| The Characters Hernan Virrey – a Colombian coffee baron and businessman, with mysterious ties to almost everyone who matters in the region. Jorge Toromillo – a cold-blooded, meticulous intelligence operative working for . . . whom? Miguel Escalante – a young man from a modest family who becomes a rising star in the Colombian army. Ana Restrepo – a beautiful, fearless reporter from the weekly magazine Pensamiento. Don Evans – a reluctant American Foreign Service Officer, thrust into a role he never sought. The FARC – Spanish acronym for the “Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia,” the larger of the two main guerrilla armies in Colombia. Ernesto Botero – a graying guerrilla who lives and dies for the communist cause. Antonio Gonzalez – a Venezuelan spy whose murder helps spark a war. Jabreel Daniel – an airport guard, in the wrong place at the wrong time. David Newman – a Southwest airlines Captain who does everything possible to save those in his care. James Cook – a prominent American congressman caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Mariano Perez – President of Venezuela, whose ill-timed words lead to his own undoing. Vicente Arena – President of the Republic of Colombia, determined to crush a forty-year-old insurgency. Chapter One Hernan Virrey sat in an outdoor bar on the old city wall of Cartagena, Colombia, watching the sultry day die in a spectacular sunset over the western Carribean. The continual roar of the city surrounded him: the honking taxis, the clatter of horse drawn carriages, the sounds of vendors and tourists. The sun painted the massive old Spanish fortress on the opposite hill a fantastic gold, its color reflecting off Virrey’s immaculate white satin suit. As he took in the scene, he considered the audacity of the Spaniards who had built it. They conquered this country with a few determined men, he reflected. “We’re going to do the same thing,” Virrey said softly to himself, his enthusiasm building inside. Then he laughed. “This time the fools won’t even know it happened!” He leaned back on the metal chair, straightening his tie and sipping his manhattan. A sea breeze swept over the wall. He looked back to the centuries-old, colonial cathedral. Then he looked at his watch. Virrey was an anomaly among people who seldom lived by the clock. He was a punctual man. He was also not a man who tolerated being kept waiting. This time he was having to wait. He scanned the city impatiently, eyes rising up through the smoky sky to La Popa, the white monastery atop the highest hill in town. The Spanish built it for religious and military purposes. Lookouts from there scanned these seas for centuries, watching out for English and Dutch pirates. Now tourists scanned them, at times seeing the stark contrast between the glittering Cartagena of the waterfront hotels and the squalid Cartagena of the refugees, some living at the feet of La Popa itself. The sunset faded and the lights of the old city blazed on, bathing the ancient monuments in their spectacular colors. Music began to fill the breeze from a half-dozen clubs and street musicians. The waiter asked Virrey if he’d like to order. “Another manhattan,” he snapped. Virrey’s tone made it clear he had no desire to chat with the waiter the way tourists did. The waiter was attuned to the difference between chatty tourists and upper-class Colombian businessmen. He cursed under his breath as he turned away to fetch the drink. At long last, at least fifteen minutes after Virrey’s patience ended, a tall, olive-skinned man with a bushy mustache appeared at the top of the ramp leading to the battlement. Virrey called to him at once. “Jorge,” he barked. “Over here.” The other man, black eyes burning out from under a thick head of hair, came over. “You’re late,” Virrey said. “You’re early,” the man replied. If Virrey wasn’t one to tolerate waiting, the other man wasn’t one to tolerate intolerance. Virrey recovered himself. He cleared his throat and said, “It’s ready on this end. We’ve brought the teams into Vaupés and arranged things with the police. Is everything set on your end?” “We’re ready,” the man answered. “The FARC crew is top notch.” “Do they have any . . . suspicions? The FARC boys, I mean,” Virrey asked, fishing for the right word. “No,” Jorge answered. “No idea whatsoever.” “Good,” Virrey answered, straightening his tie again. “Have a drink.” The waiter brought Virrey his manhattan. “Y usted?” he asked the other man. “Yeah,” he answered. “Chivas on the rocks.” “Si señor,” the waiter answered. “In your professional opinion,” Virrey asked once the waiter had stepped away, “will the Americans take the bait?” The other man nodded his head yes. “When they find out about my involvement and investigate my connections, they’ll only be able to come to one conclusion.” “Then what?” Virrey asked. They’d been through this a hundred times before, but he still wanted to hear it. “Then,” the man said, “they’ll react like wounded elephants. They’ ll stomp the shit out of the little bastards they think caused it . . . just like Afghanistan.” Virrey and the other man sat in silence, soaking in the sights and sounds of the old city along with the humid air. The drink came. “To Colombia,” Virrey said, proposing a toast. “To our Colombia,” the other said. Copyright 2006, John Cunyus All Rights Reserved |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| Sample chapter from Flames in the Jungle, published by iUniverse.com |
| Available at Amazon.com |