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The Lazarus File

By Donn Taylor

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Chapter 1

Medellín, Colombia, October 1977
Mark Daniel had never been hijacked before, but the man pointing a pistol at his heart was rapidly filling that gap in his experience. Worse yet, Mark realized, getting hijacked would make him miss the crucial appointment he'd won after eighteen months of dangerous undercover work.
At noon he had landed his white twin-engine Cessna 402 at Medellín after an overnight flight to Grand Cayman Island. There, in his undercover identity as Carlos Ortíz, pilot for hire, he'd paid his usual visit to the Banque Internationale and met his Agency contact, Bob Reichert. Both visits proved disquieting, but the trip did bring two pleasures all too rare in his recent life —remaining within the law for an entire flight and spending a night in relatively safe surroundings.
Back at Medellín, he parked near the cramped air taxi office that fronted for his less reputable flights. Elena, the young receptionist who did what little office work he needed, had gone to lunch. While he waited for her, he refueled the Cessna and checked the new fuel line he'd installed in the left engine.
As he refastened the cowling, a man wearing a baggy brown suit came forward, smiling. Two other men remained in the background. The spokesman was a rugged-looking mestizo about Mark's own size—a bit more than six feet tall, with a weight around two hundred pounds. He sported a neatly trimmed mustache and perfect teeth. Though clearly in a hurry, he kept his manner pleasant.
"Buenas tardes, Señor," he began, then changed into English. "This airplane is for hire?"
"Usually," Mark replied, "but I have an appointment this afternoon. I won't know about the next few days till my receptionist comes back from lunch."
A look of distress replaced the man's smile. "But Señor, this flight must be made today."
"Then someone else will have to make it." Mark's voice sounded more harsh than he intended. "I'm sorry," he added, "but I can't break my appointment."
The man grew adamant. "But you must, Señor. The airplane at Hacienda Agueda has become sick and cannot be flown, and we must bring the passenger back before nightfall. It is not wise to stay there overnight, for guerrilla territory lies nearby. For this flight I will pay you two thousand American dollars."
Mark swallowed his irritation. "I'm sorry, but if I don't keep this appointment, I'll lose my best customer."
That customer was Paolo Guzmán, one of the three most powerful drug lords of Medellín. Today's appointment gave Mark a possible breakthrough toward accomplishing his mission, for Guzmán wanted him to meet someone he described only as "a very important Cuban." —No way Mark would sacrifice that opportunity just to rescue some fat hacendado from his own folly!
To end the conversation, he turned away and fastened the last clip on the Cessna's cowling.
He hoped to hear departing footsteps, but instead he heard a flat, determined voice. "I do not wish to seem impolite, Señor, but you may lose more than your best customer."
Mark looked into the muzzle of a century-old Colt .45 revolver. Despite the anachronistic weapon, the visitor did not act like an amateur. His eyes and gun hand held steady, and he stayed far enough away to discourage any attempt to disarm him.
The gunman's two henchmen had drawn late-model automatics and taken positions for a cross fire. Mark's anger boiled against the hijackers, but more against himself for being taken unawares. He had not readjusted from the safety of the Caymans to the violent environment of Colombia. They had caught him thinking like Mark Daniel instead of Carlos Ortíz.
"And if I don't make the flight?" he asked. If he could stall for a few minutes....
"Ah, Señor!" The visitor sighed and looked sad. "Before the Sabbath I must attend confession, and some patient Father must hear the tedious catalog of my sins. Why would you add your murder to that sordid list? You should be more considerate of the priesthood."
The hijacker paused to let that sink in. "We will return before sunset today," he continued, "and you can reschedule your appointment. We will not harm you if you fly for us—I give you my word." He raised his left hand as if taking an oath. "Mary Mother forbid that I should have to confess breaking my word."
No way out, Mark thought. And no appointment, either. "All right. Where do we pick up this passenger?"
