Page 72 of The Cobra

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“I know what you have done to me, Señor Cobra. You have done me extreme damage. But I have done nothing to harm you. Why did you do what you did?”

“Because my country asked me.”

“And now?”

“All my life, I have served two masters. My God and my country. My God has never betrayed me.”

“But your country has?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because it is no longer the country to which I swore loyalty as a young man. It has become corrupt and venal, weak and yet arrogant, dedicated to the obese and the stupid. It is not my country anymore. The bond is broken, the fealty gone.”

“I never gave such loyalty to any country, even this one. Because countries are governed by men, and often the least deserving of them. I also have two masters. My God and my wealth.”

“And for the second, Don Diego, you have killed many times.”

Devereaux had no doubt that the man a few feet away from him, beneath the veneer and the grace, was a psychopath and supremely dangerous.

“And you, Señor Cobra, you have killed for your country? Many times?”

“Of course. So perhaps we are similar after all.”

Psychopaths must be flattered. Devereaux knew the comparison would flatter the cocaine lord. Comparing greed for money with patriotism would not offend.

“Perhaps we are, señor. How much of my property do you retain?”

“One hundred fifty tons.”

“The amount missing is three times that.”

“Most is taken by either customs, coast guards or navies and now incinerated. Some is at the bottom of the sea. The last quarter is with me.”

“In safekeeping?”

“Very safe. And the war against you is over.”

“Ah. That was the betrayal.”

“You are very perceptive, Don Diego.”

The Don considered the tonnage. With jungle production at full flow, maritime interceptions cut back to a trickle, air shipments able to resume, he could start again. He would need an immediate tonnage to bridge the gap, to appease the wolves, to end the war. One hundred and fifty tons would be just enough.

“And your price, señor?”

“I shall have to retire at last. But far away. A villa by the sea. In the sun. With my books. And officially dead. That does not come cheaply. One billion U.S. dollars, if you please.”

“My property is in a ship?”

“Yes.”

“And you can give me the numbers of the bank accounts?”

“Yes. Can you give me the port of destination?”

“Of course.”


Tags: Frederick Forsyth Thriller