been impossible to have any form of open coffin because of the state of the body when Suares’s men found it, half-eaten by rodents and other scavengers and horribly mutilated. The identification had been difficult, but not impossible. The dental records were an exact match, even though the phosphorus burns had wiped not only the fingerprints but also the fingers and toes.
The tattoos were also recognizable, the documents nearby incontrovertible and the Uzi and the Makarov were the same serial numbers as those that had been issued to Juan Andres in the last twelve months. It had been the work of the Cartels, and Suares was pleased that this was one thing he did not need to lie about. No-one else would have mutilated a body in this way, leaving a tell-tale pile of coca leaves in the chest cavity and removing the penis and testicles, probably before death.
A few years before his funeral, Juan Andres took a keen interest in the new Narcotraffico computer system. He befriended a keen salsa dancer, Julio, who was about the same age as him and whose job it was to input data into the system. Julio, like Juan Andres, had been to university and the two young men used to go out for drinks, chase women and construct fabulous schemes whereby they could catch all the Cartel members in the same place at the same time and close all factories in one giant swoop of the Narcotraffico eagle. One day Julio told Juan Andres about his big mistake.
‘You see, I didn’t mean it to happen. It was the speed at which Suares wanted all the data transferred from paper files to computer. I think he wanted to impress the Americans, some kind of delegation, sabes ?’
‘ Si. Claro. ’
‘So anyway I inputted one batch, data for the new recruits, and I found that if I introduced one extra step into the equation than the data would be scrambled, switched.’
‘What extra step?’
‘Turn the machine off mid-transfer, then turn it back on again and hit F4.’
‘Big mistake?’
‘We killed two innocent men because their addresses were switched.’
‘By you?’
‘ Si . Recruits became targets. The two databases cross-fertilized.’
‘ Mierda . What did you do?’
‘I said nothing, of course, but when I realized what had happened I switched everything back again. Nobody ever found out. They brushed it under the carpet as a Cartel hit on new recruits. No-one asked questions because no-one wanted to know the answers. No-one claimed responsibility. No-one wanted to get fired, least of all me.’
Slightly more recently, Julio had done Juan Andres Montero Garcia the greatest favour one man can do another: he had helped him to die. Using a public telephone, Juan Andres had managed to contact Cali headquarters, speak to Julio and get him to switch dental records with the man he had left in the jungle two days before. Juan Andres swore him to secrecy. They were taking a chance that the call was being monitored, so Juan Andres had kept it short. Dental records, he’d been very specific. Nothing else. Juan Andres then made his way back to the jungle, found the body of the soldier he’d killed, dressed it in his uniform, mutilated it Cartel-style, torched it with a phosphorous flare and headed south to Ecuador.
Six months later and after having attended his own funeral, he arrived at the Hotel Gran Casino .
***
March 2007 – Cannes, South of France
The knock on the door made me hurry more than I normally like to. I cleaned up quickly, artificially refreshed and alert, to find Arabella standing there. She was leaning against the door-frame in such a way that one of her tanned breasts was ninety-nine per cent visible as was seventy per cent of her right thigh. It was clear that her failure to realize there was another bathroom only ten feet down the hall had been deliberate. She pushed the door, came in and flicked the lock shut with a manicured finger.
‘ Tell me, George’, she said as she turned to me, smiled and reached for the silver
The tattoos were also recognizable, the documents nearby incontrovertible and the Uzi and the Makarov were the same serial numbers as those that had been issued to Juan Andres in the last twelve months. It had been the work of the Cartels, and Suares was pleased that this was one thing he did not need to lie about. No-one else would have mutilated a body in this way, leaving a tell-tale pile of coca leaves in the chest cavity and removing the penis and testicles, probably before death.
A few years before his funeral, Juan Andres took a keen interest in the new Narcotraffico computer system. He befriended a keen salsa dancer, Julio, who was about the same age as him and whose job it was to input data into the system. Julio, like Juan Andres, had been to university and the two young men used to go out for drinks, chase women and construct fabulous schemes whereby they could catch all the Cartel members in the same place at the same time and close all factories in one giant swoop of the Narcotraffico eagle. One day Julio told Juan Andres about his big mistake.
‘You see, I didn’t mean it to happen. It was the speed at which Suares wanted all the data transferred from paper files to computer. I think he wanted to impress the Americans, some kind of delegation, sabes ?’
‘ Si. Claro. ’
‘So anyway I inputted one batch, data for the new recruits, and I found that if I introduced one extra step into the equation than the data would be scrambled, switched.’
‘What extra step?’
‘Turn the machine off mid-transfer, then turn it back on again and hit F4.’
‘Big mistake?’
‘We killed two innocent men because their addresses were switched.’
‘By you?’
‘ Si . Recruits became targets. The two databases cross-fertilized.’
‘ Mierda . What did you do?’
‘I said nothing, of course, but when I realized what had happened I switched everything back again. Nobody ever found out. They brushed it under the carpet as a Cartel hit on new recruits. No-one asked questions because no-one wanted to know the answers. No-one claimed responsibility. No-one wanted to get fired, least of all me.’
Slightly more recently, Julio had done Juan Andres Montero Garcia the greatest favour one man can do another: he had helped him to die. Using a public telephone, Juan Andres had managed to contact Cali headquarters, speak to Julio and get him to switch dental records with the man he had left in the jungle two days before. Juan Andres swore him to secrecy. They were taking a chance that the call was being monitored, so Juan Andres had kept it short. Dental records, he’d been very specific. Nothing else. Juan Andres then made his way back to the jungle, found the body of the soldier he’d killed, dressed it in his uniform, mutilated it Cartel-style, torched it with a phosphorous flare and headed south to Ecuador.
Six months later and after having attended his own funeral, he arrived at the Hotel Gran Casino .
***
March 2007 – Cannes, South of France
The knock on the door made me hurry more than I normally like to. I cleaned up quickly, artificially refreshed and alert, to find Arabella standing there. She was leaning against the door-frame in such a way that one of her tanned breasts was ninety-nine per cent visible as was seventy per cent of her right thigh. It was clear that her failure to realize there was another bathroom only ten feet down the hall had been deliberate. She pushed the door, came in and flicked the lock shut with a manicured finger.
‘ Tell me, George’, she said as she turned to me, smiled and reached for the silver
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