Devereaux was accustomed to the feint. Prohibition had been a disaster. It had simply created a huge underworld, which, after repeal, had moved into every other possible criminal activity. Over the years, the cost to the U.S. could be measured in trillions.
“We believe the comparison fails, Father. There are a th
ousand sources of a glass of wine or a dram of whisky.”
He meant, But cocaine comes only from here. There was no need to say it.
“My son, we in the Society of Jesus try to be a force for good. But we have found by terrible experience that involvement in politics or matters of state is usually disastrous.”
Devereaux had spent his life in the trade of espionage. He had long ago come to the view that the greatest intelligence-gathering agency in the world was the Roman Catholic Church. Through its omnipresence, it saw everything; through the confessional, it heard everything. And the idea that over a millennium and a half it had never supported or opposed emperors and princes was simply amusing.
“But where you see evil, you seek to fight it,” he said.
The provincial was far too wily to fall for that one.
“What do you seek of the Society, my son?”
“In Colombia, you are everywhere, Father. Your pastoral work takes your young priests into every corner of every town and city . . .”
“And you wish them to become informers? For you? Far away in Washington. They, too, practice the seal of the confessional. What is told to them in that small place can never be revealed.”
“And if a ship is sailing with a cargo of poison to destroy many young lives and leave a trail of misery in its wake, that knowledge, too, is sacred?”
“We both know the confessional is sacrosanct.”
“But a ship cannot confess, Father. I give you my word no seaman will ever die. Interception and confiscation is absolutely the limit I have in mind.”
He knew that he, too, would now have to confess to the sin of lying. But to another priest faraway. Not here. Not now.
“What you ask could be extremely risky; the men behind this trade, foul as it is, are utterly vicious and very violent.”
For an answer, the American produced an item from his pocket. It was a small and very compact cell phone.
“Father, we were both raised long before these were invented. Now all the young have them, and most who are no longer young. To send a short message, there is no need to speak . . .”
“I know about texting, my son.”
“Then you will know about encryption. These are encrypted far beyond the powers of the cartel ever to intercept. All I ask is the name of the ship with the poison onboard, heading for my homeland to destroy its young people. For profit. For money.”
The Father Provincial permitted himself a thin smile.
“You are a good advocate, my son.”
The Cobra had one last card to play.
“In the city of Cartagena is a statue to Saint Peter Claver of the Society of Jesus.”
“Of course. We revere him.”
“Hundreds of years ago, he fought against the evil of slavery. And the slave traders martyred him. Father, I beseech you. This trade in drugs is as evil as that in slaves. Both merchandise human misery. That which enslaves need not always be a man; it can be a narcotic. The slavers took the bodies of young people and abused them. Narcotics take the soul.”
The Father Provincial stared for several minutes out of the window across the square of Simon Bolívar, a man who set people free.
“I wish to pray, my son. Can you return in two hours?”
Devereaux took a light lunch under the awning of a café in a street running off the square. When he returned, the leader of all Colombia’s Jesuits had made his decision.
“I cannot order what you ask. But I can explain to my parish priests what you ask. So long as the seal of confession is never broken, they may decide for themselves. You may distribute your little machines.”