Captive Dove. Judith Leon
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“Well, Manuelito, looks like you’re ready for marriage, all right.”
“You bet. Time for the really good life.” His brother picked up Joe’s overnighter.
“I can get it,” Joe said.
The ride Joe had been imagining took place in the cab of a beat-up Chevy truck, Manuelito driving, Joe riding shotgun and their mother in the middle. Life could sometimes be so damn good.
Chapter 5
P araguay. A landlocked country in the heart of the South American continent.
In area, slightly smaller than California.
A country that in the east had grassy plains and wooded hills; in the west, low dry forest and thorny scrub in the vast, sparsely inhabited emptiness of the Gran Chaco; and that in the extreme east, possessed a magnificent strip of tropical rain forest where Paraguay shared a border with Brazil and Argentina.
In Paraguay, Tomas Morinigo Escurra—born in Manaus on the Rio Negro in northern Brazil—found refuge at the age of fifteen, after he killed his first man.
According to the CIA World Factbook on Paraguay:
Population—95% Mestizo.
Languages—Spanish and Guarani.
Capital—Asuncion.
Religion—97% Roman Catholic.
Government—constitutional republic.
Economy—poor economic performance attributed to political uncertainty, corruption, lack of structural reform, internal and external debt and deficient infrastructure.
International Disputes—an unruly region at the convergence of the Argentina-Brazil-Paraguay borders that is a locus of money laundering, smuggling, arms and drug trafficking, and fund-raising for extremist organizations; a major illicit producer of cannabis; a base for transshipment of Andean (Colombian) cocaine headed for Brazil, other Southern markets, Europe, and the U.S.; and a center for corruption and terrorist money-laundering activity, especially in the tri-border area.
In the years that followed his arrival from Manaus, Tomas Escurra hacked out success and imposing wealth in his adopted country, working as a hired hand, then a small rancher, and finally he married a rich man’s daughter and became a legitimate cotton grower. Later, he moved into more lucrative endeavors, ones more challenging and exciting—his specialty: drug smuggling. In his younger years he had also gained fame as a champion practitioner of capoeira, the distinctive martial art of Brazil, a combination of music, dance and fighting. But that time of young glory now lay thirty years in the past.
Six days before he would celebrate the birth of Christ by throwing one hell of a huge party for local honchos from hundreds of miles in every direction, Escurra was hosting a dogfight at ten o’clock in the evening for his soldiers. He’d built this fighting pit on the grounds of his massive Rancho Magnifico, half a million acres hacked out of the jungle on the Brazilian side of the tri-border area.
He sat in his place of honor surrounded by shouting, swearing, cheering, unwashed men watching a German mastiff and a German shepherd tearing each other to death. And days hence, on Christmas Eve, while the local VIPs wined, dined and danced at his home, his less savory business partners would enjoy an even more exciting blood sport. Naturally, he had cocks and dogs lined up, but a pair of human fighters would be selected too, the final choice made only the day before the event.
The smell of beer and marijuana was enough to get high without even taking a hit. He’d put his money on the mastiff. The German shepherd lay whining and writhing on the ground in a messy pool of its own blood mixed with arena dirt. Escurra leaned forward. Finish it! he thought, his pulse pounding warmly at his throat, his passion with the mastiff. Escurra would win his bet. He usually did.
This rough fighting complex was comprised of wooden pens for dogs, cocks and even men—for special, highly secret events, such as those on Christmas Eve—plus a viewing stand. The viewing stand was part of an arena his men could enlarge for the bigger contests or make smaller for the cockfights.
The fight was over; the dogs were being hauled away. Escurra checked his watch. He’d not heard from Felipe, not one word about the Manaus operation. The operation had been planned down to the finest detail, but experience had long ago taught him that it was impossible to control everything, hence his anxiety.
Rodrigo, the man seated beside him, was Felipe’s brother and Escurra’s cattle manager. Rodrigo said, “He will call, jefe. Felipe is smart. Don’t worry.”
Rodrigo knew everything about raising prize beef, as well as the ins and outs of Escurra’s many illegitimate projects. “Felipe’s smart, Rodrigo, but it’s a different kind of cargo we’re dealing with this time.”
The Casa Grande, where Escurra lived with his wife and youngest daughter, lay only minutes away by private road or by golf cart across perfectly manicured lawns. He really ought to go, now, to say good night to them. Early tomorrow, both women would leave for the States to visit his wife’s family in Washington, D.C., for Christmas and New Year’s. They went every year. They much preferred the sophistication of Washington, plus holiday shopping in the expensive boutiques in New York, to the rough people and countryside celebrations of this isolated island of jungle in Brazil.
Convention required that he say good night and pretend that he would miss them. He wouldn’t. He’d learned young that he was different from other people. Stronger. He didn’t need anyone. He wouldn’t miss anyone. He cared for no one—but himself.
Such lack of feeling had to be cleverly disguised, though, in order to be successful, because if it weren’t, you couldn’t get people to trust you. You could achieve greater success if you used fear, or as he liked to think of it, respect and trust, in dealing with others. Whichever worked best in the circumstance. He knew how to work people, had been fucking brilliant at creating a benevolent, honest facade as local benefactor and charitable giver.
He stood, saying to Rodrigo, “I need to go say goodbye to the women.”
To reach Casa Grande he would drive past tennis courts, three guest rancheritas, a pool and spa, the helicopter pad, and various other buildings for workers or supplies. He seated himself in the golf cart and his cell phone vibrated, the one with the direct and secure line to Red Dog, his main business contact in the States. Quite a number of U.S. covert operations were funded by drug money. Ordinarily, Felipe made all contacts and arrangements with Red Dog, the code name of this extremely highly placed man in the U.S. military whose actual identity remained a secret, even from Escurra.
For over five years, Red Dog had provided cover for Escurra’s drug smuggling into the U.S., always taking a big cut. Escurra had never discovered how Red Dog had found out about the drug smuggling, but Red Dog had made an offer that Escurra could not refuse: cooperate and share profits or Red Dog would expose his operation to Brazilian authorities. Then a month ago, he had approached Felipe about this crazy operation involving kidnapping and blackmail.
Escurra would have opted out if he could have. Smuggling drugs he knew from every angle, but kidnapping and smuggling people was new; doing something new entailed major risks and invited disaster. Triply so because so many well-connected Americans would be involved.
Red Dog, however, refused to accept his no. Furthermore, the American implied that he might find some other middleman who was more cooperative. Fuck all. So much of Escurra’s business now depended upon this contact. How could he refuse the operation? Even Red Dog’s sweetening the pot with the promise of two million dollars didn’t make the deal sit any better in Escurra’s gut.
He fished the cell phone from his pocket. “The Eagle,” he said in English.
In his capoeira fighting days, his insignia had been a harpy eagle in flight clutching a dead colobus monkey in its talons. The harpy eagle—biggest eagle in the world. All who knew and feared Escurra still used the nickname behind his back. He had found it amusing to use it himself with the American.
“I