The Geronimo Breach (31 page)

The man gestured. “Sit.”

Al sat.

“Mari tells me you are someone important to her, and that I shouldn’t kill you – yet. She says you have a proposition for me that is sensitive and could make a tremendous difference to my organization, as well as to the eventual balance of power in Colombia. That’s quite a promise. So I agreed not to hack your head off with a machete if you could interest me within five minutes of meeting you. You’re now down to four and a half,” the man said.

“Julio?” Al asked.

“You’re wasting time. But yes, that is one of my names.”

“My name is Al. Mari swears you’re trustworthy, which is why I’m here,” Al started.

“You’re an American. What would you know about trustworthiness? You now have four minutes,” Julio advised.

“I know you value her,” Al said, “and will understand the value of what I’m about to offer you. When we’re done, I’ll tell you what I propose and what I want in exchange.”

“What you want in exchange?” Julio’s eyes widened. “How about being allowed to leave with all your organs? You now have three and a half minutes.”

Al slowly raised his knapsack, and handed it to Julio.

“Open the bag. Inside, you’ll find a camera. Open the screen, turn on the power and push the button with the single arrow on it,” Al instructed.

Julio cautiously opened the bag and removed the camera. He watched the screen for five minutes, in silence. Then he powered the camera down and put it on the sofa next to him.

“No fucking way,” Julio said, shaking his head at what he’d just seen. “No fucking way…”

“Yup. Now here’s what I’m proposing...”

They spent the next hour going over the outline of Al’s plan. Julio stared at the ratty ceiling, lost in thought. After a heavy, almost infinite silence he nodded, as if coming to a decision.

“What do you want, if I agree to this?” Julio asked. “And why wouldn’t I just kill you now, and take this, and do whatever I want?”

“Because you’re an honorable man. Because you gave your word. And most importantly, because your sister would never forgive you,” Al answered honestly.

“And your demands?”

Al listed them. Four items.

Julio appeared to consider them thoughtfully before rising to his feet.

“We have a deal. My men will take you back to within a block of where they picked you up. Give me forty-eight hours to arrange things and I’ll get in contact with Mari.” He shook Al’s hand. “You took a huge risk bringing this to me. I really wouldn’t hesitate to knife you where you stand and watch you choke on your own blood,” he warned.

“I bet on your sister.”

“I’ll keep the camera,” Julio said. “Good luck with her,” he concluded.

“Thanks. I’m going to need a lot of it. Luck, I mean,” Al quickly added.

“I’ll be in touch.”

Julio walked to the door of the house they were in and snapped his fingers. A man entered, holding the hood, and pulled it over Al’s head again. Al felt something thrust into his hands – his knapsack; now empty save for the little GPS unit.

And just like that, it was over.

The drive back to Cali was anti-climactic. They changed cars twice, and after an hour Al found himself blinking in the mid-day light, standing on the sidewalk of Calle 2.

Julio watched the video in silence as the van’s wheels crunched down the dirt track and away from the little house.

He liked Al’s plan. What the man had wanted in return was laughably easy to provide. The difficult part would be dancing with the elephant – negotiating with the U.S. government so FARC got what it wanted without bringing down the wrath of the entire American military machine. But the reward was potentially massive and would make FARC extremely powerful and wealthy, positioning it to replace the existing government of Colombia at some point in the future – something the FARC had never believed possible during its entire existence.

Al had just handed Julio the means with which to manage the U.S. and get it to work towards FARC’s interests. It would also reposition Julio within the organization to be the natural successor to Alfonso Cano, the current Commander in Chief. In five years, or ten maybe, he’d step down, or die, and then Julio would be the one to assume control – which was virtually guaranteed…once he’d negotiated this deal.

The risk was worth it.

Of course, it would take a bit of work to set up a secure communications channel that couldn’t be traced, but he had a contact who could do it via the Internet. He thought through how best to transmit his demands, and smiled at his idea.

~

The CIA’s Director swiveled his chair to face the telephone. The Agency was taping the call and attempting to triangulate a geographical location for its origination, however, they couldn’t get past the IP masking software – the signal was being bounced to IP addresses around the world, seemingly at random, every 30 seconds. The Director realized at some level that it didn’t matter – it was the substance of the discussion that was key. They’d already dispensed with identifying the key participants – now they were down to terms.

