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All of his friends told Peter Townsend that he was crazy to buy the apartment in Cartagena, Colombia, in the luxury medium-rise building overlooking the ancient harbor, now yacht basin, as his retreat. But it was so convenient for him to sail his boat right up to the building's dock and whisk himself up to his retreat with its heavy security, and Cartagena catered to some of the special interests he didn't want to own up to back in Chicago. When they said, "But Colombia, with all the drug warfare and the kidnappings of executives?" he'd just laugh and think to himself, "Hiding in plain sight."

He certainly didn't want to tell them that he made far more money from the drug running between Cartagena and Naples, Florida, on his yacht each year than his position as CEO of the major pharmaceuticals manufacturing corporation had made him in the last twenty years. What was a little balancing of Colombian drug cartels in the face of an early retirement without a financial care in the world—and with some added benefits in the meantime?

The sun was high over the harbor, beating down on the bulletproof glass covering his terrace as he swam lap after lap in the pool that took up most of the terrace he'd had covered and that jutted out toward the old castle walls guarding—not always successfully—the approach into the harbor for centuries. He was reviewing the distribution plans for this week's take across the States via his network of Florida bush pilots. He had to review the particulars every day; he had to keep it all in ...

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