"In a high mountain valley north of Bogotá. Fly fifteen degrees north of the course line to that city. When we reach the Magdalena River, I will direct you. The airstrip is long enough for the high altitude, and the surface is good."
The two men crowded warily into the Cessna's cabin, but the tension eased somewhat after they settled into the pilot and copilot seats. Mark made no foolish moves. He felt relieved when the two supporting gunmen did not accompany them.
Soon after takeoff they sighted the majestic peaks of the Cordillera Central, the rugged Andean mountain barrier that separated Medellín and other cities of the Cauca River system from those of the Magdalena valley and plateau of Bogotá.
More relaxed now, the hijacker became jocular. "This is a beautiful country, Señor." He waved his pistol toward the mountains. Mark was about to agree when the man added, "But I think you have seen the not-so-beautiful parts of it. You keep your airplane very clean inside. Very, very clean." He gave a knowing glance.
Drug airplanes were always clean. They had to be vacuumed clear of evidence after every flight.
Mark ignored the implication. "My mother taught me cleanliness was next to godliness."
"And of course godliness alone has brought you to Colombia, Señor. I am happy to do business with a man of such good character." He laughed and abruptly changed subjects. "But while we enjoy this flight together, my companion of good character, you must understand something about the passenger who awaits us at Hacienda Agueda."
He waved the pistol affably.
"When you see this passenger, Señor, do not even think about thinking what you are certain to think."
The two fell silent. Mark wasted no time on his captor's enigmatic command, but reviewed his own meeting with Bob Reichert yesterday in the Cayman Islands.
***
After landing at Grand Cayman, Mark had processed through customs carrying a briefcase-load of cash from his last month's flights. Conveniently, the Caymans provided private, curtained booths to ensure secrecy in such matters. Officials glanced briefly at the passport identifying him as Carlos Ortíz, but no one asked where the money came from. Nor were questions asked at the Banque Internationale, where he deposited the cash into the account of a European corporation that existed only in the files of a Liechtenstein lawyer. Disguised by wire transfers through places like Aruba and Tonga, these dollars would end up as Swiss francs in a numbered account in Geneva. He had gone to a lot of trouble to set that up.
As always, he wondered what would happen to the money when his mission was finished. For political reasons, neither The Agency nor Roger Brinkman would touch it. Apparently, the money would remain Mark's responsibility. He promised himself, for the hundredth time, to make sure it was used only in a good cause.
Bob Reichert had flown over from the Embassy in Jamaica. They met at the terrace bar of a seaside hotel, ostensibly strangers engaged in casual conversation.
"Well, Carlos," Reichert asked, "what news from the bank?"
"Forget the bank." Mark wished he could forget it himself. "Orders or no, that money weighs on my conscience. I only hope I'm doing enough good to offset the harm."
"But you are." Reichert became serious. "Brinkman's people in Colorado say you've made invaluable contacts. Some they've recruited as agents, some they've sanitized and given to law enforcement for further checking, and others they're watching to see what develops. It's not your fault you've found nothing about nations hostile to the United States."
"I may find something tomorrow. Paolo Guzmán wants me to meet some high-powered Cuban. He won't name the man. He won't say what we'll talk about, either, except that I'm to make several flights. This could be the break we've been waiting for. Guzmán is tired of playing third fiddle in the Medellín drug world. He's hatching some kind of plot to be first."
"What do you think he'll do?"
"Probably shift from marijuana to cocaine. He's already asked me to smuggle coca paste out of Peru to hidden factories in Colombia. I've stalled him for the present. —And by the way: I'm not flying cocaine. If it comes to that, I'm bailing out."
"Objection noted." Reichert grinned. "But we won't drive off that bridge till we get to it. Does Guzmán have other options?"
"The strong-arm route or the political route," Mark said. "Bringing in a Cuban suggests that he may try both at once. That's what I have to find out. With Cuban involvement, things could get really messy, like they did in 1964 and '65."
"I remember," Reichert said. "Pitched battles between the Colombian army and Cuba-sponsored guerrillas—caused a break in diplomatic relations. It's just recently the two countries got back together."
