Clear and present danger - Tom Clancy [38]
"How well motivated are these folks?" Clark had seen lots of combat once, and he knew that the measure of an enemy is not to be found by counting his weapons.
Larson frowned at the sky. "Depends on what you mean. If you change the word from 'motivated' to 'macho,' that about covers it. You know, the cult of manliness, that sort of thing. Part of it's kinda admirable. These people have a funny sense of honor. For example, the ones I know socially treat me just fine. Their hospitality is impressive, especially if you show a little deference, which everyone does. Besides, I'm not a business rival. What I mean is, I know these people. I've taught a bunch of them to fly. If I had a money problem, I could probably go to them for help and get it. I'm talking like half a million in cash on a handshake - and I'd walk out of the hacienda with the cash in a briefcase. I'd have to make some courier flights to square things, of course. And I'd never have to pay the money back. On the other hand, if I screwed them, well, they'd make damned sure that I paid for that, too. They have rules. If you live by them, you're fairly safe. If not, you'd better have your bags packed."
"I know about the ruthlessness. What about the brains?"
"They're as smart as they have to be. What smarts they don't have, they buy. They can buy anything, anybody. Don't underestimate them. Their security systems are state-of-the-art, like what we put on ICBM silos - shit, maybe better than that. They're protected as tightly as we protect the President, except their shooters are less restrained by rules of engagement. I suppose the best indicator on how smart they are is the fact that they've banded together to form the cartel. They're smart enough to know that gang wars cost everybody, so they formed a loose alliance. It ain't perfect, but it works. People who try to break into the business mostly end up dead. Medellín is an easy town to die in."
"Cops? Courts?"
"The locals have tried. Lots of dead cops, lots of dead judges to prove it," Larson said with a shake of the head. "Takes a lot for people to keep plugging away when they can't see any results. Then toss in the money angle. How often can a man walk away from a suitcase full of tax-free hundred-dollar bills? Especially when the alternative is certain death for himself and his family. The cartel is smart, my friend, and it's patient, and it has all the resources it needs, and it's ruthless enough to scare a veteran Nazi. All in all, that's some enemy." Larson pointed to a gray smudge in the distance. "There's Medellín. Drugs 'R'Us, all in that one little city in the valley. One nuke could settle things, say about two megatons, air-burst four thousand feet AGL. I wonder if the rest of the country would really mind… ?"
That earned Larson a glance from his passenger. Larson lived here, knew a lot of these people, and even liked some, as he'd just said. But his hatred for them occasionally peeked through his professional detachment. The best sort of duplicity. This kid had a real future in the Agency, Clark decided. Brains and passion both. If he knew how to maintain a proper balance of the two, he could go places. Clark reached into his bag for a camera and a pair of binoculars. His interest wasn't in the city itself.
"Nice places, aren't they?"
The drug chieftains were growing increasingly security-conscious. The hilltops around the city were all being cleared of trees. Clark counted over a dozen new homes already. Homes, he thought with a snort. Castles was more like it. Walled fortresses. Enormous dwelling structures surrounded by low walls, surrounded in turn by hundreds of yards of clear, steep slopes.