Wings of the Fly

By E.L. Harris

The Medellin Cartel's leaders have been a thorn in the side of Don Esteban Ochoa, head of the Peruvian familia that established the South American cocaine cartels in the late 60s. But 40 years later, who can control such men? A beautiful and mysterious woman, Alexandra Macintosh. Wings of the Fly paints a portrait of obsession, of absolute power corrupting absolutely and of innocence overwhelmed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: E.L. Harris
• Release date: Jun 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310542947

E.L. Harris

Eugene "Gene" L. Harris began his writing career while attending the University of Oklahoma with an evening job as a news writer for an Oklahoma City television station. Subsequently he became writer producer of documentary features before leaving for Houston in 1968. After a tenure as writer/producer for KHOU-TV, Harris joined the staff of an energy corporation as senior writer, during which time he traveled worldwide, providing articles for the national press.In 1972 Harris began his free-lance career, establishing himself as one of the premier business writers in the country. During this period he also became interested in fiction, but it wasn't until after his marriage that he actively began to pursue novels. In the early 1980's, he and his wife traveled extensively in South America where he began collecting interviews from individuals that would eventually form the foundation for characters in subsequent novels.Alternately working on his fiction and his vocation, Harris has since produced several historical non-fiction works: The People Machine, and The Shadowmakers. His first novel, Wings of the Fly, (2013), deals with the cocaine wars between rival cartels in Peru and Columbia.The Aestrah Cycle, (2014) takes place in prehistorical South America where a matriarchal-dominant society controls male consciousness. He is currently working on a third book, So Simple A Name As Eden, a novel of the Galapagos Islands.Gene currently lives in the mountains south of Santa Fe with his wife, a standard Poodle and two fine cats.

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WINGS OF THE FLY

E.L. HARRIS

Copyright 2014, E.L. Harris

Smashbooks Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase and additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ISBN #97813130542947

Books by E.L. Harris

Wings of the Fly

Non fiction:

The Shadowmakers

The People Machine

Cover design: Rincón Studios, Edgewood, NM 87015

Para Cassandra y Nina,

Con amor y esperanza

PREFACE

There are no characters in this book that were conceived in my imagination. They are real, as are many of the circumstances and locations in which they interact. I have changed their names, not to protect their innocence, for all of the people you are about to meet have long lost the presumption of innocence, but rather to provide yet another subterfuge behind which they can maintain their individual facade of normalcy.

Alexandra exists, as does Alfred. Both Luis Ortega and Don Esteban Ochoa are now deceased. I thank them for sharing a part of their lives with me, and agreeing to allow these words to be placed on the following pages as faithfully as possible.

The title, Wings of the Fly, is an English translation of one of the purest forms of manufactured cocaine. Literally, alitita de mosca is highly valued crystalline cocaine whose features resemble that for which it is named

E.L. Harris, July, 2012

THE PLAYERS

1

The house was built on a massive block of orange sandstone separated from the barren, low coastal cliffs; a 2,000 meter square of the South American continent connected only by an arched stone bridge carved by the raging Pacific surf. Awash in the sea’s relentless thunder, the house, like the rock, appeared to be impervious. With steel beam legs driven deep into the stone, the main structure rose above both the rock and the sea like a spiteful dare. A two storied white concrete fortress, the house was a landmark, but its fame came neither from its unique presence, nor its unusual beauty: it came from she who built it.

The native fishermen of the village of Ayangue two kilometers south had named it after the redheaded gringa whose visions, abilities and resources exceeded the farthest reaches of their imagination.

Because of the color of her hair, they called the rock Punta Roja.

She was so young, it seemed to them, to accomplish so much. The coastline was, after all, the property of the Ecuadorian Navy, and permission to build so improbable a structure in so short a time required an amount of power totally beyond the villager’s comprehension. But the gringa did it.

In the two years since the house had been built, no one completely understood who she was or why she had come here. The only facts available to them were that she was an American, she was beautiful and she had friends who were powerful.

Although the citizens of Ayangue were ignorant, they were not stupid, and the luxurious power yachts anchoring in Ayangue’s protected cove or the long, black Mercedes Benz limousines driving up the dusty, dirt road to her house were filled with men and women whose occupations were best left unsaid. The villagers had a vague idea of what kind of money it took to afford such a limousine or yacht   more than they or their offspring would see in ten generations. They also knew how such money was earned: politics, the military, or something equally unscrupulous.

