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He looked exactly the way Rapp remembered—mid-fifties, trim waist, perfect teeth, immaculate gray hair. Their last meeting had taken place in a Mexican jungle, where he’d been completely at ease. He seemed equally comfortable in this exclusive Parisian suburb. Cargo pants and boots had been replaced by wool slacks, a tailored shirt, and shoes that were probably worth nearly as much as Rapp’s car. Fifty percent CEO, fifty percent wealthy European retiree, zero percent ruthless cartel leader. An impressive illusion.
“It’s good to see you again,” he said, clasping Rapp’s hand firmly.
“I’d be lying if I said the same.”
“And yet you came.”
“I pay my debts.”
“An admirable trait,” Losa said, pointing to a chair. Rapp sat and the Mexican took a position on the opposing couch.
“What do you want, Damian?”
“I assume it goes without saying that everything we talk about is confidential?”
“Depending on what you want, I may need to use my contacts. But I’ll keep your name out of it as much as I can.”
Losa smiled. “I respect a man who’s clear about what he’s agreeing to. It inspires confidence.”
Rapp just shrugged.
“Are you familiar with the terrorist attack that took place in Italy a few days ago?”
“Superficially. The media’s calling it an ISIS attack, but my understanding is that it was actually related to a drug shipment originating in Tartus. They’re saying captagon pills, but I don’t think there’s any confirmation of that yet.”
“Your thoughts?”
“I’m not sure they’d be useful. I haven’t operated in Syria in a long time. The country’s a clusterfuck and it’s hard to do anything there that doesn’t cause more problems than it solves.”
“I’m surprised. Your reputation is as an interventionist.”
“Only when I can win.”
“Still, you’re familiar with the country. I’m interested in your take.”
“My take is that ISIS is a pretty loosely defined organization in Syria and has limited capabilities and ambitions. But they’re a good boogeyman and it’s easier for the West to blame them than to admit that our policies have turned Syria into a narco-state. Damascus has taken back control of most of the country and now more than half their GDP comes from drug trafficking. Captagon accounts for the majority of that.”
“So, you’re familiar with the drug?”
“Sure. It’s popular in the Middle East, but hasn’t gotten much traction anywhere else. Little white pills. They’re calledabu hilalainin Arabic.”
“I didn’t know that. What’s it mean?”
“The one with two moons. Back when ISIS was still a serious movement, they were the primary manufacturers of it. They made money selling it all over the region and gave it to their fighters to keep them going. The tablets themselves still have their symbol on them—two crescents. The Syrian government’s kept that part to deflect blame and everyone’s happy to go along.”
Losa leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “Interesting.”
“Not really,” Rapp responded. “I imagine you knew all that already. Is that why I’m here? Because if you’re thinking about trying to import captagon into Europe, I’d advise against it.”
“Really? Why?”
“It’s cheap and it has a certain mystique in the Middle East, but I’ve tried it and it’s not anything that’s going to impress European drug users. They can afford better.”
Losa nodded slowly. “What if I told you that what you know as captagon really isn’t.”
“Meaning what?”
“The captagon you’ve experienced is just a mix of easily obtained amphetamines and caffeine. Cheap to produce, profitable to sell, and with a good customer base and distribution network in the Middle East. What came into Salerno last week was more or less authentic.”
