The Infiltrator: My Secret Life Inside the Dirty Banks Behind Pablo Escobar's Medellín Cartel by Mazur Robert

Author:Mazur, Robert [Mazur, Robert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780316080378
Publisher: Hachette Book Group
Published: 2009-07-27T06:00:00+00:00

“Well, what do you think?” Emir asked as we walked back down the Champs-Elysées.

“The guy never blinked,” I said. “He admitted that he already realized our money came from Colombian dopers.” As we turned down a narrow cobblestone street, we quietly high-fived each other. We had done it, and we both felt the rush of success—but a dark undercurrent of anger surfaced.

“Those motherfuckers,” Emir snarled after a while. “If it wasn’t for them, the cartel would be powerless. Those assholes are bigger crooks than Escobar and the other killers we’re dealing with. At least they don’t hide behind a lie and claim they are something other than what they are. These guys make me sick.”

“That’s why we’ve got to see this thing through,” I said, visually sweeping the area. “As bad as what this bank is doing, their officers didn’t invent this; they learned it while they worked for other big banks in the world. This is just the beginning.”

Back at the hotel, I took the tape out of the recorder, marked it with my initials and date, and popped the tabs so it couldn’t be erased. Then I loaded a new cassette in case someone decided to pay me a surprise visit.

In an attempt to escape the tension, Emir, Kathy, Linda, and I changed and headed out to see a few sights. We had dinner at a quaint café in the shadow of Sacré Coeur, that strange, beautiful church standing sentinel over the City of Light. This same tiny patch of Montmartre had played host to Modigliani, Monet, Picasso, and Toulouse-Lautrec. As a street musician wandered past playing his tattered accordion, we all exhaled. I couldn’t help but wonder at our luck.

The next day, we took a quick tour of the Louvre. Kathy was resolutely passionate about the art, but by the second hour Emir and I began to flag. As we walked through a collection of Egyptian artifacts, Emir disappeared behind a large statue of Anubis and emerged, serenading us with a distinctly Puerto Rican version of the Bangles’“Walk Like an Egyptian,” flailing his hands like Steve Martin. We all doubled over laughing.

Chinoy had invited us to drinks that evening at his home, a high- end loft in the heart of the city. It was Chinoy’s weekday home. He and his family spent weekends at a house in the countryside. Chinoy’s teenage son, who had the manners and presence of a man, answered the door and escorted us to the living room. While Chinoy was running late, his son engaged us in a conversation about Paris that you would expect from a diplomat.

Five minutes later, Chinoy emerged, sporting a blue-and-red silk paisley ascot and a scarlet silk shirt. He introduced his wife and two children and opened a bottle of wine while asking how we were enjoying our stay. As casual conversation took over the living room, I signaled to Chinoy that I wanted to speak with him privately. We strolled to an adjoining room.

“Some important clients of mine will be arriving tomorrow from Colombia,” I said.

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