He recognized that the quickest way to achieve expertise in new enterprises was to bypass time-consuming learning curves and buy up successful preexisting companies in that market. His understanding of finances and how to move and sell product led to the rapid — even extreme — growth of his empire. However, his organization was not without problems. Three of the cartel’s highest-ranking members began running the drug-smuggling operations into the ground based on their egos and hubris, thus he’d been forced to “remove” them from power. The decision — like the one concerning Juarez — still haunted him, but he knew if he didn’t act swiftly, the operation would go down, and he along with it.
In more recent years he’d purchased land in New York City and made millions by flipping such parcels. He bailed out book and magazine publishers and bought stock in them. He often flirted with the idea of simply handing over the entire cartel and its businesses to Fernando Castillo, who would provide stable and keen leadership. Rojas had been ready to make a clean break, but then the world’s economy had nose-dived, and he’d been forced to reinforce his companies and build back his earnings by remaining the clandestine leader of what now had become the most profitable and powerful drug cartel in Mexico.
How did he do it?
He thought of leaning toward Campbell and telling him the truth.
J.C. arrived with their dinner — freshly made fajitas that filled the cabin with an aroma that made Rojas dizzy. He thought of Miguel, who’d soon be heading off with his young lady for a short vacation.
What would that day be like? The day his only son learned the truth?
18 THE SLEEPING DOG
The presidential palace of Colombia had been named in honor of Antonio Narino, born 1765, who’d been one of the political and military leaders of the independence movement in Colombia and who’d built his own home on the same site. Four pairs of round columns rose up to a stunning archway at the palace’s entrance, and as Rojas passed into the shadows of that magnificent work of art, he thought that yes, it would be nice to live in a house with as much history and tradition as this one. Jeff Campbell came up behind him, and President Tomas Rodriguez was already there, beaming at them. He had a thick shock of dark brown hair and wore a black suit, white dress shirt, and gold silk tie that gave Rojas pause. He’d never seen material as smooth and glistening, and he made a mental note to ask the president about it.
The introductions were brief, with the president making direct eye contact and giving both Rojas and Campbell firm handshakes, following up with an
“I apologize for our late arrival,” said Rojas. “But after that madness in Paris, passing through customs was nearly a three-hour ordeal.”
“I understand the delay,” said Rodriguez. “Now, I’ve set us up in the library. I won’t turn in until ten this evening, so we have plenty of time. We can also move to the observatory, if it’s not too cold. I’m sure you’ll chew my ear off with the reports on your holdings, more than I’d ever want to know about petroleum, coffee, and coal …I want to tell you that we’re doing much better than the last time we talked.”
“Yes, we are,” said Rojas, his tone brightening.
The president started off.
Campbell turned to Rojas and grinned. “This is incredible.”
“Of course,” said Rojas. Then he added in a whisper, “And when we’re finished, you’re going to have a government contract, trust me.”
“Excellent,” Campbell said with a gasp.
They shifted past the entrance foyer, whose walls displayed fine pieces of framed art, including several paintings of Antonio Narino himself, along with ornate furniture dating back several hundred years. This kind of history and opulence no longer moved Rojas to an outward reaction, but he enjoyed watching Campbell’s eyes grow even wider the farther they ventured into the palace.
His phone vibrated. He checked the text message from Fernando Castillo: I’m here now with Ballesteros.
Rojas nodded inwardly. Ballesteros had been having a very rough time of it, and Rojas was glad they were here now in the country to help his loyal supplier. Ballesteros’s enemies were about to suffer the full wrath of the Juarez Cartel.
Colonel Julio Dios of the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia, the largest and oldest insurgent group in the Americas, settled down onto his cot inside the tent. This was his fiftieth birthday, and he’d spent the day drinking and celebrating with his men. Ah, the word
But while Ballesteros was expanding his business, Dios and his comrades were being aggressively hunted down, their numbers beginning to dwindle, their fate seemingly tied to the generosity of Ballesteros and other drug traffickers like him. That, Dios had decided, needed to change, and so he had been putting more than a little pressure on the drug man, whose stubbornness would soon get him killed.
Dios cupped his head in his hands. He was ready to enjoy a long and restful night.
He neither heard nor saw the man enter his tent, only felt the hand go over his mouth and the white-hot pain flood into his chest. When he finally looked up through the grainy darkness, he saw only a figure dressed in black, the face covered by a balaclava with only one eye cut out — or was that a patch lying beneath the other eyehole?
“Ballesteros sends his regards. You don’t fuck with us. Ever. Your boys will know that now …Go see God …”
The man punched him in the chest again, more white-hot pain, and suddenly Dios had no control over his arms and legs. He wanted to cough. Couldn’t. He started to take a breath. Couldn’t. And then …
As he left the tent with blood-covered gloves, Fernando Castillo thought about the other men who were being killed at the exact same moment, six other high-ranking FARC leaders who would all be murdered with notes pinned to their chests “asking” for their renewed cooperation and “patience.” The Juarez Cartel had spoken.
Those were Mullah Abdul Samad’s orders, and every decision he made was directed toward completing that