Reichert looked thoughtful. "Stay focused on your mission, though. Drug traffic and local politics are no skin off of our nose, but we keep hearing that the Soviets and Cubans want Caribbean military bases—maybe to threaten the Panama Canal, maybe for some other mischief."
"I'm not likely to forget." Mark let his tone close the subject. "What do you hear from the States?"
"It gets worse. Security leaks in Washington have hurt us badly. I used to exchange information every week or two with the Brits and other friendlies. Now the same people won't give me the time of day. They're afraid their names might leak from some Congressional hearing."
"Maybe it will blow over," Mark said. He could always hope.
"Maybe." Reichert sounded skeptical. "But the new political crowd in Washington thinks espionage is beneath them. They say they can get everything they need from satellites."
Mark grimaced. "Satellites can't photograph thoughts. When a thought becomes a construction site you can photograph, it's too late for preventive action."
"The new guys haven't figured that out." Reichert shrugged. "One other thing. Whatever the source—Congressional leaks, defectors, whatever—the American press keeps publishing names of our agents. When Richard Welch got assassinated a couple of years ago, and others met with suspicious accidents after their names were leaked—well, it put the fear of exposure into all of us."
Reichert sighed. "Be glad my reports on you go to Brinkman in Colorado, and not to Washington. That's a weird reporting channel, but it gives you better cover. Washington leaks like a sieve."
Now it was Mark's turn to sigh. "I guess we'll have to play for time and hope the political outlook changes." He stood up and they shook hands. "Till next time, then."
Back in his hotel room, Mark was thankful for the unconventional reporting procedure Dub Minden and Roger Brinkman had set up for his protection. He reported to Reichert, who reported to Brinkman's independent organization, which passed Mark's information to The Agency in ways that would not compromise his identity. Among Agency personnel in the Caribbean, only Reichert and one trusted deputy knew about Mark's mission. Even they knew him only as Carlos Ortíz.
Mark trusted Reichert. But still, with all The Agency's leaks and the recent carelessness at political levels....
Later he walked the sloping white beach as sunset transformed the emerald-green sea into flaming ruby. Always now when he saw something beautiful, the same deep ache reminded him Laura was no longer alive to share it... Laura, who possessed that deep inner calm he'd never understood and now would never understand. That night when he slept, he dreamed of vacationing there with Laura. When he woke alone the next morning, the ache was still there.
***
"Begin your descent now." The hijacker's command jolted Mark back to the present. He eased back the throttles to descend across the Magdalena River toward the Cordillera Oriental, the most easterly of Colombia's three mountain ranges. Apparently, the hijacker's destination lay short of the highest peaks.
Leaving the major transportation arteries behind, they twisted through a narrow mountain valley where scattered subsistence farms held the lower ground and ragged peaks thrust skyward on either side. A maze of rough trails connected the scrubby farms to a single improved road that ran the length of the valley.
"Prepare for landing, Señor," the hijacker ordered. "The airstrip lies around the next bend."
Hacienda Agueda was a moderate-sized and remarkably fertile coffee plantation. Surprised at seeing coffee grown successfully at such a high elevation, Mark guessed some favorable orientation to the sun must give this location an advantage over the poor farms lower down the valley.
The plantation's hilly slopes were devoted to coffee growing, but on the valley floor an airstrip had been carved out of the surrounding forest. Tall trees at both ends of the strip, together with the valley walls nearby, gave pilots little margin for error. Not far beyond the strip, the valley ended abruptly at a steep, wooded ridgeline topped by one abandoned hut that stood alone in a small clearing.
After landing, Mark parked near the midpoint of the strip where four people waited beside another aircraft, a middle-aged Queenaire that showed signs of hard usage. To his relief, Mark saw no guns among those who waited. When the hijacker ordered him to dismount first, he took time to don the heavy flight jacket he kept stored behind the pilot's seat. He would need it in the cold at this altitude.