It would have been easy to ignore such a neighbor had she not been so friendly. Walking barefoot into the village wearing short shorts and a gauzy, cotton shirt tied in a knot above her waist, she drank cervezas alongside the fishermen and dogs and chickens and pigs. She even engaged them in conversation, her Spanish impeccable - better, in fact, than their own.

Ayangue’s lone schoolteacher told them she spoke a true, proper Castillian Spanish, which meant she had been to Spain. The simple fishermen who shared her table did not care. They were not attracted by her use of the language, but rather by both her physical appearance and an unseen magnetism: the alluring scent of a female animal in continual heat. Beneath the expensive French perfume was the smell of a rutting she cat with claws at the ready.

She had a long, oval face with sculpted features   high cheekbones accentuating gray green eyes flashing fire and full lips hinting at secrets that made a man shiver. She was a seductress oozing promises; an enchantress who was so far beyond the meager hopes of Ayangue’s fishermen it made them ache.

Whenever she drank with them, the fishermen, old and young alike, couldn’t keep their eyes from straying to her partially exposed breasts, the result of a shirt always open one button too many. When she left them, walking away down the beach, their eyes followed her, watching the swing of her hips and the tight curve of buttocks belying no telltale sign of underwear. The fishermen of Ayangue would take a deep breath, savoring the last traces of her perfume, shaking their heads and wiping their dry lips, whispering obscenities to one another and daring a laugh after insuring none of their wives were watching.

The wives, of course, knew what was going on. The village was too small to keep such secrets. But the wives knew La Roja was so far above and beyond their husband’s reach, they had no worries. Actually, the gringa was a blessing. After she left the village, their husbands’ were filled with lust, and even if their heads were still swimming with the visions of La Roja while they busily humped away, the wives enjoyed the second hand passion. She was a catharsis for their boredom; a catalyst that, thank God, had been bestowed upon Ayangue rather than another nearby village.

The choice had been far from accidental. Of all the coastlines in the world she could have chosen, Ayangue suited her purposes best. She was intimately familiar with Ecuador and the house on the coast was remote enough from the country’s major cities to insure the majority of visitors either came by invitation only, or for business.

Although she usually spent one week a month at the house, it was inevitable someone would stumble upon it out of curiosity. Most of the intruders were summer visitors   Ecuadorian, Americans, English or German   who maintained modest beach homes in Ayangue or other nearby villages. Overcome with curiosity, the brassiest of these would actually knock on her front door and ask for a tour. She didn’t mind the intrusion. The house had been built for that effect.

The English architect engineer who reluctantly designed and supervised its precarious construction promised her the house would definitely be a one of a kind. He also told her it was a doomed extravagance, predicting the surf would eventually undermine the supports or a treacherous El Niño tide would claim the entire structure.

He told her he would be surprised if the house stood more than five years. She didn’t care. The $750,000, over 18 million sucres   the currency of Ecuador before dollarization in 2000   hadn’t come from her pocket. It was a gift.

Don Esteban wanted to make her happy.

He also wanted a place where he could visit from time to time. Indulge in a little work and play, so to speak. She understood this and was quite willing to share both herself and his gift whenever he wanted. As long as he gave her advance warning.

"Who else do you entertain here, cara?" he asked when she made the demand.

"I do have other friends, Esteban. Is it unreasonable for me to invite them here?"

Don Esteban sighed. She was a will-of-the-wisp. If he made too many demands upon her, he knew she would be gone forever, regardless of what bounties he bestowed upon her. She was self made, and he sadly realized she could find what he provided in many other places, with many other men as powerful as he. Although she never put it into words, her presence was more of a gift to him than anything he could have given her.

"No, cara, he said, his pride causing him to wince inwardly when he thought about her being with another man, it is not unreasonable, as long as you do not abuse the situation."

It was an interesting situation, he often thought. Entering his 56th year of life, he had power to the extreme. Money beyond belief. He was La Familia of Lima, the head of a Peruvian empire built around both legitimacy and cocaine. He had earned the title Don—an acronym for the Spanish de orígen noblé—a man of noble origin, because of an ancestral birthright reaching back to the time of Pizarro’s colonial conquests. Beyond the pretense of title, he also had a faithful wife and three children who were at his side for Sunday communion.

And he had Alexandra.

