Black Coke (42 page)

He read through a series of emails in the Jamaica folder on the key. There’d been problems with Rev Elijah Evans. He’d gone missing. There was an email from one of the embassy staff to the Drug Enforcement Administration office in Jamaica asking for Elijah’s church to be searched. The response from the DEA was that the church was empty and the elders had all been arrested, but none of them seemed to have a clue about Elijah’s drug dealing. Did that mean Elijah was at large with a huge shipment of Black Coke? Nathan was assessing the implications of this when Manuel burst in.

‘Soca’s just made contact,’ Manuel said. ‘They’ve found Lucia.’

‘What?’ Nathan shot to his feet. ‘Who?’

‘Cedric Belville’

‘Where is she?’

‘He’s on his way here.’

‘Where’s Lucia?’

‘He didn’t say. He’ll ring back in ten minutes.’ Manuel turned to go, but Nathan held him back.

‘Manuel, thank you.’

Manuel nodded.

‘Any news from the Haitians?’ Nathan said. ‘Did they get the reverend?’

‘They’re not responding. They probably failed. We’ll be lucky if we ever hear from them again.’

Manuel left the shack and joined a group of peasant farmers who had congregated just outside. There had been lots of comings and goings over the past few hours. Nathan had been too busy studying the laptop to pay much attention, but now he realised that Manuel was organising something.

He sat back on the sofa and sighed with relief. Lucia was safe. He turned back to the Jamaica files. The other emails were too cryptic, clearly written so that nobody could figure out exactly what was going on. How many embassy staff in Bogotá were part of this? Probably not that many if they wanted the links with the Front to remain secret. Nathan found a bunch of other files on the production of Black Coke. It definitely was not a straightforward process. It looked like the Front had already been diversifying production from small underground labs like the one he’d found in Putumayo to a larger lab in its base camp.

‘It’s him.’ Manuel stood in front of him. Nathan hadn’t heard him enter.

‘Who?’

‘Cedric. Over here.’ Manuel gestured to outside the hut.

Nathan put the laptop down on the sofa and followed Manuel outside, half expecting Cedric to be there.

‘Where?’ he said

‘Over here.’

Manuel led him into another shack. An old landline phone was on a wooden table, the receiver lying on its side. Manuel handed it to Nathan.

‘Cedric,’ Nathan said as he put the phone to his ear.

‘Thank God you’re alive.’

‘Where’s Lucia?’

‘Safe. I can’t say more. Not by phone. Things are happening here. We’ve had a major breakthrough with the Jamaican yardies.’

‘Is she okay?’

‘Upset. Hurt. But fine.’

‘Where do we meet?’ Nathan said.

‘Bogotá airport. Then we go to Medellín.’

‘Why there?’

‘I’ll explain when we meet. Just sit tight.’ Cedric chuckled. ‘If you can, that is. Oh, and check out the word ochronosis.’

‘What’s that.’

‘Look online. I’ll be in touch.’

Before Nathan could respond, Cedric hung up. Nathan handed the phone back to Manuel. ‘Ever heard of something called ochronosis?’

‘A new drug?’

‘No idea. I guess there’s no internet here. What’s going on out there?’

Manuel sat down on a wooden chair. ‘We’re organising the campesinos against the Front. Everyone’s had enough.’

‘Can I join you?’ Nathan said. ‘I have a few tricks up my sleeve.’

‘We’d welcome your help.’ Manuel got up. ‘Come. I’ll introduce you. You’re definitely one of us now.’

Bogotá, Colombia
15 April 2011

A
monite paced up and down in the secretary’s room outside George’s office. Her boots squished into the plush cream carpet. George was keeping her waiting, again.

His secretary looked up from her glass desk with a frown.

‘Cup of tea?’ she said in her high pitched voice. ‘Coffee?’

Amonite kept pacing. The Apaches and Lynx helicopters were arriving in an hour at the ASI’s secret airport just outside Bogotá. Dex was at a meeting with the ASI and a mercenary outfit, arranging a deal to boost the Front’s number of foot soldiers fivefold. El Patrón was getting increasingly impatient. He wanted Amonite to scale up the bombing campaign even further in Bogotá, this time targeting shopping malls at peak hours. She needed to order more explosives, find more sicarios, pay them, instruct them where to go, pay off the police, make sure the media were alerted just in time.

There was so much to do, yet so little time.

And George was making her wait.

The phone rang on the secretary’s desk. The secretary picked it up between her index and thumb and put it to her ear with a flick of her permed hair.

‘Sir George?’ she said.

Amonite stopped pacing.

‘Of course, Sir George,’ the secretary said. She put down the phone and turned back to her computer.

‘What’s the problem?’ Amonite said.

‘Sir George has a busy agenda.’

Amonite grunted and started pacing even faster. She had no idea why George wanted to see her. He was always like that. Secretive. Controlling. Scheming. El Patrón had seemed annoyed with her on the phone earlier. Had George told him something nasty about her? Had they discussed the problem with Elijah? And why had George asked her to meet him at the embassy? He was always paranoid about being seen in public with her.

The phone rang again. The secretary picked it up and launched into an enthusiastic chat about what she was going to wear to the gala on Saturday. Would it be a long purple dress with ribbons or a short red one with high heels?

Amonite felt like headbutting the wall. And the secretary. And Sir George.

Why hadn’t Elijah or the Haitians got back in touch? What had happened on that island? Where the hell was the cargo of Black Coke? Elijah had been trustworthy in the past, so what had happened to him?

‘Nine hundred,’ the secretary was saying on the phone. ‘That’s quite a crowd!’

