William C. Rempel - At the Devils Table: The Untold Story of the Insider Who Brought Down the Cali Cartel

Delusions of a Dictator: The Mind of Marcos
as Revealed in His Secret Diaries

Copyright 2011 by William C. Rempel

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Random House, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

R ANDOM H OUSE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Rempel, William C.
At the devils table : the untold story of the insider who brought down the Cali Cartel / William C. Rempel.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-679-60487-7
1. Cali Cartel. 2. Drug trafficInvestigationColombiaCali. 3. Cocaine industryColombiaCali. 4. Organized crimeColombiaCali. 5. Drug trafficInvestigationColombiaCali. I. Title.
HV5840.C723515 2011
363.450986152dc22
2010045786

www.atrandom.com

Jacket Design: Carlos Beltran
Front-cover image (men): Alan Schein/Corbis

v3.1

For Bill and Dorothy

Washington, D.C.
Monday, June 12, 1995

A LATE SPRING STORM HAD TURNED THE U.S. CAPITAL WET AND dreary. Under heavy overcast, the streets were so dark at midday that drivers turned on their headlights. But on C Street the sun was shining in one corner of the State Department, the office of the assistant secretary of state for international narcotics and law enforcement affairsfondly referred to by its occupants as the office of the secretary for drugs and thugs. The staff of Ambassador Robert S. Gelbard was celebrating news that U.S. and Colombian drug agents had just captured one of the biggest names in the Cali cocaine cartel. After months of Gelbards incessant cajoling, urging, and browbeating, the Bogot government had finally brought down a prominent trafficking target. It was hardly a crippling blow to the worlds richest criminal enterprise. The boss of bosses, the head of the cartel, remained at large and under the protection, it seemed, of the most powerful political forces in Colombia. Still, Gelbard and his staff dared to hope that the Cali syndicate could be dismantled.

Across the Potomac in Langley, Virginia, a telephone operator picked up an incoming call at about one thirty. Central Intelligence Agency, she said pleasantly.

Yes, hello. Please pardon my English, responded a Latin-accented voice in perfect English. Im calling from Colombia. I have some important information about the Cali drug cartelthe head of the cartel, I know his location.

Yes, sir. And how may I direct your call?

Well, your agency has people here. They are trying to find this man. I am offering my assistance.

Thank you, sir. How may I direct your call?

After a long pause, the man said that he knew no one at the CIA by name but would gladly talk to anyone interested in capturing Miguel Rodrguez Orejuela, godfather of the Colombian cocaine syndicate. The operator seemed neither skeptical nor impressed. She simply remained pleasant and asked to be provided a specific office, officer, or telephone extension.

The caller pressed her: Do you have a fax number?

Im sorry.

Do you have a number for tips or anonymous sources?

No, Im sorry. Perhaps you can call back later.

A BOUT TWENTY-FIVE HUNDRED MILES SOUTH , the man who had just called the CIA returned a black telephone receiver to its cradle. He was tall and dark haired, with a neatly trimmed beard. His dressy-casual attire, typical of the tropics, gave little hint of his background. To strangers in the busy downtown Telecom building, he might have passed for a middle-aged university professor, an off-duty judge, or a bank vice president.

He lingered for a few moments in the soundproof privacy of the phone booth. His hands were still trembling. He had risked his life to place that call. He took a slow, deep breath and replayed the conversation in his mind. It seemed absurduntil he realized that the operator wasnt inept she was screening calls. He was just another nuisance caller, a nutcase. And maybe he was, in fact, crazy.

If Miguel and the other Cali cartel bosses ever suspected that he had dialed the CIA, he was dead. No trial, no defensejust a few bullets to the brain if he was lucky. There were worse ways to die. He had come close to some of them. But on that afternoon in mid-June, he knew what he was doing. He was desperatebut he was no nutcase.

He was forty-seven and a family manand for the previous six and a half years he had been a top aide to one of the most ruthless and powerful crime bosses in the world. Now he wanted out of the cartel out of an organization that discouraged retirement or resignations.

As he stepped from the phone booth, he kept an eye out for anyone familiar, ready with an excuse to explain his presence in the Telecom building. After all, convenient cartel phones were nearby. But they wouldnt do. Cartel wiretaps were everywhere. He knew better than most that there wasnt a private telephone anywhere in Cali that was genuinely private.

He emerged into the humid eighty-six-degree heat of a Cali afternoon. Across the street was the redbrick Iglesia de San Francisco, an eighteenth-century church and civic attraction, with its distinctive Mudejar-style bell tower. He slipped into its cool, dim sanctuary and approached the altar. He had to think about his next move. He had confided to no one his desperate plan to bring down the cartel boss, not even to his wife, although he was putting her and their children in grave danger. He told himself that she wouldnt want to know, she would be terrifiedand worse, she might be unable to hide her fear. He had to withhold the truth for her own protectionto protect all of their lives. He had never felt so alone.

Beyond the Father, Son, and Holy Mother to whom he prayed, the man falling to his knees near the altar of Iglesia de San Francisco that afternoon trusted no one but the CIA and he couldnt even get past the Langley switchboard operator.

Bogot, Colombia
Mid-January 1989

J ORGE S ALCEDO STOWED HIS CARRY-ON BAG IN AN OVERHEAD COMPARTMENT and dropped into a window seat of the aging Boeing 727. It was an early morning flight out of Bogot to Cali, Colombia, and he was a reluctant traveler. Besides the inconvenient hour, the forty-one-year-old businessman really could not afford to take time away from his latest venture, a small refinery he was developing to reprocess used motor oil. The project was behind schedule, and here he was flying off on a mystery trip. He had no idea why he was going to Cali. In fact, until arriving at Bogots El Dorado International Airport an hour earlier, he didnt even know his destination.

Jorge, you need to come with me. Some people want to meet you, his friend Mario had said on the phone. He was emphatic. He told Jorge to pack an overnight bagthen hung up. Now they were on the plane together.

Whats the deal, Mario? Jorge couldnt hide a tone of impatience as he turned to his friend settling into the aisle seat. What are we doing here?