As soon as his feet hit the ground, Mark turned to face the gunman. If they were going to kill him, this would be the time. But the hijacker's pistol had somehow disappeared back into the brown suit. The man himself looked blandly beyond Mark with an expression of relief, his smile broader than ever.
"Buenas tardes, Ramón. You are most welcome."
Mark heard the words behind him. They came from a clear, melodious feminine voice speaking perfect Castilian Spanish. He turned toward the voice.
His first glance told him she was slightly beyond thirty years of age. Not at all pretty, he thought, but gracefully slender and gifted with poise and elegance. He watched her welcome the hijacker. With a smile, yes—but also with a penetrating level gaze through clear gray eyes that never seemed to blink. Her hair was brown, of moderate length. She wore black slacks, sensible walking shoes, and a colorful ruana, the poncho-like garment Colombians wear to ward off the Andean cold. Small crystal earrings reflected the ruana's designs of red and aqua. On her ring finger she wore a plain gold wedding band coupled with a tasteful, moderate-sized diamond.
No one would ever call her pretty, Mark thought again, because she was simply beautiful. But her elegant radiance seemed ill-matched with Ramón's murderous threats. Nor did the other members of her party—a woman in slacks and a man in a business suit—fit with the hijacking. They looked like secretaries.
The elegant one turned her level gaze on Mark. He was glad the smile came with it.
"It was good of you to come on such short notice." She still spoke Spanish, so he replied in kind.
"Ramón was very persuasive."
The hijacker made an expansive gesture. "Ah, Señora, the gringo Señor was most cooperative. He proposed no effective reasons for not coming."
Her smile remained, but she raised a warning forefinger. "Ramón, you have been to the cinema again. You must stop acting like some Hollywood version of Pancho Villa."
Ramón's face took on a chastened look.
At the fringe of the group stood a seedy, medium-sized man who wore an airline pilot's cap cocked to the left side of his head, with the fur collar of his flight jacket snugged tightly around his neck. He looked miserable.
Mark said to him, "If I may look at your airplane, I might be able to help. I'm a licensed A & E."
The man averted his eyes and swallowed hard. "No, Señor," he muttered. "The right engine does not go, but the needed part has already been ordered."
He's lying, Mark thought. Why?
The lady seemed interested. "Let him look, Miguel. It can do no harm." She turned to Mark, "Would you, please?"
With the aircraft's switches turned off, Mark opened the right engine cowling. Miguel wandered off out of sight, and Mark hoped someone would keep an eye on him. The cause of the engine problem became immediately obvious. Too obvious.
Two spark plug wires had been removed from the plugs and tied back out of sight behind a cylinder. A casual check by a lawn-mower mechanic should have discovered it. Only a person held in complete trust would dare resort to so obvious a trick. Mark looked casually around to see if he could find Miguel.
"Put your hands up! All of you!" The pilot held a Beretta in his left hand. "You, gringo. Get over there with the others."
Mark raised his hands and complied, but stopped several feet short of the group. From his position on Miguel's right, he faced the others and kept his left side toward Miguel. The unidentified man and woman thrust their hands skyward, their faces distorted with fear. Ramón lifted his hands more slowly. He placed himself in front of the Señora, but she would have none of it.
Hands open and relaxed at her sides, she stepped out from behind Ramón and fixed the gray eyes on her captor. Her voice sounded sad but not angry. "What are you doing, Miguel? You grew up at this hacienda. My father put you through school and paid for your flying lessons. How have we deserved this?"
Miguel's face reddened and he spoke through clenched teeth. "You are rich, but many people remain poor. Soon everything you have will be given to them." Miguel's eyes dropped before her steady gaze, and he shifted his feet uneasily. "We must wait here for a while," he said. "You do not need to know why."
The Señora's face revealed her hurt, but her hands remained at her sides and Miguel did not force the issue. "What will you gain by this?" she persisted.