But with all this power, he could not buy her, nor could he possess her. She was, he knew, a transient jewel without precedent, forever uncut and uncutable. To have her favor, if only for a short time, was an accomplishment about which few other men in the world could boast. She was, in fact, a status symbol raising his esteem in the eyes of others. In Don Esteban’s eyes, to have Alexandra was to have what every man in the world dreamed about.

What would I do without you? he would often ask after exhausting himself in her bed.

She would smile, brushing her over the shoulder hair back from her face, her eyes sparkling, and say nothing. Alexandra’s smile was answer enough. At 27, she had learned the value of silence. It allowed Don Esteban to think what he wanted.

To date, her answers proved satisfactory. When and if they changed, he knew she would be gone, a shadow not running from the sun, but merely disappearing while a cloud hid her footsteps.

As for Alexandra, she would miss the house, but there would always be another.

Don Esteban and the fishermen of Ayangue had more in common than they knew. Beneath their respective cloaks of power and poverty, they were merely men, and they were fools.

2

Medellin,Columbia

Paco had the look of a man who knew without doubt his destiny was at hand. There was a rabid, fanatical gleam in his eye, the look of cold agate reflecting light, like the shine of a tungsten bulb on dull blue steel.

I think you are lying to me, Rafael Bosher said. His voice had a singsong quality one might use when talking to a child.

Paco shook his head vigorously from side to side in denial. He shifted his weight from one knee to the other. Despite the plush carpeting in Bosher’s library, he had been kneeling long enough for his blood to settle. His reaction to the pinpricks of numbing pain was autonomic. He didn’t dare move a muscle.

Rafael smiled. It was so subtle most people wouldn’t notice. His eyes betrayed no laugh lines, no wrinkles. His face was monotonously handsome – a balanced equilibrium delicately carrying emotions like wind-blown ripples on a calm lake, almost imperceptible undulations, one indicenable form the other. He had kind eyes. Blue. Uncommon for the Latin blood. It reflected a mixture of Colombian and Paraguayan ancestry: his grandmother Spanish, his grandfather German. Although her too bore the title don, its usage came neither from ancestral nobility nor honor. It came as a result of one who gains power and uses it, often mercilessly

Paco, Paco, he said sadly, patiently. I know you are lying to me.

Paco squeezed his eyes shut tightly. Tears began to flow freely down his cheeks.

Everything’s gotten out of hand, Paco, and you were supposed to tell me. You were supposed to call me about Quito, and about Lima, and about La Paz. Rafael shook his head from side to side sadly, theatrically. It reflected mock defeat. He loved being the showman. You didn’t call me once. Do you know how disappointed I am?

At the word disappointment, Paco felt a shudder work its way through his body. In Don Rafael’s bible, disappointment was a cardinal sin, a pronouncement of the ultimate fall from grace. Losing control of his bladder, Paco wet himself. A wretched gurgling emerged from his throat as he fought back the bile of absolute humiliation.

Yesterday he had driven his new BMW from Bogota to Medellin, his pockets full of money, his lust satiated by the most expensive of big city whores, his life as full and crisp as the Andean air. Everything was going so well.

Was it only yesterday?

What am I to do, Paco? Rafael continued. I discover by pure accident Don Esteban has started an enterprise. Even Jefferson, in Quito, is dealing with the Canadians. And I am the last to find out. This is not the way to run a business, Paco, with people you trust not telling you the truth. Has Don Esteban been paying you?

Another shake of denial.

Jefferson?

Denial.

Rafael was leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His smile vanished, subsiding casually; leaving the impression it might never have been there in the first place. In one hand he held a chrome plated magnum pistol. The barrel was in Paco’s mouth. Bosher’s attention casually shifted from Paco to another man standing motionless in front of the library’s closed door.

Go to Quito first, Bosher said in a monotone. Eliminate the problem, but go through the Canadians. This is their situation and I want them to know I expect them to handle it. I will call you there and tell you want to do about Lima. Don Esteban . . ., he paused, contemplatively rubbing his chin, . . . is a different problem. Do you understand?

I understand, the man said.

Rafael nodded. Leave us. Once again his gaze fell on Paco. He expelled a short, irritated breath. We have known each other for a long time, Paco. I am disappointed someone I have called a friend for all of these years could do this to me. But you did. It is good I have other friends, yes?

