Incitement Read online

  “So you targeted only what you felt was necessary to make a point? Am I to infer from this that the victims of the attacks were considered token and that I should be grateful it wasn’t much worse?”

  He wondered why Uka was putting such an emphasis on the elimination of some hired guns. He was all for the use of diplomacy to smooth ruffled feathers but the Kosovar was being churlish. He had agreed with Madrigal that the meeting might get fairly heated at some stage, harsh words might be exchanged, but they had anticipated that any rancour would focus on more substantive issues like the damaged supply lines or lost inventory. Perhaps this was a negotiating tactic. If he complained strongly about the loss of contracted labour, he might think he was building a case for compensation on the material loss. If that was it, Cervantes realised he needed to adopt a stronger stance to illustrate that Madrigal’s desire to be reasonable had its limits. Uka was aware of Cervantes’, position and closeness to Madrigal; this awareness provided Raul with a degree of protection. Emboldened by this, he decided to be more direct in the hopes of getting the conversation back where he wanted it.

  “Lubomir, let’s be honest with each other, this could indeed have been much worse,” Cervantes said. “You know some of the people Luis has to deal with and their tendencies. Believe me, it’s a good thing that only Luis and I were involved in deciding what to target. It’s unfortunate anyone had to die but, frankly, these men can be easily replaced.”

  Uka’s nostrils flared and his face trembled. He threw the photograph he had been studying down to land at Cervantes’ feet. The Colombian looked questioningly at Uka whose stare bore through him. Stooping over, Cervantes picked up the photograph.

  “Tell me again, how I should be grateful for your restraint. I must be stupid or blind because no matter how long I look at this and the others, I can’t see it at all.”

  Cervantes was so riveted by the image in his hands that he barely heard Uka. A feeling of dread overcame him as he realised that Uka blamed him for what it contained. He had seen many dead bodies and more than a few had died at his own hand but the scene contained in the photograph was beyond anything he had ever witnessed.

  “Who ... ?” he began.

  “It’s clear to see what your intention was. You believed your visit, so close on the heels of Nisret’s torture, would have us cowering in fear.” The Kosovar shook with rage as he uttered the words but then, with a noticeable effort, quelled all outward signs of emotion. “The calculation was that the brutal slaughter would be terrifying. We would gratefully accept whatever subordinate role you’ve envisaged for us and be thankful that you stopped where you did. After all, if my cousin meant so little to you ... well, the object lesson hasn’t been wasted.”

  He nodded his head and two of the guards drew their guns and fired. The bullets shattered Cervantes’ shinbones and he collapsed. The pain was unbelievable and he struggled to retain consciousness as wave after wave of agony assailed him. Uka walked around the desk and looked down at the writhing Colombian.

  “Please, this wasn’t us. You must see that?”

  Uka was not listening. “I’m saddened but not totally surprised. Madrigal obviously believes himself beyond our reach, unaccountable for his actions. Well, we’ll see.”

  A second nod from Uka was accompanied by another explosion of pain as both of his knees disintegrated under the impact of the soft-nosed rounds. This time he did lose consciousness.

  When he was revived, his suffering lingered for what seemed an eternity, before the next, final, release.

  four

  Mesi was looking forward to the evening that lay ahead. The bath had just been drawn and she had rented two classic movies, The Awful Truth and Arsenic and Old Lace, for later. She lit three scented candles, placed them around the bathroom and turned on the CD player, smiling as the first strains of Rusalka permeated the apartment. Now, all she needed to do was get the stack of magazines and newspaper supplements from the living room and everything was set. At last, a work-free evening. It had been flat out since the meeting in Arlington nine weeks earlier. Sleep and leisure time had both been sacrificed. She knew, though, that she could only work so hard before a break was required and tonight, she had decided, was going to be just that.

