“I’ve got a story for you that will make world news,” a man rasped on the other end of the phone line. “I can’t talk on the phone. You come. No police. Bring a tape recorder.”
The address he gave was in one of the more dangerous parts of Bogota, which was one of the more dangerous cities of the most dangerous country in the world at the time. I was unwilling to go meet an anonymous caller with a potential news tip without a guarantee of a decent story. I asked for more details.
“I used to kill people for Pablo Escobar,” he said. “I’ll bring proof.”
Pablo Escobar was the world’s biggest cocaine dealer. Few in Colombia would use his name under false pretences.
I was calm after the man hung up the phone. The tension only hit me minutes later – when I realized that it was in my very nature to go to a mysterious meeting such as this. I knew I would force myself to go. I now realize that my brain had been wired to associate risk with reward – and this was a huge risk. At the time, though, I simply thought of myself as an adrenalin junkie who didn’t like parachuting or motorcycle racing.
After I gained some respect within The Associated Press in Lima working part time, I had taken a three-day bus ride through the Andes on a half-promise of a full-time job in Bogota with the world’s most respected news agency. When I arrived, however, I was told the budget had been cut. I was only offered a part-time spot. I supplemented the income with another part-time job as a reporter for the Colombian Post, the country’s only English-language newspaper.
It was at the Colombian Post that I received the call. I persuaded a fellow Post reporter, an Eton-educated young Englishman, to accompany me.
Jhon, as he spelled his name, approached us on the crowded street wearing a preposterous afro wig. His wasted physique and worn face spoke more of a junkie than a professional hit man. He glanced around the streets and then led us to a filthy sidewalk bar for a beer while he told his story.
Jhon, now 26, was originally from the western city of Medellin, Escobar’s home base. As a teenager with a gift for selling pilfered merchandise, the drug dealers in his barrio offered him a job processing cocaine in a factory hidden away in the jungle. From there, he worked his way up the ranks.
Nervously eyeing his watch, Jhon pulled out an old photo of himself – some 30 pounds heavier – drinking beer with a partially visible and vaguely familiar figure on a verandah of a ranch. Horses were saddled nearby. The horses were the first clue. They were branded with the notorious G – they were the famous racehorses of Rodrigo Gacha. And then the face of the other man in the photo became clear. Jhon was sitting with Gacha himself, the maniacal right-hand man of Escobar and one of the most feared drug lord’s in the world.
We listened.
“I was one of the first people in the world to do the motorcycle drive-by shootings,” said Jhon, seemingly irritated at having to provide background details before getting to his point.
In a mirthless monotone, Jhon said he had killed 16 police officers for Escobar. Jhon spoke matter of factly. He sought, and wanted, no reaction from us.
He was eventually promoted to a teacher position at one of Escobar’s infamous assassin schools. There, his mission was to prepare murderers for export to the United States. We started to question the man’s sanity as he told us he had trained 10 assassins specifically to shadow major U.S. figures.
More than anything, Escobar feared extradition to the United States if he were ever recaptured after his spectacular daylight break from prison the year before. Jhon said Escobar planned to start killing prominent U.S. officials if he were even under threat of extradition.
Jhon said he could pinpoint at least four of the assassins – in Miami, Los Angeles and New York and list all of the U.S. personalities targeted.
Then Jhon launched into his request.
Jhon had recently turned state’s witness out of fear that Escobar would kill him for knowing too much about the scheme. Now, he feared his usefulness to the government was ending and his knowledge of high-level corruption and his history as a cop-killer would end with his death at the hands of the police or the death squads.
Jhon asked me to secure him a spot on the U.S. witness protection program. If I did, The full story would be exclusively mine. My Post colleague had to return to the U.K., leaving the story entirely in my hands.
I continued meeting with Jhon over the coming weeks. He fed me a little more information each time until I felt I had established his credibility. Then he trusted me with his hand-written diary. I became convinced.
But how can a lowly Canadian freelance reporter guarantee a cop killer a spot on the U.S. federal witness protection program?
I turned to the two sources for help that first sprang to mind – the U.S. Drug Enforcement Agency … and Playboy Magazine.
I approached the DEA for help and advice on the witness protection program. I turned to Playboy Magazine and its well-paid, respected journalism section to sell the story.
I arranged a meeting with the head of the DEA in Colombia who, on reviewing all my evidence, said it was convincing enough that they wanted to meet with the guy. The evidence apparently jived with other bits of information the DEA had.
One problem – they wanted me to escort the man out from his current safe house and to a countryside meeting place. Only then would they determine whether he warranted a spot on the program. Stealing Jhon from the Colombian police mid-trial was politically risky business.
As for Playboy, they offered me $10,000 for the story.
I took the bus home, watching the city decay from the affluent north to the poverty wracked south. I had descended from the bus for my five-minute walk from the bus stop to my dingy residential hotel when a scruffy man in his mid-twenties approached me.
In an over-friendly tone and pidgin English, he asked me for a dollar.
“Oh my friend. Please. One dollar my friend.”
Sensing danger, I tried to make my way to a crowded fried chicken joint across the street.
“I don’t have a dollar,” I said.
He put his arm around my shoulder, feigning friendliness.
His demeanor suddenly changed.
I twisted my body around and stepped backward as the corner of my eye saw the knife rapidly rise out his pocket and toward my throat.
(This is Part 20 of a Multi-Part Series. To start at Part 1, click here)
ca in totdeauna, povestea e de zece puncte; numai un lucru gasesc ciudat aici, si anume cererea politiei de a fi dumneavoastra escorta criminalului pana la safe house.
e ca si cum mi-as trimite io contabilul la un meci de k1, si sa mai am si pretentia sa castige.
ce pregatire aveati de a putea escorta un criminal periculos, intr-o si mai periculoasa tara (cam cea mai, dupa cum reiese din articol), care mai e si cautat de una din cele mai periculoase mafii din lume?
nu trebuiau chemati niste baieti antrenati special pt treburi de genul asta, nu un reporter part-time, oricat de hardcore ar fi el? (parerea mea)
Hey again,
Well, firstly, Jhon, although an assassin, was no danger to me. He was actively seeking my help.
As for the DEA not doing it themselves, they didn’t want to actively be involved in stealing a witness from the Colombian police. It was a political matter.
And it wasn’t really that dangerous a request in any case – simply a matter of getting in a cab with him and heading out of Bogota. The only danger would be getting caught. (If that’s what I did … I haven’t gotten to that part of the story yet).