Nine months later, sitting in the EAC meeting on the kidnapped journalist at the U.S. embassy in Bogotá, listening to David Matíz, the predictably squirrelly CIA chief of station, giving the ambassador predictably squirrelly answers about the Mil Jesúses and whether or not the U.S. has had visibility on them, he pictured that tree, lying on the earth, bare branches veining the sky. He thought about the satisfactions of a job well done, and the calm such a job brings.
All day, all around him, chaos. There were more military and intelligence guys running around embassies these days than diplomats, and when something like this happened, an AmCit held captive, ripe for potential to turn into the kind of news story that brings political pressure to bear, they went crazy. Just walking into the building he could feel the hum of mad energy, like walking inside a kicked beehive. And that mad energy delighted him.
A hostage story is a simple story. Beginning, middle, end. Beginning: AmCit gets kidnapped, the military and intelligence services spring into action. Middle: AmCit suffers brutal treatment, the military doggedly pursues intel on the captors. And then, one of two endings. End one: AmCit dies. End two: Everybody is a fucking hero.
At the EAC, most of the people at the table had nothing. Defense attaché gave a generic rundown on the situation in Norte de Santander. The Legat had a little bit on the Mil Jesúses, or “the MJs,” as everybody was calling them, which conjured images of a group of Michael Jackson clones moonwalking cocaine across the border. The Legat cast the group as some lightweight narcos capitalizing on the peace and on Agamemnon, the police operation against the Urabeños. The RSO and the head of MILGROUP had little more. And then there was David Matíz, who harped on the MJs’ connections to the Venezuelan military.
“Think of them as an independent contractor,” he said, explaining that the parts of the Venezuelan military that ran drug trafficking were as rife with corruption and nepotism and mismanagement as the rest of the country, and so essential functions were often subcontracted out to entrepreneurs like Jefferson—ruthless and competent former paramilitaries with experience on both sides of the border.
“The MJs play it cautious, though,” Matíz said. “They haven’t turned up a lot of bodies. They somehow took over urabeño territory without starting a turf war. They’re low profile, so a kidnapping like this, of an American, is out of character. That means something significant has changed or perhaps it wasn’t them.”
And then it was Mason’s turn to speak, and he went over the assets they had in country ready to assist in the search. He didn’t mention Diego, or his suspicion that the AmCit was the “girlfriend” Diego had told him about. He hadn’t been able to reach Diego at all that morning, he couldn’t be sure this Lisette Marigny was in Norte de Santander because of him, so what good would it do bringing it up? He hadn’t shared any classified intelligence. Merely suggested a geographic region, and a particular group, to look into. Plus, there was something weird going on with the Colombians and the Jesúses that was more consequential, more worthy of the ambassador’s time.
“One other thing,” Mason said. “A few months after the El Alemán raid I had an odd discussion with Lieutenant Colonel Pulido. He told me he had a source in the MJs.”
“And you didn’t mention this to me?” Matíz said.
“I did, actually,” Mason said. Matíz had told him, at the time, that he didn’t care about penny-ante narco groups in Bumfucksville. “You weren’t interested.”
The ambassador raised a hand, made a “cut it out” gesture. Mason shrugged. It was the truth. And besides, it was pretty rich of the CIA to be bitching about him not sharing critical intel.
“The MJs have been pretty low on the priorities list, that’s true,” Matíz said. “I’ll see what the Colombians come up with.”
CIA guys were odd. In some ways, they were very similar to army guys. Same drive, mission-orientation, susceptibility to tunnel vision. But they had absolutely no sense of teamwork. You make your bones as a young case officer flipping people, getting foreign nationals to betray their home country in exchange for money or ideological satisfaction or a million other things that case officers learn to exploit. Perhaps that ruins the belief in team spirit.
As Mason left the meeting, he collected his phone from security and stepped into the Idaho room, which was covered with maps of the Gem State. He pressed the power button, the little screen turned on, connected to the network. He waited. He scrolled through and opened WhatsApp and refreshed. And, sure enough, up popped a message from Diego. It read, “We have to talk.”
“Oh,” he thought. “Great.”
—
At lunch with the lawyer, his increasingly troublesome contact with the Mil Jesúses, Juan Pablo debated telling the man that his daughter was in Jesúses territory. It was a quick, lopsided internal debate, in which a small voice suggested he threaten the lawyer and demand the Jesúses guarantee her safety, while a much louder voice screamed that you cannot give these kinds of men any leverage at all. And so, before the meeting, he texted his daughter, “I love you, be safe,” hoping she’d have time to stop at an internet café to get the
