake on his back, a poisonous thing that can strike at any time, which keeps him looking over his shoulder in fear. The
unconditionally believe in
Justice. Revenge.?
?So what are you saying?? asked Griessel.
?I am saying that you, Inspector Griessel, will be held responsible for Carlos?s death. You, the spearman and the prostitute. You are all walking with
on your backs.?
The detective inspector with the snake on his back was going to be late. He packed his suitcase in too much of a hurry and when he reached the kitchen he grabbed the brandy bottle from the cupboard and put it in as well.
He tore a sheet of paper from his notebook and wrote a thankyou note to Charmaine Watson-Smith in an untidy scrawl. For a moment he thought that the only rhyme he knew began with, ?There was a young man from Australia . . .? He couldn?t remember the rest, but it didn?t matter, as it wasn?t exactly relevant.
He put the clean dish down at her door and hurried to the entrance of the block of flats. As he walked he realized what was happening to Charmaine?s newspaper to make it disappear. He stopped in his tracks, turned and jogged back to her door and knocked. He picked up the dish.
It was a while before she opened.
?Why, Inspector . . .?
?Madam, I?m sorry, I have to catch a flight. I just wanted to say thank you. And I know what happens to your