“I’m listening,” the Director said, his distinctive lisp emphasizing the sibilance.

“What we require is for your government to allow our shipments to pass unmolested into U.S. ports. This should be simple enough to achieve. Twice a month, a container or two will arrive on a designated cargo vessel…and you’ll ensure that the contents make it through customs unobstructed – with no tracking or other subterfuge,” the Colombian stated.

“And you honestly think we can arrange for thousands of pounds of cocaine to make it onto American soil every month with no DEA or law enforcement interference?” the Director clarified.

“I believe you’re more than capable of accomplishing this,” Julio explained. “It’s not as though there aren’t tons making it through every week already. What I’m proposing is that in exchange for our discretion, you eliminate the losses we experience on occasional shipments and enable us to ramp up our supply to better accommodate demand.”

“And if something goes wrong on our end? Something unforeseeable?” the Director asked.

“You will reimburse us for the lost shipment at a cost we stipulate,” Julio said. “In all honesty, I don’t care if you transfer hundreds of millions of dollars to our accounts every month and confiscate most of the shipments, or allow them all to go through. That’s up to you. If your country really wants to stop most of the inbound cocaine traffic, you can stop the containers and pay us the value.”

“You realize this is unprecedented,” the Director hissed, “and flies in the face of decades of policy and stated goals of our government, when it comes to drug control and supporting terrorist organizations?”

“That’s the second part of the deal. Over the next three years, your government needs to temper its rhetoric regarding FARC and slowly transition to a position where it recognizes us as a legitimate political faction within Colombia. Within another two, I would expect that policy will support FARC’s agenda to becoming a mainstream contender for Colombia’s government,” Julio continued. “In return, FARC won’t feel it necessary to engage in kidnapping or extortion as mechanisms to achieve political change.”

“What guarantees do we have that you’ll honor your part of the bargain?” the Director asked.

“Every month, you’ll not see the recording splashed across every PC screen in the world. Each day, you won’t wake up to a world where the U.S. Government is exposed as liars, cheats and frauds, and rendered incapable of governing or negotiating with other, legitimate regimes. That will be your guarantee. There are now multiple copies of the tape in secure locations around the globe – if you doubt my willingness to broadcast them, simply do not agree to my terms within the next twelve hours and we’ll have nothing more to discuss,” Julio warned.

“But you’re asking the impossible.” The Director’s voice had taken on a slight wobble.

“I’m not asking. I’m proposing a solution to the biggest problem your nation has faced in two hundred years. If you don’t accept my terms, or think you can propose different ones, then do nothing…and twelve hours from now you’ll be facing political extinction. You know how to contact me. You have twelve hours. I suggest you stop posturing and start getting the approvals you need to ratify our arrangement,” Julio advised. “Oh, and just in case you’re getting any clever ideas; if we get hit with a missile attack or I choke on a chicken bone or get run down by a car, the tape will immediately be circulated globally. So you better take all precautions to ensure I live a long and prosperous life,” Julio continued. “You have eleven hours and fifty-nine minutes.”

The call terminated.

The Director stared at the phone for a while before turning to face the other occupant of the room – the White House Chief of Staff, Jeremy Temens.

“What the fuck are we going to do?” Jeremy demanded.

The Director wiped the sweat from his brow. “I think we need to brief the President. It’s actually not a bad deal, all things considered...”

“Are you insane?” Jeremy sputtered. “The U.S. Government is going to become the silent partner of the largest cocaine exporter in the world, as blackmail payoff!”

“Jeremy, this is very simple. It’s a matter of survival…the least of two evils. Sure, we can all agree that drugs are bad and wrong and cause suffering and crime and the like, but in my opinion, the fallout of the tape going public makes that moral position a non-issue. We can’t allow it to surface. Ever. I would have thought that’s obvious. You’re just lucky he didn’t demand an F-15 filled with suitcase nukes to be personally delivered by the first lady to a Medellin airstrip.”

