(Garcia Estate, Peninsula de Paria, Venezuela)
With a cup of coffee, Daniel Garcia enjoyed the sunrise over the Golfo de Paria from his mountaintop estate above Puerto Hierro, the dark landmass of Trinidad barely visible from thirty miles away. As the red warmth began to break through the clouds that hung over the mountainous island, Venus showed itself in the royal blue sky. To the south a large ferry plied the gulf. En route to Port a Spain, he surmised. Unusual for this hour.
To his left and north the Caribbean met the Atlantic, the limitless ocean, now dark and serene as the glow from the east began to illuminate the cottony clouds that floated above the peaceful waters. From his picture-window observatory, he had a near 360-degree view of the sea and sky around the Peninsula de Paria. Here, as the day began, long before Annibel and the girls awoke, he could think.
Medellin. A continent away and a lifetime ago…. In reality, it had been only ten years since he left the city where he had made his fortune. Not that he missed it. The Pacific was what he missed, his boyhood home of Buenaventura along the coast. A boy as restless as the Pacific surf, he had left paradise for Cali and the coke, the girls, the money — and the power a tough, smart kid like Daniel could wield at a young age. He regretted the murders, and was glad he no longer had to burden himself with the violent end of the business. He didn’t regret leaving bitchy Marta, who had refused to leave Cali and her super-bitchy mother. Marta did not know how close she came to death when she lit into Carlos that night in Medellin. She has her money now, he thought, and her annulment. If she remarried, however, he would have her new husband killed. Daniel would ensure she spent the rest of her days alone.
Yes, this mountaintop estate, far from Medellin, far from Caracas, was where Daniel and his cartel had moved in order to stay in business. Why had Colombia turned on him? He and the others had paid off all the senators, the generals, the police. The campesinos loved him. Why did they do it? Colombia was the perfect base to ship product up the isthmus, along the vast Pacific or through the Caribbean islands and wash bushels of money in Panama. Yet, almost overnight, the Ejército Nacional had pushed out the FARC. How? With help from the hated Americans, of course.
Reports from the field were troubling. Not only were shipments not getting through — although a fraction still meant a handsome profit — but the mules operating the vessels and airplanes were missing.