Each time she spoke, Miguel's eyes dropped momentarily. Mark used those moments to take small steps backward, inching away from the group toward the limit of Miguel's peripheral vision. He saw that the flight jacket's fur collar protected Miguel's neck, but the leftward tilt of his pilot's cap made the right temple vulnerable. Mark leaned slightly toward Miguel while coiling his body in the opposite direction like a tightly-wound spring.
The man farthest to Miguel's left began to plead. "Have mercy, Miguel. My arms ache. I cannot keep them up."
Miguel's leftward glance brought his undoing. When he looked away, Mark took one quick step and struck the pilot on the temple with the heel of his right hand. The blow delivered the combined force of Mark's right arm and his uncoiling body. Miguel dropped like a rock and lay still, unconscious but breathing.
The lady looked sadly down at him and shook her head. "Pobre Miguel," she said. "Pobre Miguel."
Mark tucked the fallen pilot's pistol into his belt. He would be ready if Ramón misbehaved again. "We'd better get out of here," he said. "If you'll load him on the airplane, you may be able to find out who hired him, and why."
Before they could respond, four bursts from an automatic rifle sounded beyond the far end of the airstrip. Mark's group was not yet the target, but the danger was clear.
"Guerrillas!" Ramón cried. "So that's what Miguel was waiting for!"
Other automatic weapons began firing, but the target remained obscure.
"Hurry," Mark shouted. "Get in the aircraft." Leaving Miguel, they scrambled into the Cessna. Mark started the engines and taxied as fast as he dared toward the end of the strip away from the gunfire. The lady belted herself into the copilot seat, tense but composed.
"Must we go all the way to the end?" she asked.
"Yes," Mark answered. "At this high altitude we need all the runway we can get."
An unwelcome surprise greeted them when they turned at the end of the airstrip and lined up for takeoff. The Queenaire was taxiing onto the strip back near the midpoint. Apparently, Miguel had regained consciousness. Mark first thought the other pilot intended to block their departure, but the Queenaire kept turning until it faced away from them down the strip. Without stopping, it began an erratic takeoff run as the pilot roughly sawed rudder pedals back and forth. Mark and the lady watched, transfixed.
He's in no shape to fly, Mark thought. He must know what the guerrillas will do to him because he failed.
Beside the strip near the far end, several men ran out of the trees and waved automatic rifles at the approaching Queenaire. As the aircraft broke ground, they fired at it in long, undisciplined bursts. Mark could not tell if the bullets struck home, but the landing gear remained down and the aircraft struggled against its deadly drag in a vain attempt to gain altitude. Instead of raising the gear, the pilot tried to clear the trees by pulling the nose up suddenly.
In a stall, the Queenaire banked sharply to the left, cartwheeled when the left wing struck the ground, and burst into flame as it came to rest at the edge of the trees.
A look of horror came over the lady's face. "Pobre Miguel," she said. "Pobre Miguel."
Mark wasted no time on sympathy. "Listen closely," he ordered. "Put your hands under you and sit on them. This will be very close. If you even touch the controls we may not make it."
She complied quickly, but gave him a searching glance. "Miguel did not make it."
His anger flared. "I am not Miguel!" he snapped. He stood on the brakes and pressed the throttles full forward. No time for temper, he told himself. I've got to do this just like they taught me in flight school.
As soon as the engines developed full power, Mark released the brakes and the aircraft quickly gathered speed. He held the throttles full forward. If everything worked perfectly, he could turn out over the trees two-thirds of the way down the strip.
As the aircraft's speed increased, guerrillas beside the far end of the strip put their weapons to their shoulders and began firing. Mark hoped they weren't trained to engage a rapidly moving target from that angle. In any case, he had to chance it.
When the aircraft broke ground, he retracted the gear and raised the nose into the steepest climb the aircraft could sustain in the thin Andean air. Seven or eight guerrillas were firing at them by now. The landing gear thumped into the fully retracted position as they reached treetop height, and Mark turned gently out over the trees, using them for cover. During the turn he heard four slugs rip into the aircraft, but the engines and controls kept functioning normally.