The Director couldn’t believe Jeremy actually imagined there were any other options at this point. So a few more kilos of coke got into Miami or Los Angeles than usual – was that the end of the world as they knew it?

“It’s just morally reprehensible,” Jeremy complained. “And it’ll be tough getting the President to go along with it. You must remember – the consequences of a shift in our political stance towards the FARC can never be undone.”

The Director shook his head. “No, it won’t be hard to get him to see reason. It’s his, and the country’s, ass. It’s an easy choice – a no-brainer. And as to Colombia, so what? So a new set of pistol wavers becomes a legitimate force of change – is that really any different than Arafat being hailed as a peacemaker? Come on. Grow up, Jeremy.”

“How did we ever get to this point?” Jeremy asked, visibly mortified.

“We got just a little too clever and pushed our luck. And we lost. So let’s just accept this as a cost of doing business, do what we have to do, and move on,” the Director advised. “Call the President, and let’s go visit the White House and get this over with.”

The Director had no remorse and was pragmatic about his counsel. The administration had decided to craft a stunt that would boost the sitting President’s approval ratings the year before an election – and justify its aggressive policies in the Middle East. Sure, the prior administration had set it all in motion by its actions, but nobody had forced the current President to up the ante and go along with this now-disastrous public relations scheme.

It had all seemed so simple, up until the tape had surfaced.

All they’d had to do was create a media event, and the public bought it big time; and if the rest of the world had doubts, it stayed silent. Nobody wanted to rock the boat and incur the wrath of the U.S. Government. It wasn’t worth it, and anyway, no good was served by airing skepticism about a
fait accompli
.

So there had been a dramatic assault, a triumph of good over evil, and an heroic mission that could make the country feel good about itself in the midst of a financial crisis in which the largest financial institutions and banks robbed the nation blind. It had been a perfect plan, with no downside.

Amazingly, none of the mainstream media even questioned that the number one most wanted man in the world’s body needed to be confirmed as being the genuine article by someone besides the U.S. government, and that by dumping the
corpus delicti
all proof that any of the claims were true was gone. It seemed almost orchestrated.

How did anyone really know that it was Bin Laden?

“Because we say so.”

How do we know he died in the raid, or that he even ever existed except as a CIA straw man?

“You’ll just have to trust us on that.”

How do we know he was even alive at all, and didn’t die ten years ago, as many web resources claim – not to mention his obituary in a prominent Egyptian newspaper in 2001?

“Trust us.”

As to the corroboration, the Government grudgingly allowed groups of U.S. elected officials to see photos that purported to be of ‘Geronimo’ – Bin Laden’s corpse. Were any of these photos subjected to any kind of real analysis by impartial experts to ensure they weren’t clever dupes? No, of course not. What the public got treated to was the spectacle of red-faced talking heads saying things like, “Yup. Y’all gotta know that’s one dead Osama,” after viewing the snaps. Was any of the DNA independently verified as being genuine, or not having come from other collection opportunities fifteen or more years earlier? Unnecessary. After all, the government would never lie about something like that.

No, instead, the government simply insisted what it was saying was true and offered no proof other than the strident volume of its insistence. Just as it insisted that the Gulf of Tonkin had taken place in order to escalate the war in Vietnam – before it became common knowledge that no such thing occurred. And just as it insisted that it had no foreknowledge of Pearl Harbor – even though telegrams documented the top brass had full and credible warnings from Australia two full days before the strike. No, the stupid rubes bought it, lock, stock and barrel. They never learned.

The government knew that its population wouldn’t question its spin, and it cared little about international skepticism. Just as it didn’t care about international skepticism about prior false claims; like the supposedly irrefutable one concerning nuclear missiles in Iraq that could hit Israel within minutes. And just as it responded with mockery to several authenticated videos by Bin Laden claiming Al Quaeda had no part in the attacks of 9-11. Those were ‘distortions’ and ‘lies’, whereas the one video where he purportedly took credit for the attacks featured a man 40 pounds heavier than Bin Laden with a nose a full centimeter wider than the genuine Osama, wearing rings in contradiction of Muslim practice – even hard-liners considered this parody a fake. But to the U.S. government that video was twenty-four karat gold, and shame on anyone for questioning it.