Алистер Маклин: Dead Halt

“Please, won’t you sit down?” Miguel said to Warren, indicating a chair. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Bourbon if you have it,” Warren said, sitting down.

Miguel poured a generous measure from a decanter on the sideboard and placed the glass in front of Warren. He then took his seat on the right of his father. Ramón, who was seated directly opposite Miguel, leaned forward and whispered something to him under his breath. His father banged his fist angrily on the table and ordered him to be quiet.

Miguel looked at Warren. “My brother does not trust you.”

Warren swallowed nervously. Miguel smiled ironically. “Do not worry, he does not trust anyone. I sometimes wonder if he even trusts me.”

Jorge Cabrera spoke quickly in Spanish, his eyes never leaving Warren’s face; and when he’d finished he pushed the cigar back into his mouth and dabbed his forehead with the damp handkerchief.

“My father welcomes you to Colombia. He says he has been looking forward to meeting you ever since I first told him about your proposed deal.”

Jorge Cabrera nodded as if he understood what his son had said then launched into another bout of Spanish. Miguel was quick to translate whenever his father paused to take a draw on the cigar.

“You said the decision to deal with us was based mainly on the fact that we are one of the most powerful families currently exporting narcotics to Europe and America. This may be true. But how do you gauge power? Is it financial? Is it how much influence we can exert within the government? Is it the number in our workforce? We could speculate all evening. What is true, however, is that we are the leading family when it comes to the processing and distribution of cocaine. In fact, that is now our sole export. Cannabis and barbiturates we leave to the other families. Neither of them has the drawing power of cocaine. I will tell you something that your Drug Enforcement Agency would give their right arm to know. We exported almost fifty percent of the cocaine which was sent from Medellin to your country last year. But most of it was channelled through Florida. And we lost a considerable amount of that because your DEA is getting wise to our routes. After all, there are only a limited amount of routes into Florida. That is why your plan was like a breath of fresh air to us. Not only would it be a new route outside Florida but, more importantly, only we would have access to it. We already have a distribution network in the area. It can be enlarged without any difficulty at all. It’s now up to you to give us the go-ahead and we can send out our first shipment.”

Warren took a sip of bourbon then turned the glass around slowly in his hand. He finally looked up at Jorge Cabrera. “We’re ready whenever you are.”

Miguel translated for his father. Jorge Cabrera nodded and spoke softly to Miguel who then turned back to Warren. “My father has asked that you and I work out a date between ourselves before you fly back to New York.”

“I was hoping to fly out tonight.”

“Impossible,” Miguel replied, shaking his head.

“I don’t understand,” Warren said warily.

“The airport only operates during the day. Medellin is surrounded by mountains. It is far too dangerous for an aircraft to take off or land at night. I will see to it that you are booked on the first flight out in the morning. But tonight you are my guest. Do you like seafood?”

“Yes.”

“Then we will dine at Las Lomas. It serves the best seafood in town. Some would even say the best in the country. We can talk further over dinner.”

Jorge Cabrera nodded to Ramón who got up and retrieved an attaché case from the sideboard. He placed it in front of Warren then returned to his seat and sat down again.

“Open it,” Miguel told him.

Warren unlocked the case and lifted up the lid.

“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. All in untraceable notes,” Miguel told him. “It is merely a gesture of goodwill on our part.”

Warren flipped through one of the bundles then looked up at Jorge Cabrera. “ Gracias .”

Jorge Cabrera nodded then stubbed out the cigar to signify the end of the meeting.

Miguel got to his feet and moved to the door. “I am afraid you will have to be blindfolded again for the journey back to your hotel. I will have a car pick you up at, say, nine-thirty to take you to the restaurant.”

“Yes, that would be fine.”

“Until then,” Miguel said, shaking Warren’s hand. Warren smiled to himself. It was all going according to plan …

Graham parked his battered white ’78 Ford pickup in the car park adjacent to the United Nations Headquarters then made his way across to the Secretariat Building and showed his pass to the guard at the main door. Entering the main foyer, he crossed to the lifts and pressed the button for the twenty-second floor. Dressed in a pair of faded blue jeans, a white T-shirt, black sports jacket and a New York Yankees baseball cap, he drew disparaging looks from some of the more somber-suited men in the lift with him. Philpott had chided Graham for his unorthodox dress sense when he first arrived at UNACO but Graham had been adamant – he would not wear a suit and tie to a briefing. Philpott hadn’t pushed the issue, but Graham’s stubbornness had made it more difficult for Philpott to choose an authentic cover for him at the United Nations. Whitlock and Sabrina had both been assigned covers that related to their backgrounds. Whitlock was an attaché with the Kenyan delegation and Sabrina, because of her degree in Romance languages from Wellesley, was a translator attached to the General Assembly. Graham, because of his degree in Political Science and his military background, had finally been given the cover of a freelance adviser on Central American policy to the American ambassador at the United Nations.

He was the only person to disembark on the twenty-second floor and he waited until the doors had closed before walking to an unmarked door at the end of the corridor. He punched a numerical code into the bellpush on the adjacent wall; moments later there was a metallic click and the door opened. He entered the small, neatly furnished room and closed the door behind him. It was the antechamber to UNACO headquarters. The wall opposite the door, which was constructed of rows of teak slats, had two seamless sliding doors built into it which could only be activated by miniature sonic transmitters. The door on the right led into the Command Center where teams of analysts, using the latest high-tech equipment, worked around the clock to monitor the fluctuating developments in international affairs. The door on the left led into the Director’s private office.

Sarah Thomas greeted him when he entered. She was an attractive thirty-one-year-old with short blonde hair who had been the Director’s personal secretary for the past four years.

“Am I the first one here?” Graham asked, glancing at his watch. “I thought I was late.”

“You are,” Sarah replied with a smile. “Don’t worry though, the show hasn’t started yet. Sabrina and Fabio are in the Command Center.”

“What are they doing in there?”

“Passing the time until C.W. gets here. He should be along any time now. Do you want to go through?” she asked, gesturing toward the right-hand side of the wall.

Graham shook his head and sat down on the burgundy-colored sofa.

“Can I get you a coffee?”

“No thanks,” Graham said, shaking his head. “I had enough of it last night.”

Sarah smiled. “So Sabrina was telling me.”

“Oh?” Graham said suspiciously. “And what exactly did she tell you?”

“That you two were out till two this morning at a club in Greenwich Village. Sounds like you had a good time.”