They had made it.
He lowered the nose slightly to gain airspeed, turned westward down the valley, and eased throttles and propellers back to a normal climb setting. He turned to the lady, whose hands now rested in her lap.
She gave him a wan smile. "No," she said, "you are not Miguel."
"I'm sorry I lost my temper." Mark had a momentary impulse to touch her arm and reassure her, but thought better of it. "Is this the first time someone has tried to kidnap you?"
"Kidnap?" Her face showed surprise and shock.
"Señora!" Ramón thrust himself between them. "María has been wounded."
The lady moved quickly to the rear of the aircraft. Ramón replaced her in the copilot's seat.
"Should I divert into Bogotá?" Mark asked.
Ramón shook his head. "The wound is in the leg, and we have stopped the bleeding. It is best we return to Medellín, but will you radio for an ambulance to meet us?"
Mark leveled out and made the call, then took the Beretta from his belt and gave it to Ramón.
"To further your career as a hijacker," he explained. "You need a better weapon than that antique Colt. Where on earth did you get it?"
"It hangs in a frame in the office of the Señora's husband," Ramón said. "When she called for another airplane, I smelled trouble and took it down. No one knew if it would fire, so I hired the two gunmen. In Medellín they are plentiful and cheap."
Mark wondered why the husband had not come, but did not ask.
Ramón anticipated the question. "Two years ago her husband has suffered a stroke. He does not leave his wheelchair, but keeps a small office in their home in Medellín. Since then, she manages Roca Enterprises—four factories and three haciendas. She does this as well as he—better, some say. But one never knows, for they work closely together."
Mark asked no questions. "You'll need professional guards to protect the Señora. Those guerrillas play for keeps."
Ramón grimaced. "That is true, Señor. They have bribed the plantation manager and the campesinos to grow marijuana for them so they can buy guns. The Señora grew up at this hacienda, as I did. Her family was good to the people. I was born a subsistence farmer and would be one yet, had her father not paid for my schooling. The Señora still thinks the best of everyone. If she herself talked to the campesinos, she thought, she could persuade them not to grow the marijuana." He looked puzzled. "Besides, growing it here makes no sense."
"No," Mark agreed, "the real marijuana country lies up north in La Guajira. But that doesn't explain the kidnap attempt. Someone had to know who to bribe, and when."
"That is also true." Ramón appeared lost in reflection for a moment, but abruptly resumed the extravagant manner he had shown on the flight down. "Señor, your passenger is Sol Agueda de Roca, whom many say is the most accomplished woman in Colombia. Do you not find her extraordinary?" His teeth gleamed in a broad smile.
Mark had had enough. He gave the Colombian a hard look. "Two legs, four legs, or boxes," he said, "cargo is cargo."
They finished the flight in silence. An ambulance met them at Medellín airport, along with eight policemen. These stood by respectfully as the lady and her male attendant crowded into the ambulance and rode with María to the hospital. As Mark expected, the police grilled him aggressively while Ramón lolled nearby.
The face of the officer in charge grew red as Mark's answers gave him no excuse for an arrest. Fifteen minutes later, in a state approaching apoplexy, he fired a final question. "How could you consent to this preposterous flight with a complete stranger on such short notice?"
"That is simple." Mark gave Ramón a friendly glance. "This worthy Señor has promised me five thousand American dollars, and anyone can see that he is a man of his word."
Ramón's face showed consternation, then relaxed into a pained smile. "It is true," he mumbled. "I have promised."
Mark raised his left hand solemnly, as if taking an oath. "And Mary Mother forbid that you should have to confess breaking your word."
"Sí," said Ramón. He did not sound enthusiastic.
After everyone had left, Mark assessed his own situation. It seemed disastrous. Eighteen months of dangerous work had gained him Paolo Guzmán's confidence and won this appointment with Guzmán's "very important Cuban." Now one freakish hijacking had tangled him up in complications unrelated to his mission. If he lost Guzmán's confidence, his mission would fail.

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