Black Coke (39 page)

Once he’d finished checking the weapons, he pulled out the map he’d printed in the embassy house. Manuel had photocopied it in a local internet cafe, then gone off to meet his campesino friends to see if they could help identify the exact location for the delivery of Lynx helicopters.

It was marked on the map with an x deep in Putumayo. Nathan traced with his index finger the outlines of the region, with the Caquetá River on the northeast, Ecuador on the south, Peru on the southeast, and the Andes mountains to the west. The Putumayo river formed most of the border between Colombia and Ecuador and Colombia and Peru. Manuel had explained to him once what Putumayo meant in the local Quechua language. The verb putuy meant ‘to spring forth’ or ‘to burst out’. The word mayo was a variant of mayu, meaning river. So Putumayo meant ‘gushing river’.

‘Gushing river of blood,’ Manuel had added with a dark frown.

Lucia moved away from the window, bringing Nathan back to reality.

‘Manuel’s here,’ she said, heading for the door. ‘Just saw him outside.’

She opened the door a crack and waited for Manuel to arrive. He walked in and opened his good eye wide when he noticed the weapons on the sofa, but said nothing. He pulled a map out of his pocket, unfolded it and spread it on the table. Nathan moved close. It was a detailed military map of Putumayo, much better than the one he had.

Manuel pointed to a spot east of the town of Puerto Asis, in the middle of the jungle. It was the same place that was marked on Nathan’s map.

‘My campesino contacts have confirmed the location,’ Manuel said. ‘There’s been lots of activity in this area in the past few days. Helicopters. Troops. Trucks. Nobody can say for sure whether the Front base is there, but we believe it probably is.’

‘Could be just movement through the area,’ Nathan said.

‘I doubt it. The paramilitaries had a large underground base deep in the forest there years ago. None of our people have been into it for ages. It’s too isolated, and too many bad memories. But it’s possible the Front took it over.’

‘How are they delivering the hardware?’

‘The Lynx are being brought in by cargo ship from the UK into Baranquilla. They’re then flown down to Putumayo. Looks like none of this could happen without Sir George’s influence.’

‘How’s he managed to get away with it for so long?’ Nathan said. ‘I can’t believe that nobody within the British government knows about this.’

Lucia grunted. Nathan glanced round. She was right next to him.

‘Doesn’t surprise me,’ she said. ‘This is Colombia. The whole country’s corrupt.’

‘But how did he get away with it in the UK? How come Cedric never knew about it?’

‘Maybe he did,’ she said. ‘Or maybe George was very careful all these years, until now. You’d be surprised at how devious some people can be.’

Nathan turned back to the map. He stared at it hard, trying to capture all the details in his mind. ‘You know someone who can fly us in?’

Manuel nodded. ‘A trusted pilot.’

‘And your campesinos are willing to back us up?’

‘I’m working on it. It’s not easy to organise farmers, however determined they might be.’ Manuel folded up the map and put it in his pocket. ‘Nathan, you need to meet them. I want you to come to Ciudad Bolivar.’

‘Is that where they’re based?’

‘One of our many bases.’

‘What about me?’ Lucia said.

‘You’d better stay here for the moment,’ Manuel said. ‘Campesinos are distrustful by nature. And you have a bit of a reputation.’

A cloud crossed Lucia’s face, then she shrugged.

‘Here’s a new phone for you.’ Manuel tossed Nathan a mobile. He headed for the door, then turned back to face Nathan. ‘I’m going to go back to see them. I’ll tell them everything’s set and that you’re coming over. Give me an hour’s head start, just to be on the safe side, then get a cab to Ciudad Bolivar.’

‘Any specific address?’ Nathan said.

‘I’ll ring you.’

Manuel left the room. Nathan looked at Lucia. She was turned away, staring out of the window again, fiddling with the curtain string. He began packing the weapons back in his bag, checking them a final time. There was a rustling behind him. He turned round. Lucia had closed the curtains. She stood there, staring at him, arms by her side. Her lips were trembling and her neck was flushed. He wanted to kiss her, to comfort her, to tell her everything would be alright. But he knew she was angry, probably at being left behind. He didn’t wanted to get into an argument with her. Not now.

He picked up the bag.

‘Nathan?’

He slung the bag over his shoulder.

‘Nathan!’

Her voice was louder this time.

He headed for the door.

Bogotá, Colombia
15 April 2011

A
monite was lying on her bed, on the verge of an orgasm, when someone knocked at her hotel door.

‘Who is it?’ she shouted.

‘It’s George.’

‘Just a minute.’

Fucking asshole. Trust him to turn up at the wrong time. She closed her laptop, threw on her combat trousers and green shirt and strode towards the door.

‘What is it?’ she said as she flung the door open.

George was standing there, looking grave. He was wearing a pin-striped blue suit with a matching silk tie, an outfit probably worth thousands of dollars from what she’d found out about his expensive tastes. Behind him were two bodyguards in grey suits.

‘We need to talk,’ he said.

‘Have a seat.’

George nodded to the bodyguards, who took position outside the hotel room. Then he marched in as though he owned the place, the door easing shut behind him. He plonked himself on the armchair near the window and looked around.

‘You should get yourself your own apartment,’ he said.

‘I’m never here.’

George pursed his lips. ‘El Patrón’s been breathing down my neck.’

‘Oh?’

‘He wants Nathan Kershner dead asap.’

‘Don’t we all.’

‘He knew about Kershner’s break-in to the embassy house.’

