Black Coke (3 page)

‘A sister.’

‘A wife? Children?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Why not? A wife is good. Children are good. They look after you when you grow old.’

‘I guess I haven’t found the right person.’

‘I’ll find you a beautiful Colombian wife. She’ll make you happy.’

Nathan laughed, surprised at Manuel’s uncharacteristic talkativeness.

Manuel inched forwards. ‘Tell me why you’re really here.’

‘I already told you. I work for the NGO Third World Justice. I’m here to help.’

‘Nobody comes to Colombia just to help. ‘

Nathan shifted uncomfortably, glad for the cover of darkness. He focused on burning the leeches. Manuel would never forgive him if he found out Nathan’s true mission here.

Manuel grunted, but didn’t probe further. He shuffled back.

Nathan tossed the cigarette away. He lay down, his mind buzzing. The night-time cacophony of the jungle pulsed in the background, like an orchestra of chirps, squeaks, flutters, knocks, rattles, warbles and clicks. The air was soupy and dense, the sky invisible.

Nathan drifted into a half sleep, his senses alert for danger.

Putumayo, Colombia
31 March 2011

T
he sun popped up as suddenly as it had dropped away the previous evening. Nathan grabbed his weapon. Next to him, Manuel was squatting with his arms round his knees, leaning against a tree. His eyes were shut. His lips were parted and moving slightly. His fingers clutched the engraved wooden cross that dangled round his neck.

His eyes flickered open.

‘Good sleep?’ he said, tucking the cross into his shirt and springing to his feet.

Nathan nodded. He patted down his combat trousers and shirt. They were crusty with dried mud and blood, which peeled off like icing from a cake. He untangled some of the knots in his hair.

‘Come on.’ Manuel was stamping his feet impatiently. ‘Let’s go.’

They kept plodding for hours. They sheltered under a tree while a storm drenched them. Thunder growled and lighting blazed. Then the clouds fled, revealing the crystal blue sky through the jumble of branches above.

A plane whirred. Nathan glimpsed it passing to their left, releasing a cloud of white spray that settled like morning mist. It was an AT-802 armoured crop duster: a fumigation plane showering herbicide to wipe out coca plantations as part of Plan Colombia, the US-backed counternarcotics programme.

‘See!’ Manuel pointed.

Nathan said nothing.

They reached a clearing. Manuel lifted his palm to indicate they should stop. They sneaked forward until they could see clearly through the undergrowth. Ahead of them were the ruins of a village. Smoke curled up from the simmering remains of huts. Bodies of men, women and children lay scattered. The earth was scarred black.

They ducked and lay still. Tears streamed down Manuel’s cheeks, mixing with dirt to form brown rivulets. Nathan felt anger surge through him.

He tapped Manuel on the shoulder.

‘Let’s go see,’ he whispered.

‘You crazy?’

‘There may be survivors. Cover me.’

Manuel tried to hold him back, but Nathan pulled away and crept into the clearing, M-16 raised. The attack was recent. Otherwise the storm would have snuffed out the fires. The villagers had been defenceless. Many were face down in the mud, their backs peppered with bullet holes, mown down while fleeing. Nathan wondered which ones were Manuel’s cousins.

He pulled out his camera and took snaps, taking care not to touch anything in case it was booby trapped. Ahead of him was the body of what must have been a member of the death squad. Half his head was blown apart. He wore a black flak jacket and combats that were different to the t-shirts and jeans worn by the local narcotraffickers. The jacket was torn at the shoulder, revealing a mark in dark blue ink covered in mud and blood. Nathan rubbed it clean with his shirt sleeve.

It was a tattoo: I V IV.

Nathan rummaged through the dead man’s front pockets: a knife, a wire saw, a survival kit. He heaved him over. A wallet in the back pocket contained a card with a photo. Underneath it were the letters ASI then an ID number.

This was irrefutable evidence.

Nathan scanned the clearing. To his left was an open trapdoor next to a hole in the ground. He pulled a torch from his rucksack. A ladder led into a small, rectangular room with concrete walls. Nathan stepped down. It was dark and murky. He gagged at the stench of rot and death. A severely disfigured corpse was crumpled in a corner, ants feasting on its entrails. Next to it was a wooden table laden with basins full of soaking leaves. Around them were spatulas and plastic bottles with pink and yellow liquids that Nathan guessed were kerosene and sulphuric acid.

An underground lab: this was where the paste made from mashed and soaked coca leaves was turned into cocaine. Bricks of compact black powder were neatly stacked to the ceiling in one corner. Each one had a white sticker with a logo of a black beetle. On another wooden table was a clay bowl brimming with small zip lock bags of the black powder.

Black cocaine?

He dropped a zip lock bag into his shirt pocket. He flicked on the flashgun on his camera and took more pictures. The corpse was clutching something in its hand. It was a black cube, about two inches across. It was hard as stone, yet had the texture of wood. It was light, but felt dense. Nathan tapped it against the table: a solid thump, so not hollow. Nathan shoved the cube into his bag. He scaled the ladder and kicked the trapdoor shut. He jogged towards Manuel.

‘Manuel?’

No answer.

‘Manuel. You there?’

Still nothing.

Nathan searched around in ever widening circles. Had Manuel decided to leave him behind? Nathan froze. The incessant racket of the rainforest had stopped. A chopper was approaching. He dived into the undergrowth. He attached the 70-300mm zoom lens to his camera and switched on the image stabiliser.

A Lynx helicopter descended, scattering debris as its blades stuttered to a standstill. Two armed men leapt out, scanning the clearing for danger. They were dressed in black combats and boots, with ammo belts and wraparound sunglasses. One of them spoke into a radio handset. They stood there, waiting. Nathan thought of crawling back into the undergrowth and escaping, but something told him he should stay. The helicopter had landed for a reason, and it didn’t look like they were searching for survivors.