  She had placed a lot of the pressure on herself to either substantiate or dismiss the link between the attacks and the Kosovars. As she found herself unwilling to trust her subordinates to make decisions on whether data was pertinent or not that left her to sift through innumerable reports alone. The vast majority of it ended up being discounted but to even establish its lack of significance took time.

  She had decided to err on the side of caution and focus on a reasonably long time period, starting from six months before the first suspected incident right up to the present. Besides searching for signs of incidents that may not have been spotted up to that point, she was also interested in trends that could constitute secondary effects of a campaign against the Madrigal-Zaragosa Alliance. All of these she entered in a specifically designed database. If there had been any reported change in street prices for various drugs, it might tie in to an underlying shortage. If a geographic analysis of a drugs seizure had thrown up unexpected results, it was entered as a possible indication of alternative sources moving in to fill gaps in the normal supply. If there had been a rise in figures for particular types of crime that had proven correlations to drug dependency, these too were logged.

  In parallel with the data analysis, she had also contacted overseas colleagues. Some were law enforcement, others academics, some were just people with whom the DEA had developed a relationship at some point, such as a tour guide in Thailand who smuggled funds and medicine over the border into Burma. The theory was that if a fundamental shift was occurring in the global drug economy, someone might have started to see some localised manifestations. And no matter what she was working on or whom she was talking to, she always had to factor in Plan Coca. Regardless of whether it had been unjustly lauded up to now, the irony was that it could still have a major impact, if applied to a market already weakened by something else.

  The result of all of this analysis?

  Nothing. At least nothing definitive.

  Oh, she could make what seemed like a plausible case for a secret war being waged but she could just as easily discredit the theory.

  Lately, as the sum of her findings proved more and more ambiguous, she found herself straying in a different direction. She could not remember precisely why she had started – it might have been frustration or just some tangential thought. She had made a copy of the original database and begun modelling projections based on the worst-case scenario she could envisage, socially and financially. She wanted to know what the end result might be if there was a full-on, no-holds-barred war between the drug superpowers. As a backdrop to the model, she had created as many interdependencies as possible between the drugs trade and mainstream society, some of which were admittedly arguable. The model had grown to become a kind of doomsday scenario. It had predicted a complete breakdown in social order; spiralling crime, looting, high absenteeism, companies going bust, rehabilitation facilities overwhelmed by demand, disintegration of family units, financial markets tumbling and even declarations of martial law. She had gotten so caught up in it at one point, so frightened by the results, that she almost forgot it was just a hypothetical exercise. When she had caught what she was doing, she admonished herself for being like a child who deliberately asks for a horror story in the sure knowledge that they will be scared witless.

  As a result of her failure to develop anything solid, she knew that she would be told to abandon the investigation soon and TAIT would have lost an opportunity. Since the meeting there had been just one incident that seemed consistent with a drug war. An attack on a haulage depot in Ankara resulting in five men being killed and 150 kilos of heroin being seized by authorities. Despite the investigation by the Turkish police, nothing more had materialised. Her last outstanding task inv
olved flying up to New York tomorrow to meet the director of a methadone programme, to discuss a recent surge in the demand for places.

  Clutching at straws.

  She was testing the bath water when the phone rang. On the verge of letting it go to the machine, she changed her mind at the last minute and ran into the living room to pick up.

  “Diane, sorry to disturb you so late,” Arthur Marshall began. “There’s been a significant development. I think you’d better come into the office.”

  The tone of his voice was worrying.

  “What’s happened?”

  “I’ve just received reports of two incidents, which I think confirm our fears. The first happened in downtown Vienna. A prominent local figure with documented ties to the Fifteen Families was attacked in one of the city’s upmarket restaurants. At least five men entered the building and opened up with automatic weapons. Some of those at the table managed to return fire. Busiest time of the evening and the place was turned into a shooting gallery. It was all over very quickly and reports are that all the attackers got away.”

  “Casualties?”

  “In addition to the presumed target and his party of ten, at least nine bystanders are dead; more injured, some critically.”