Paco knew whom he was talking about. He knew about her. The gringa. Behind Rafael, outside the vaulted glass windows, Paco was aware of a towering hibiscus with plate-sized blossoms. The color was symbolic: Blood. Wine. The gringa with the red hair. It was Don Rafael’s favorite color. Damm her!

So, we have come to this, Rafael said, twitching the barrel in Paco’s mouth as though to remind him of its presence; as though he were saying do not forget who holds your life in his hands.

Paco drew in a shuddering breath. He was suddenly aware of Rafael’s cologne. It was a sweet, musky smell. Italian. Since they had fought their way out of the streets together, he had never known Bosher to wear anything else. It was as much a part of Medellin as the aroma of the sewers. The smell triggered memories.

Rafael once told him even death had a smell.

Can you smell it now, Paco?

The features of Rafael’s face softened imperceptibly. The cartel has to be protected, Paco. Agreements must be kept. Promises made must be honored. It really is very simple, yes? Don Esteban is now negotiating his own business with the Bolivians. Jefferson is stealing from me and selling to the Canadians. And you, Paco, have become a liar.

A hooded calmness fell over Rafael’s face, like a transparent shade being pulled down over a window – a filament of gauze separating reality from imagination. A bird began singingoutside, flitting from branch to branch. The hibiscus blossoms danced under its weight, fragrant circles of blood soaking up the midday Colombian sun.

The bird jabbed at an insect and cocked its head to one side, attracted by a sudden, sharp report from inside the house. Sensing no danger, it hopped to another branch and dipped its beak into an upturned blossom, drinking from a small pool of trapped morning rain. Although it was an illusion, the water looked as red as blood.

3

Quito, Ecuador

The party, which hadn’t started until midnight, was now in full swing. Packed with a cross section of Quito’s young affluent, the nightclub vibrated with the intensity of thunderous music threatening to give Alfred a headache. He began to wonder why he accepted the invitation.

Being an American, Alfred’s internal clock beat to a different rhythm, his stomach preferring to receive food at a time more coincidental with the setting of the sun. These South Americans however, were a different breed. Dinner at ten, maybe eleven o’clock, then party time. He took a drink, not really enjoying the taste of the scotch: it was a waste of time to add liquor to a stomach that had gone to sleep at two a.m. It was now almost three in the morning.

What do you think? Jefferson asked him, leaning across the table. The question was less than rhetorical.

Alfred managed a smile filled with false bravado. Quite a gathering.

Shit! Jefferson spat, this is it! Then, as though sharing a secret, he cupped a hand to his mouth. These are shakers and movers, babe. El Latino Yuppies Deluxe, if you know what I mean.

He didn’t know and he really didn’t care. Jefferson was overboard. A half-fifth of bourbon and God knew how many lines of cocaine was keeping Jefferson wired. His eyes were wild and confused, like an animal trapped before an onrushing fire.

You ought to slow down, Alfred said, aware his concern was totally wasted.

Fuck you, Pilgrim! Jefferson slobbered. Slow down? Man, the world could stop right now and I could just fuckin’ get off, y’know. You need to do a line of blow, loosen yourself up, y’know.

Alfred nodded and forced down another sip. Jefferson was so far gone he probably didn’t recognize with whom he was talking. Hyperspace was the word Jefferson used. We goin’ to hyperspace tonight. Gonna do a number. Alfred was worried about Jefferson. When they’d first met, some four months ago, he was sure Jefferson was somebody he could trust. Another American come to South America to take part in the foreign pillage of the Third World’s financial virginity.

Jefferson, at the time of their introduction, had the appearance of being a mid-40-year old entrepreneur. He owned an exclusive Mercedes Benz dealership in both Quito and Lima. He’d been quick to offer Alfred a job, apparently happy to find someone with not only a common language but also an intimate working knowledge of German mechanical engineering.

You’re comin’ to work for me! Jefferson had said. Money was no matter. And he was correct. But the longer Alfred worked for Jefferson, the more concerned he became about just where all of Jefferson’s money was coming from. This party, for example, had to be setting him back a chunk of money.

For a while he’d naively believed Jefferson wasn’t into the drug trade. One pal to another, Jefferson had said, I don’t do that shit. But he did. And he probably did a lot more that was illegal. The thought didn’t set well with Alfred. He watched Jefferson from across the table, wondering how much money it took to eventually buy a weak man’s morals.

You’re a Pilgrim, Jefferson had told him. You got to reach out and take hold of what’s there. And babe, there’s a lot floatin’ around!

