"Naturally, I will not divulge any details of the mission. Operational secrets will be preserved in my Administration. But let this be a lesson to those who would resort to terror, wherever they may be. You cannot run far enough or fast enough. You cannot hide well enough. The forces of justice will overtake you."
As the President fielded questions, the press secretary marveled, What a master. And he didn't even have to lie, exactly.
Santa Fe, Santander, Terra Nova
Of the roughly one dozen drug lords attacked, all had been killed or, more commonly, captured, along with sundry accountants, assistants, wives and mistresses. No one in Santander actually knew how many of each there had been. In any case, the losses did not, by any means, mean the end of the cartels. The money to be made was a magnet, one that pulled in greed as a normal magnet attracted iron. There were always new people to step up, nor had all of the old been targeted. At best, one could say that the efficiency of the remainder and the replacements might be somewhat less than that of those lost.
Or might not have, too.
That remainder, and the replacements, met with Guzman in one of the ornate to the point of tacky palaces which had been spared assault.
Guzman contemplatively held a golden crucifix on a golden chain. "This," he whispered, "is proof positive of who was behind the attacks. The Balboan, Carrera, gave it to me. I gave it to Escobedo. It has returned to me again via the Balboan Embassy."
"Having gone to all the trouble of pinning this on the gringos, why should they let us know who really did it?" asked one of the remaining drug lords, Señor Ochoa.
"So we learn the lesson," Guzman answered.
"Lesson?"
"Yes . . . don't fuck with them. They gave me a more explicit message along with the cross. They want me, and one of you gentlemen, to go to Balboa. They promise safe conduct."
Ochoa attempted a sneer, but found he didn't have the heart to pull it off. "Or what?" he asked.
"Or else the attacks continue until we are all dead. Along with our families. I was told we have a week, no more."
Isla Santa Catalina, Balboa, Terra Nova
Carrera, Fernandez, Menshikov, the Sergeant Major, Soult, and a dozen guards from Fernandez's department were waiting at the small landing strip when Ochoa and Guzman arrived by Legion plane. Most of the party looked quite somber and serious. Fernandez was the exception; his people now had enough captured documents, laptops, and prisoners to keep them busy for years.
The Santanderns were received coolly but politely, and then led to a lunch under a wide canopy. Carrera was somewhat surprised that Ochoa looked, if anything, more the legitimate businessman even than Guzman.
"I had nothing to do with the attacks on your country," Ochoa began.
Carrera looked at Fernandez who answered, with a shrug, "So far as I know."
"I'll accept that, for now, then," Carrera agreed. "But . . . so?"
"So you can speak to me," Ochoa said. "I am not your enemy."
"Have you surrendered then?" Carrera asked. "Surrendered unconditionally? Have all of your associates?"
"Surrender is premature," Ochoa said. "We can have peace, however. I propose a permanent cessation to hostilities. I offer that all cartel operatives will be removed from Balboa, that all Balboan operatives be removed from Santander, and that we of the cartels do all in our power to ensure that Balboa is no longer used as a drug thoroughfare.
Carrera had told him, simply, "That might have been enough, once. Now? No, not good enough. Too much blood has been spilled. Too much more is threatened."
Elbow on the lunch table, Ochoa raised one hand, palm up. "What then?"
"Your operatives leave Balboa; mine stay in Santander," Carrera said. "You ensure no trafficking takes place through Balboa. You turn over all information on the old government's involvement in the trafficking, all well documented.
"I demand ten billion Federated States Drachma, within the month. In addition, your people will pay to the Legion another fifty million, monthly. You can call it whatever you want. It's tribute all the same. Money paid to us for you to stay alive.
"And don't whine about it. The market share your surviving members will gain from the competition I've eliminated should more than pay that amount. I did you all a favor, really."
Ochoa did sneer now. "That's ridiculous, impossible."
Carrera shrugged and said, "Enjoy your lunch." This caused Guzman to gulp, nervously.
* * *
"Come," said Carrera to Ochoa, after lunch was finished. "Let's walk and chat." Fernandez, Menshikov, and a half dozen of the guards followed close behind.
They talked of meaningless things on the way, Carrera pointing out the flowers that lined each side of the pathway down. "The prisoners put these in," he said. "They actually have a fair business going in growing flowers for the mainland. Some are even shipped south to the Federated States."
The Santandern, playing along, walked with eyes down, admiring the pretty plants. Then he heard something strange, a sort of a moan. He looked part way up and saw a thick wooden beam sticking up out of the ground. He looked around, eyes still low, and counted seventeen more upright beams.
Then his eyes traveled up the beam. "Oh, my God!" he exclaimed.
In a loose circle, there by the beach, fourteen men and four women hung on rough wooden crosses. The men all showed marks of hideous torture. Through the feet and wrists of each had been driven large spikes. Crusted blood marked their bodies and the wood. The emissary recognized many of his former business associates, and the wives and mistresses of others.
"You know," said Carrera, conversationally, "No one really knows what kills someone who has been crucified. The best theory I've read is that the strain on the diaphragm when the victim hangs by his wrists keeps his chest muscles from emptying his lungs normally. Eventually this tires the diaphragm until the victim suffocates. Of course, with the feet supported—by more spikes, as these are—the victim can push up, at the cost of some ah, discomfort, and rest the diaphragm. That way the victim conspires with the killers to draw each life out to its last strength. These . . . might live three days more. Less for the women . . . probably."
"We took these a little less than a month ago. They were turned over to my intelligence people. With some effort, we think they have surrendered everything they ever owned. A lot of pain, then a little period of relief for turning over a few score million in assets. Then more pain until more assets were given up. It must have seemed a good deal to these people at the time. I understand there are computer nerds in the Federated States tearing their hair out because so many of the assets we grabbed they had spent months and years trying to uncover. It was really quite a haul."
Carrera stopped briefly while the Santandern reeled in disgust. He continued, nonchalantly, "I imagine you think that you can better use the money I demand to get to me and mine. It's been tried. Or maybe you think you can hire soldiers to protect you. These thought that. And with a tiny fraction of my force we took them and did . . . this. I control a country's army, you know, while you just have a petty little concern.
"Do you think you might be able to hire mercenaries? They often find it easier to rob the paymaster than to fight for him. No, mercenaries would be more dangerous to you than I am. I have a finite appetite and no interest whatsoever in taking your business from you. Besides, you can't offer them what I can, what they really crave; legitimacy, recognition, traditions, a uniform, a real army to be a part of. I think any you might hire will be second rate, no matter what they charge.
"Professional hit men? They could get to me, I imagine." Carrera turned to Menshikov and asked, "What are your orders if I am assassinated?"