  “Christ! You said two incidents?”

  “Madrid, an unconfirmed number of hit squads systematically moved through an area well known for street dealing. They appeared to be targeting pushers and their customers but weren’t too choosy about who they hit. Any congregation of two or three was fair game. Most of the victims were just residents of the area going about their normal business.”

  “How many dead there?”

  “Not sure yet. What we have so far is less clear than Vienna. The authorities are just getting to grips with it. I’ve got to go; there’s a call waiting. We’ll talk when you get here.”

  She returned the phone to its cradle and went into the bathroom to blow out the candles.

  Mesi and Will Samuels sat across the desk from Marshall waiting for him to finish the latest call. She had read what reports they had but everything was still very sketchy. The footage of the news report from Vienna on the muted TV in Marshall’s office was terrible. She felt guilty for all the times she had wished an opportunity would arise to prove her suspicions.

  Marshall put the phone down and looked over at them, the anger clearly visible on his face. “Typical! Most of these calls are from people who didn’t want to know when we called the initial meeting. That jerk Allenby is a prime example,” he growled. “All I’ve heard for the past two months is how he’s been bitching about us trying to undermine the State Department’s initiative. Now he’s burning up the telephone line trying to find out what all this means. Do you know what they’re most worried about?”

  “Similar incidents on our soil?” Marshall guessed.

  “No, surprisingly enough. They’re afraid of the media fallout when someone figures out what’s behind this. It’s bound to happen, sooner rather than later. I guess we should be worried too; we’ll be crucified.”

  “You mean if we knew incidents like this might be likely, why didn’t we do something? If we didn’t know, why not?”

  “Exactly. The only silver lining is that we never aligned ourselves as strongly with Plan Coca as some others. All it’s going to take is some reporter asking how long the dispute’s been going on.”

  “Maybe they won’t,” offered Samuels.

  Marshall shook his head. “If no one thinks of it themselves, there are plenty of critics of the Plan who’ll be happy to help them. The Plan will either be painted as responsible for the dispute because it was such a destabilising factor or ...” He looked at Mesi.

  “Or some commentators might come to the conclusion that the success attributed to Plan Coca was really a by-product of this dispute,” she said. “Either way, all those people who couldn’t wait to jump on the Plan Coca bandwagon and take a little of the credit are screwed.”

  “Fuck it, we need to focus on what’s within our control,” Marshall declared. “Here’s what’s going to happen with the investigation. Will, I want you to draft a preliminary plan on what role the different departments need to play in tackling this situation. Also, assign a dedicated liaison to the various European agencies.” He looked at her. “Diane, you and your guys will be under Will’s direction for the duration. Make sure that he’s up to speed with everything you’ve found so far, then continue with the analysis, giving updates as appropriate. So, based on the escalation we’ve seen tonight, what do you think is next?” he asked her.

  “Well, first order of business for the Kosovars is to retaliate against whoever carried out the attacks.”

  “What do you mean?” Samuels asked. “It was obviously the Madrigal-Zaragosa Alliance?”

  “Only indirectly. I’m assuming twenty Latin Americans didn’t fly over to Spain and Austria, smuggle an arsenal with them and carry out the attacks personally. They would have gotten others to act for them,” she replied. “The logical candidate is one of the Kosovars’ local rivals. The Fifteen Families probably won’t be too particular about finding out which one it was; they’ll target everyone indiscriminately. We might see a lot of people getting sucked in. Over time, new disputes, totally independent of the current one, will develop.” She realised she had just recited portions of the doomsday scenario she had worked on.

  “Then there’s the issue of what offensive action the Kosovars will take against the Alliance here and in Latin America,” Samuels added.

  “Can the Fifteen Families match the Alliance head-to-head?” Marshall asked him.