At the time, he hadn’t really understood what Jefferson was talking about. But now he did. Alfred really was a pilgrim. He took another sip of his drink and pushed himself up from the table. No one noticed when he stood. Their attention had been drawn to a newly delivered silver tray with eight lines of coke neatly drawn across its mirrored surface. Jefferson was daring an attractive young woman named Yolanda to split a line with him.

I should go home, Alfred thought, valiantly attempting to pick his way through the crowd. The dark, smoke-filled club was packed elbow-to-elbow. The massed and mingling aroma of French perfumes and American after-shave was beginning to make him nauseous. At 36 years of age, he felt out of place. Old. He had nothing in common with this youthful crowd. He was an outsider whose ability to even speak the language was poor at best.

When aggravated, as he was now, he’d often forget what little Spanish he did know. Excuse me, he said, attempting to forge a path around the perimeter of the dance floor.

You’re excused, a warm, female voice beside him said. Are you lost?

He reacted; surprised someone had spoken English. He was even more surprised to discover from whom it had come. More or less, he said, squaring himself shoulder to shoulder with the woman.

He caught patchwork glimpses of her as lasers reflected off a rotating mirrored globe hanging from the center of the club’s dance floor. Red and blue colors chased patterns across her face, darting and flickering almost in syncopation with the heavy whump, whump of the music. Looking into her eyes, he thought, where did this one come from?

I thought so, she purred, resting her palm against his chest, the motion one of practiced familiarity. As though the contact of her hand completed a circuit, he was magnetized by her touch. You look out of place, she said.

He could only nod his head vigorously in agreement. His eyes took the opportunity to follow an obvious masculine path, categorizing her assets. She wore a strapless black gown covered with glass sequins reflecting light. It was cut low for all too apparent a reason, designed by someone who obviously had seen the lady who would be wearing it.

You with Jefferson? she asked, tilting her head to one side.

You know him? he responded, immediately recognizing it was a stupid question. Everybody knew Jefferson.

Everybody knows Jefferson, she said, glancing towards his table, but I don’t know you. Her eyes were sparkling. She gave him a brief, quixotic smile.

Yes to the first question. I’m with Jefferson. And as for me, I’m Alfred.

Alfred, she repeated, as though she needed to test the sound of his name coming from her own lips. Very formal, don’t you think? Why not just plain old Al?

He wasn’t sure what kind of subconscious signals she was sending him, but he was getting very warm. Despite the press of bodies around them, he was also very aware of her perfume. What you have here, he told himself, is a woman. Do I look like an Al? he asked.

She studied him briefly, her dark eyes dancing across his face. You’re right, she concluded, you’re not an Al. In a world filled with Jose’s and Ramon’s, Alfred will do quite well. I like it.

He forced himself to take a breath, suddenly feeling impulsive. I like you, he said.

Her eyebrows rose and fell once. It’s called stress bonding. Commonality of culture and language. Strangers in a strange land, that sort of thing. I’ll bet that’s how you met Jefferson, right? Americans, as a rule of thumb, always stick together. Then, as though paraphrasing her reply, she added, I like you, too.

He smiled to let her know he appreciated such spontaneous compliments. Because I’m an American? he asked.

She ran a well-manicured fingernail down the side of her nose, pausing at her lips. He followed its movement with his eyes, amazed at her skin. Whether or not it was the lighting, he thought he could detect tiny sparkles in her pores.

That’s a good enough reason for now, don’t you think? she asked coyly.

He felt a drastic need to break eye contact with her. Scanning the room without actually seeing anything, he absorbed her question. Don’t you think? Was it a hidden offer? Was he ready for such an offer?

For now, he replied. He wished he knew what kind of a game was being played, or even if a game was being played.

A man came up to her side, rudely interrupting, blurting out a slur of Spanish. She frowned and answered him in return, her tone intimating more than her words. Alfred caught bits and pieces of the quick conversation.

She might be an American, he thought, but she’s been here for a good while. Impeccable Spanish. Not a second language. She’d been brought up with it.

The man lit a cigarette, his eyes nervously dancing to Alfred, then back to her. As his lighter flared to life, Alfred caught a brief glance of her illuminated face. Her skin did sparkle. And she had red hair. She raised her head in a quick jerk, a chin-pointing motion that said, go away in any language. The man obeyed immediately.

A bodyguard? Alfred thought. Why