A few minutes later, a shadow emerged from the rainforest.

Nathan zoomed the lens to the full 300mm.

The blood pounded through his temples.

It was a woman. Or at least, it had once been a woman, with a face like a truck, a neck rippling with muscles and a brawny body nearly bursting through an all-khaki combat outfit plastered with mud. Her hair was cut army-style, nearly bald, and the skin on her face looked grimy and leathery. Her eyes, set deep into her skull, were black and glowed with vicious intensity, as though she could see through people just with the strength of her stare.

Amonite Victor.

The Butcher of Juárez.

Alive.

How could that be? Mesmerised, Nathan followed her with the camera as she trudged towards the chopper, an M-16 dangling from her hand. Her rolling swagger triggered memories. He was back in Mexico, trapped, scared, desperate, in that dark underground dungeon under the drugs complex. She was towering over him, grinning, chain in hand, ready to strike him again until he passed out in pain.

He shook himself back to reality. Amonite was studying the destruction around her with a smug sneer. A man hopped out of the chopper. He was tall and skinny, with pasty skin and a tangled mass of dark hair. A scar zigzagged down his right cheek. He was dressed in a blue shirt and jeans and had a Beretta at his belt.

Nathan pressed the button on his camera. They’d never believe him back home if he didn’t return with photographic evidence of Amonite. But nothing happened. He pressed again. Still nothing. Dirt had jammed it. He tried to clean it with his sleeve.

He glanced up. Amonite and the other guy were walking straight towards him. Nathan slowly unslung his rifle. If he shot Amonite and Scarface first, he could escape before the guards responded. They stopped next to the body of the dead man with the tattoo. Amonite put her hand to her ear-piece and spoke into her collar. Nathan pointed his rifle, but the two guards were trotting over. They grabbed the body and hauled it back to the helicopter. Scarface lifted the trapdoor. He disappeared down the hole with Amonite.

Nathan toyed with the idea of trapping them underground. It was risky. The guards in the chopper would notice, unless he managed to disarm them first. He shrugged the idea away when Amonite and Scarface climbed out of the hole moments later. His main objective was to find out what was going on and get out of here alive. A one man assault on Amonite and her team could surely end in his death.

Amonite spoke into her collar again. The two guards ran over, disappeared into the hole, then emerged with sacks of the black powder. Within minutes, a large pile was stacked next to the hole. The two guards loaded the bags into the chopper as Amonite and Scarface continued their heated discussion. They trooped back to the chopper and hauled themselves into the back. The rotor blades kicked off with a whir, soon creating a maelstrom of leaves and dirt. Seconds later, they’d taken off.

Nathan looked around. Where the hell was Manuel?

He searched some more, then sat on a tree trunk to gather his thoughts. Manuel must have fled. Which meant Nathan needed to find his own way out of here, through miles of hostile jungle, while avoiding narcotraffickers, paramilitaries and mercenaries. His GPS system had stopped working a few days ago when it had fallen into a river. Maybe he could find a sympathetic coca farmer to guide him.

He adjusted the straps for his backpack.

Bam
.

A small explosion to his right.

‘Nathan, aquí. Nathan!’

Nathan pushed his way through the jungle. He found Manuel lying on the ground, his leg covered in blood.

‘Quiebrapatas,’ Manuel gasped.

Quiebrapatas meant ‘leg breakers’, because victims often lost a leg. They were homemade pressure-activated landmines: empty food cans filled with shrapnel and explosives, with a syringe inserted into the top. The device was buried in the ground, with only the syringe’s plunger exposed. The victim stepped on the plunger, injecting sulphuric acid into the detonator. The mine would then explode.

Nathan examined Manuel’s leg. There were small scraps of metal and glass stuck in it, but somehow Manuel had escaped the worst. Still, he needed medical attention, or gangrene could set in. Nathan ripped out his first aid kit. He poured alcohol onto gauze sponges and cleaned the wound. Manuel squirmed. Nathan jabbed a syringe of antibiotics into the leg. He applied a field dressing to halt the bleeding. He lifted Manuel gently to his feet.

‘Can you walk if I help you?’

Manuel grunted.

‘I’ll take that as a yes. Which way?’

Manuel pointed to the right.

Even if they weren’t captured, there was little more than a 50 per cent chance that Manuel would survive. Nathan knew what his former special forces colleagues would have said. Save yourself.

That wasn’t his style.

He tucked his shoulder under Manuel’s armpits. ‘You ready?’

Manuel grunted again.

‘I’ll take that as another yes.’ They staggered forward. ‘Let’s go.’

East London, UK
4 April 2011

A
t 4pm on a rainy Monday, an unmarked private Falcon Jet descended on City Airport. Amonite Victor sat alone on a leather seat in the back. She stared blankly out of the window, unmoved by Big Ben, the expansive white dome of the O2 arena, or the glitter of the soaring glass buildings of the City that spread out majestically below her.

The trip to Colombia had gone well. The attacks on Putumayo had been a resounding success. Many of the local cartels were destroyed, the villages—what was left of them—beaten into submission. Black Coke production was climbing again, after the initial teething problems. The Front’s power and influence were surging, and her place in the organisation was now confirmed.

Yet she still had that desperate, sinking feeling inside her, like a black hole was opening up underneath and pulling her in. Why did she always feel so bad when things were looking so good? Maybe it was the jetlag. She hadn’t managed to sleep on the plane. And the mission to Colombia had exhausted her. She fiddled with the Glock pistol in her shoulder holster. Last thing she wanted was to come to London to sort out the problems here. It was too risky and her cover too thin. She couldn’t afford another shoot-up like the other week with the Jamaicans from Brixton. If the cops found out about her, there would be no mercy.