  “If not, they can go damn close. Diane’s right, of course: Madrigal employed subcontractors for tonight’s attacks and the Kosovars will probably follow the same tactic. They could either contract in firepower or offer a partnership, a share of what they take from the Alliance for any of the other major players willing to throw in with them.”

  “They might also try to have the Alliance crumble from within,” Mesi added. “There are lots of internal rivalries and there’s nothing to say one of the affiliates wouldn’t defect, if the enticement is great enough. Factions like the Dominicans, who operate almost exclusively as distributors, are prime candidates.”

  Marshall’s phone started ringing again. He sighed heavily and picked up the receiver.

  five

  The men’s progress to the ridge of the tall dune was slow, the heavy sand providing little traction. The taller man was struggling to keep up, his breathing laboured due to the hard pace. Larsen had insisted that they move away from the busy areas of the beach before beginning their discussion. Finally, after forty minutes marching without a word passing between the two, the trailing man was grateful to see his companion stop on the crest of the dune, apparently happy with the location. He wearily trudged up the last few steps.

  Andrew Brewer bent over, placing his hands on his thighs, and stifled an oath. Scrambling around on windswept beaches like this was ludicrous. Normally a man who took pride in his appearance, as evidenced by his carefully coordinated wardrobe, coiffed silver hair and neatly trimmed goatee, he did not appreciate his linen shirt being soaked with sweat or his handmade loafers being filled with sand. While he waited for his breath to return, he studied his companion out of the corner of his eye. The lean, spare frame betrayed no sign of expended effort and the Dane, clad only in a T-shirt and jeans, seemed oblivious to the cold wind sweeping in from the surf.

  Brewer was used to other people making the running in conversations and waited for Larsen to speak. And waited. It soon became obvious that nothing would be forthcoming, that he could stand there for ever while his companion gazed out over the waves.

  “Is it always necessary to make these meetings so difficult?” he asked. “I’ve told you before I can’t be expected to drop everything at short notice, to head off on another mystery tour. One of these days, you might find yourself out here alone.” He tried to inject a laugh at the end, hoping to m
ake it one of those half-serious, half-joking remarks, satisfying his own ego without forcing a direct confrontation.

  Larsen turned to look at him and the cold stare made him happy he had not used more forceful language.

  “I take the precautions I think are necessary. We both share the same paymaster and both know you’ll be at every meeting, regardless of inconvenience.”

  That was it. Never any attempt at diplomacy or cordiality. Larsen just said what he thought, take it or leave it. The apparent lack of malice in the remark only added to the insult.

  As CEO of Spartan Personnel, one of the ascendant companies in the lucrative field of military contracting, Brewer was used to being shown more deference. Before he had joined the private sector, he had been with the CIA, responsible for various operations throughout Central and South America. It was during that time that he had seen the growing opportunities for commercial entities who could provide military and law enforcement personnel to fill government contracts. Fortunes could be made if someone could provide the politicians with a way to pursue their interests on foreign soil while maintaining a safe distance from any controversy. It was far easier if a contract company was the one suffering casualties or becoming embroiled in local controversies. The economics of it actually made sense as well. Customised manpower could be applied, and once a job was finished the contract was simply terminated. There was no need to involve unwieldy and expensive command structures. A combination of the strong growth in the market and his personal contacts had ensured Brewer had no difficulty raising the start-up capital he had needed.

  Spartan offered a comprehensive range of services. They participated in eradication missions, training and drug interdiction. They also provided air transport, reconnaissance, search and rescue and airborne medical evacuation missions. When filling contracts for the State Department, the aircrafts were provided by the Department but all of the pilots and technicians were provided by Spartan. In the last couple of years, they had branched into infantry and counter-insurgency training for approved foreign governments and he couldn’t have been more pleased with the way this had gone. While their “trainers” had strict guidelines forbidding participation in live missions, everyone knew the score. There had been occasional casualties but generous settlements combined with strict non-disclosure terms in the contracts ensured these brought a minimum amount of publicity.