A comfortable breeze streamed across the deck, where St.-Germain met with Cesar and Rafael Montoya, powerful drug underbosses from Colombia. The music of U2 played somewhere on the yacht. Revolutionary claptrap. Bono grieving for Ireland and other lost causes.Both of the Montoyas were impressed with the style and demeanor of the Grave Dancer. Neither of them would show it, however. They were the sons of one of the men killed in Atlantic City, but there was no problem there. They had agreed to set their own father up. The meeting this afternoon was to divide the spoils in South America, to move forward with the business of the new Club. Alexandre St.-Germain took Porsche sunglasses from his shirt pocket and slipped them on. “So how is everything in Bogotá?” he asked the Montoyas. “Como siempre,” said Rafael. “I told you months ago, my father doesn’t matter anymore. My father was nothing to anyone who matters.” Rafael Montoya had been educated at the University of Miami, but mostly he had learned in the jungles and mountains of his homeland.