Amonite said nothing. El Patrón had been furious when she’d told him about the incident at the embassy house. She’d blamed George, of course. But El Patrón had made it clear that the three embassy agents would have to be punished, which suited Amonite fine. She’d taken a strong disliking to that posh Englishman called Rupes.

‘He’s stepping up the car bombs,’ George was saying.

‘I’ve noticed.’

‘What have you been telling him?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Don’t play games with me, Amonite.’

‘Games?’

George’s eyes became as narrow as horizontal arrow slits. He stared at her, barely blinking, as though trying to read her mind. She knew he hated her, ever since that day when El Patrón had ordered them to work together.

‘Has the shipment landed?’ he said at last.

‘Yep.’

‘Why have we not heard anything?’

‘It’ll come.’

A bead of sweat appeared on George’s smooth forehead.

‘You never told me how you became associated with El Patrón,’ he said.

‘You never asked.’

‘How did you?’

‘In Mexico. Last year. His men got me out of there.’

‘Everyone thought the police executed you and Don Camplones.’

‘The don died. El Patrón found someone to take my place.’

George wiped his forehead. His hands were trembling slightly. Suddenly, Amonite realised that George was even more scared of her than she’d been of him.

‘And you?’ she said, trying not to smirk as the reality of the situation sank in. ‘How did you meet him?’

‘A long time ago.’ George rubbed his chin. ‘I don’t know why, but he trusts you. So I’d like you to speak to him. Tell him we’re on the case with Nathan Kershner, that the Black Coke’s going down fine, that everything’s running splendidly. Okay?’

‘Sure, George, sure.’

‘He wanted to know about plans for the gala.’

‘Single gunman. Escape route’s set. The ASI’s fully on board.’

‘Good. That president’s starting to seriously annoy me. I don’t trust him one bit.’

‘You think he’s definitely turning on us?’

‘I’m sure of it. All this tough talk on drugs, more troops on the street, all that’s bollocks. You heard that journo at the press conference. President Caviedas agrees with the Mexican president. He’s up to something. I’m sure of it.’

‘What’s that then?’

George blinked, as though realising he was saying too much. ‘When are you shifting those guns from the safe house?’

‘They’re already on their way to Putumayo.’

‘Wonderful.’ George stood up, visibly relieved. ‘Right. So, I’d better get going.’

As soon as the door closed behind George, Amonite punched the air. She felt like shouting with delight. The great Sir George Lloyd-Wanless, ruthless politician, master manipulator, corrupt diverter of Her Majesty’s resources for the cause of Front 154, was trembling at the thought of displeasing El Patrón and asking her to put in a good word. But what did he know about the Colombian president that she didn’t?

She shrugged. She’d find out eventually. She ripped off her shirt, the excitement turning into desire. She placed the laptop next to her on the bed and gazed at the images of the young El Patrón, shirt open, thin moustache below piercing eyes, his curly hair giving him a sexy boyish look. She took off her combats and lay back, touching herself. Pleasure grew inside her.

Her phone buzzed.

Unidentified caller.

Damn. She tried to ignore the buzzing, but the desire had seeped out of her. She picked up the phone.

‘Who is it?’

‘Rudolph Hoffman. I’m a private military consultant.’

‘What do you want?’

‘Dex told me to ring you. I’ve got intel about two individuals that may interest you.’

Bogotá, Colombia
15 April 2011

W
hat the hell was she thinking? Losing her temper again like a teenager? Sticking up for herself was one thing, but she had to get a grip on these outbursts.

Lucia crossed her legs, accidentally nudging the wooden coffee table.

‘Shit.’

The coffee cup tipped over, splashing all over her jeans, right into her crotch, down onto the sofa.

‘Shit. Shit. Shit.’

She ran to the kitchen, dumped the coffee cup in the sink and dabbed at the stain with a tea-towel. It was no use. She’d have to change clothes.

A few minutes later, she emerged from her bedroom in a bathrobe with a duvet draped over her shoulders. She slumped onto the sofa again, switched on the TV and scrolled through the menu for the pay-per-view films.

Thoughts about Nathan cascaded through her mind. He’d been so caring, so gentle, so loving—as though he’d known her body for years. The tough talking, hardnosed, stubborn Lucia Carlisla turning into a trembling schoolgirl at the sight of a British anti-drugs agent. Joanna would laugh.

Lucia reached for the half-empty bottle of Malbec and poured herself a large glass. Nathan had looked upset when he was about to leave the room earlier on. So why had she shouted at him? He was the quiet type, reserved, even distant. She’d figured that out by now. But he could at least have made some attempt at speaking to her rather than trying to walk straight out.

Footsteps in the corridor. Probably those pissheads from the neighbouring apartment they’d bumped into in the elevator.

She took a swig of wine and scrolled down to the romance section. Then she saw the time on the digital clock on the mantelpiece: 21:55. Her stomach rumbled. She switched the sound off the TV and went into the kitchen. She flung open the fridge. Eggs, cheese, tomatoes, onions, salami, butter. She scrambled the eggs and mixed in a tomato and an onion. Huevos pericos was a breakfast dish, but she was starving, and it was her favourite dish, and nobody else was here, so who cared. She was splattering butter on a toast when she heard a door closing.

Her flesh went hard.

How could anyone know? The apartment was booked in another name. They’d been extra cautious. Nobody in the hotel or the neighbourhood knew her.

She shook her head. Too nervous, too jumpy.

A click.

She pulled a kitchen knife from the rack. She crept towards the kitchen doorway. Her heartbeat pounded in her temples. The lounge was empty. The TV had switched itself off pay-per-view and onto the evening news, which was showing pictures of a government building blown apart by another bombing from Front 154.