Nine hundred guests at the gala, Amonite thought, including the Colombian president and all the key ambassadors: American, French, German, British, Spanish, Canadian, Italian, Russian. A big powwow of the rich and powerful. And all for a good cause.

She smirked.

‘He can’t make it?’ the secretary said. ‘Everyone will be so disappointed.’

Amonite tensed.

‘Oh, I see,’ the secretary said. ‘That would be a shame.’

The conversation drifted to another topic. Amonite’s mind erupted into a maelstrom. The gala was the perfect opportunity. A last minute change would be a disaster, especially if it was the president who couldn’t turn up. El Patrón had been plotting this for weeks.

The secretary hung up.

‘What’s that about the gala?’ Amonite said as calmly as she could.

‘Are you going?’

‘No, well, yes. Maybe.’

‘It’s going to be amazing. It’s costing them five million dollars just to organise it.’

‘Is the president not attending?’

The secretary frowned. ‘Whoever said that?’

‘You mentioned someone not making it.’

‘The French chef. Invited from Paris. Le Nôtre. He’s sick. They’ve invited an Italian instead.’

‘Oh, right.’

A new plan was taking shape in Amonite’s mind. El Patrón would love this idea.

The phone rang again.

‘Sir George? Yes, Ms Victor’s here. I’ll send her right in.’ The secretary hung up and lifted a thin eyebrow at Amonite. ‘Sir George is ready to see you.’

Amonite barged into George’s office. He was sitting at his oak desk, frowning at the computer. Behind him were rows of framed photos showing him shaking hands with politicians, celebrities, business tycoons.

‘You won’t believe this,’ George said without looking up. ‘Shut the door.’

She gave the door a kick and plonked herself on the chair in front of his desk. It creaked. She didn’t care.

‘It’s a fact,’ George said. ‘He’s betrayed us.’

‘Who?’

‘The Colombian president. Enrique Caviedas. He’s a traitor.’

‘How do you know?’

‘One of his entourage. He’s my source. Right at the top in the president’s cabinet.’

‘El Patrón suspected this all along.’

George grunted. ‘So, is everything ready for Saturday?’

Amonite nodded. This meant more than ever that the plans for the gala had to be perfect. El Patrón would definitely not accept any failure now.

George turned back to his computer. He clicked on the mouse a few times, then peered at the screen. He typed on the keyboard, seemingly forgetting Amonite’s presence. Amonite felt like walking straight out. The bastard was emphasising his status and power by making her wait again. Then a smile crept across George’s face. He turned the screen away and looked up at Amonite.

‘So that was the bad news. I can’t tell you more for now.’ He leaned forward, his hands clasped together on the desk. ‘But I’ve also got some good news.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Cedric Belville’s on his way.’

‘Yes!’

‘He’s been in touch with Nathan Kershner and that bitch from CAF.’

‘When’s he landing?’ Amonite said.

‘Tomorrow morning.’

‘I’ll go welcome him.’

Ciudad Bolivar, Colombia
15 April 2011

T
hey heard about it first on the late evening news. Manuel was pulling clothes from the chest of drawers in the corner of the shack and stuffing them in his bag. Nathan was staring blankly at the black and white screen when the news ticker caught his eye.

Killer New Drug Hits Miami.

‘Hey, what was that?’ Nathan sat up.

Manuel reached over and turned up the sound.

‘A new killer drug that is ten times stronger than heroin and cocaine has just hit Miami, according to the Drug Enforcement Administration,’ the newsreader said. ‘Twenty-five people have already died of overdoses and forty are in a critical state. Chemical analysis shows that the drug is a new compound genetically derived from cocaine with unknown effects on users.’

Images flashed on the screen of ambulances and police cars with flashing sirens. Jamaican gangsters were lined up against the wall, wrists handcuffed behind their backs. Huge Alsatians were sniffing around them. Blue police lights flashed in the background.

‘The DEA has asked for more resources to tackle it,’ the newsreader said. ‘Agents fear an epidemic of abuse of this drug is about to sweep the nation.’

‘How did they get it into the US?’ Manuel said.

‘Shhhh.’

But the news had already moved onto the next item.

Nathan switched the TV off.

‘Let’s go,’ he said.

They left the shack and bundled into the back of the beaten up pick-up truck. Manuel took the driver’s seat. A grim determination floated in the air, the same feeling Nathan had experienced before combat missions. They drove through the shanty towns of south Bogotá towards the east of the city. The police presence was strong: armoured vehicles, riot police with shields and weapons, road blocks with spikes on the tarmac.

A city at war in a country at war.

Every time they were stopped at a road block, Manuel climbed out of the vehicle and muttered a few words to the cops. A handshake, money swapped hands, and they were on their way. As they arrived next to a bridge, the traffic slowed. Manuel pointed up ahead.

Three bodies hung from the bridge. They were naked, with their hands tied behind their backs. Blood streamed from sliced necks and dripped from their toes. The words ‘Front 154’ were engraved into their torsos. Medics and cops had gathered around, gazing up at a lone cop who was leaning over the bridge trying to untie the ropes.

Another cop gestured for them to move on. Nathan had seen dozens, if not hundreds, of dead bodies in his career. But these seemed particularly gruesome. A display of brutal retribution worthy of the Middle Ages.

‘Oh, my God,’ Nathan said as they drove past. ‘It’s those guys from the embassy house.’

‘Which guys?’

‘The three agents when I broke in.’

Nathan shook his head in disgust. Manuel shrugged, as though hardly surprised.