Rich Stevens nervously dashed out his fourth cigarette in the last ten minutes and lit his fifth. He got up and paced around the executive conference room. Stevens didn't know the reason he had been ordered to fly to Washington this morning from Bogota. Whatever it was, it couldn't be good.
For once Stevens thought he had wrangled himself a "get-over" job down in Colombia. His official designation was DEA embassy liaison. The job was supposed to entail being the DEA's man in the U.S. embassy in Bogota, coordinating DEA operations in country with both the State Department and the Central Intelligence Agency. In reality, due to the high profile of DEA operations in Colombia, the DEA station chief did most of the coordinating personally. Stevens's role had been reduced to one of glorified paper pusher at the embassy, working on the routine traffic and paperwork the DEA processed through.
Stevens had been quite happy with the arrangement. He was normally able to finish off the few papers in his in box by lunch and that allowed him the rest of the day off. He had kept a low profile, not wishing to have anyone at the embassy notice that he really wasn't employed productively. But someone must have noticed something, he thought nervously, or else why was he back here in D.C.? The DEA station chief had been evasive in response to Stevens's questions about why he was going back, claiming he didn't know.
Stevens briefly wondered if it was because of his drinking. The fact that he went to the aptly named Embassy Cafe across the street from the U.S. embassy and got blasted almost every night wasn't exactly a secret. There wasn't a whole lot else to do in that godforsaken city.
Why he'd volunteered to go down there in the first place he couldn't immediately remember, preoccupied as he was with the sudden recall. Then he did. He cringed as he pictured his wife's bloated face in his mind. That bitch. It was worth being in Colombia to get away from her and the three screaming kids. If everyone was entitled to one big mistake in their lives, Rich had made his thirteen years ago when he married Norma.
And, boy, had she turned out to be big, Rich mumbled to himself. He couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten laid. How could you want to with that tub? She was fine where she was — back in Boston. Being in Colombia and working with the beaners sucked, but it was better than being with her. Stevens just hoped that this recall to the States wasn't permanent.
Thinking of getting laid brought a vision of another face into his mind. Just two nights ago, he'd been sitting on his usual stool in the cafe drinking his normal combination of shots of tequila chased with a mug of beer, when he noticed a new woman bartender come on duty. The new girl was one of the most beautiful women Stevens had ever seen. He had talked to her briefly and found out that her name was Maria. He had also learned that she was working at the bar to learn English so she could go to college in the United States. Stevens hoped he would have a chance to go back to Bogota and talk with Maria again. She'd sure been friendly enough to him. He'd be more than willing to teach her some English and a lot more.
Stevens was startled as the door opened. Thoughts of the bar girl disappeared in smoke as he saw the director of the DEA come in alone. Stevens's fears and concerns returned, now even stronger. Whatever was going to happen had to be extremely important for the director himself to be here. This was the first time Stevens had ever met Director Mullins.
"Evening, sir."
"Hello, Richard. Or may I call you Rich?"
You can call me anything you want, thought Stevens. "Rich is fine, sir."
Mullins sat at the end of the conference table and indicated for Stevens to sit. "You're probably wondering what's so important that you had to fly back up here."
No shit, Stevens thought. I've just about got an ulcer from worrying. "Yes, sir."
"How would you rate the Colombian government's efforts to eradicate the processing laboratories?"
Stevens sighed inwardly with relief. Same old crap. At least it wasn't an ass-chewing. "On a scale of one to ten, with ten being doing all they can and one being doing nothing, I'd have to give them a negative five. If anything they're helping them. I've seen reports of army troops being used to guard some of the shipments and air force planes carrying the stuff. Behind coffee, cocaine's their second leading export. In terms of U.S. dollars it's got to be ahead by now.
"Since the heat's been on the past year they've tightened up some, and I've got to admit that President Alegre has shown real guts with some of the steps he's taken, but in the field the situation's pretty much the same."
Mullins nodded. "That's interesting. Nothing much has changed down there, has it?"
"No, sir. They talk a better line of denial now, but it's business as usual. Alegre wouldn't stay in power five minutes if he really tried cracking down on the cartel. He's on the edge right now with the steps he has taken. A lot of people's livelihoods down there depend on the cocaine industry, and they don't like anyone screwing with that."
Something clicked in Stevens's mind. "This meeting wouldn't have anything to do with Santia getting gunned down, would it?"
Mullins knew Stevens was an alcoholic and a burn-out, but the man wasn't stupid. "Yes, it does in a way. What would you say if I told you the Colombian government has told us they want the United States to conduct unilateral military strikes against the processing labs in their country?"
Stevens stared at his boss to see if he was joking. "I'd find that real hard to believe, sir. Once word got out, the parliament in Bogota would be in flames. Alegre wouldn't last a day. Remember what happened in November '85? When their Supreme Court decided to allow the extradition of drug people we had outstanding warrants on? The Supreme Court building in downtown Bogota was attacked and eleven of the twenty-four justices were massacred. The guerrillas were actually the ones who conducted the attack, but it's felt that the drug cartel played a strong instigating role, particularly in the execution of those judges.
"Hell, some of their judges are here in the States under our witness protection program for the rest of their lives just because they handed down an indictment or extradition order against someone associated with the cartel. That's why Santia was up here in the first place. If those judges had stayed in Colombia, they wouldn't have lasted a month.
"As far as U.S. military involvement goes, the Colombians just about went through the ceiling when the president mentioned putting that carrier task force off the coast to help interdict traffickers. And the invasion of Panama hasn't reassured anyone down there either."
Mullins nodded. "I agree with everything you say. However, the theory is that word of this won't get out. The entire operation is to be done covertly. That's why I've brought you up here. You're going to be working with the military and CIA on this operation."
Stevens considered this change in his job role. If it's not one thing it's another, he thought. Time for him to start working for a living. "How are we going to know where to hit, sir?"
"The Colombians have agreed to give us locations through a contact with the CIA."
Stevens shook his head. "I hate to say it, sir, but this is probably going to be a waste of time. They'll most likely give us abandoned locations or at best the location of one of the small-time free-lancers. There's no way they'll target one of the big boys from the cartel."
Mullins held up his hand. "The Colombian ambassador promises that we'll get information on the cartel. Alegre's goal is to break the cartel."
I'll believe it when I see it, Stevens thought. "Sounds good, sir. When do I start?"
"Tomorrow at ten at Fort Belvoir."
President Alegre looked across the table at the finely dressed man seated there. "More coffee?"