Black Coke (46 page)

More of Bogotá’s glitterati filed past her, flaunting smooth skin through revealing long dresses and dripping with diamonds and gold watches. All-white smiles glinted at the hordes of paparazzi who pressed like hungry dogs against a metal barrier just outside the Radisson Royal Hotel. A huge banner hung above the entrance with the words ‘Presidential Gala’ emblazoned on it in large gold and black letters.

Lucia pulled a wad of notes from her brand-new black handbag. The guard lifted his hands, palms up, and shook his head.

‘Señorita, please, don’t.’

‘What can I do? I need to get in there. The ambassador was expecting me ten minutes ago.’ She fluttered her eyelids. ‘You’re an intelligent and kind man. You must be able to help.’

‘No ticket, no entrance.’

‘But—’

‘Please step away.’

Lucia sighed.

‘Can I help?’ said an older looking guard in a red suit who appeared next to them.

‘The señorita was just leaving,’ said the first guard.

‘The British ambassador is expecting me,’ Lucia said. ‘I’m already late, but I can’t find my ticket.’

‘Is your name on the list?’ the red guard said.

‘No, it’s not,’ the first guard said. ‘She needs to go.’

The red guard appraised Lucia up and down.

‘Come with me,’ he said, shooting a glance at the first guard that shut him up just as he was opening his mouth.

The red guard drew her to one side, behind the x-ray machine inside the marble-floored lobby.

‘Three hundred dollars,’ he said.

Lucia thrust all the bank notes into his hand. The guard stuffed them into his pocket, shrugging off the stare of his female colleague who was sitting at the x-ray machine. He pulled a visitor badge from a pile on a desk and handed it to Lucia.

‘Welcome to the first annual gala for the victims of Colombia’s civil conflict,’ he said with a slight bow of the head. ‘Now, if you’ll just step through security.’

Lucia tried not to smile smugly at the first guard, who was glaring at her. Once she’d cleared the metal detector and put her bag through the x-ray machine, Lucia followed the steady line of guests streaming up the sweeping white stone staircase to a mezzanine area where drinks were being served. Champagne glasses clinked, polite laughter rippled, furtive glances shot from side to side.

Lucia allowed herself a sigh of relief. It’d been a gamble to come here with no invitation, but it’d worked out. Now she needed to find the president. Not an easy task. His security would be extra tight this evening following all the recent bombings by Front 154.

Colombia’s former vice-president, a heavy-set man with sagging cheeks, rumbled past, a young super model on his arm. To Lucia’s left, a football player, Lucia couldn’t remember his name but she knew he was a national hero, was entertaining two female soap opera stars with tales of post-match debauchery. Behind them, three of Colombia’s leading industrialists were deep in conversation about the state of the stock market.

These were the kind of people her father used to have round his house on weekends for dinner. The great, the good, the powerful, glittering with wealth and self-satisfaction, content in the knowledge that they’d controlled Colombia for decades and would continue to do so.

Lucia clenched her fists. These were the people responsible for all the damage done to her country—the massacre of peasants, the rise of the paramilitary—who secretly and sometimes not so secretly approved of the ASI’s excesses and even its alliance with the Front.

‘I’m surprised to see you here.’

Lucia spun round, eyes focusing back to reality.

‘You!’ was all she could say.

Sylvia Lituni flashed a pearl-white smile and held out a manicured hand. She looked much more attractive in her long black dress than in the power suit she’d worn on the TV set the other night, although Lucia suspected that her voluptuous curves and firm breasts were mainly the result of the surgeon’s knife.

‘I hear there’s been some trouble at CAF.’ Sylvia pulled Lucia to one side. ‘I want to help.’

‘After that fiasco the other night?’

‘I’ve heard rumours El Patrón’s back.’

‘What?’

‘Voice down.’ Sylvia looked around. ‘I’m taking a risk just being seen with you.’

‘I need to speak to the president.’

‘He’s under heavy protection.’

‘He’s the only one who can help,’ Lucia said. ‘You sure it isn’t someone else claiming to be El Patrón?’

One of the industrialists threw them a curious glance.

‘Please, Lucia, keep it down,’ Sylvia said. ‘I know the president’s chief of staff. I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Tell him to tell the president that Lucita wants to speak to him.’

‘Lucita?’

‘It’s what my father called me. The president used to visit, when they were still friends, before all the mess.’

Sylvia blinked her heavily made-up eyes, then drifted away. Lucia reached out for a glass of champagne, but went for an orange juice instead. The news about El Patrón had rattled her.

‘No champagne?’ said a warm male voice behind her.

It was the football star. He was appraising her with a raised eyebrow and a self-satisfied smile. Here was a man who expected women to throw themselves at his feet.

‘Only for special occasions.’

‘Aha! Tonight isn’t special enough?’

Lucia didn’t reply. Behind the footballer, in a corner of the bustling room, Sylvia was deep in conversation with Sir George Lloyd-Wanless.

Putumayo, Colombia
16 April 2011

N
athan crawled through the underbrush, then stopped. The flickering light ahead was a fire. It messed with his night vision goggles, so he put them away. He crept forward some more, head low. Nettles stung his face. A lizard slithered over his hand. Dirt gritted between his teeth. He ignored it all, channelling the adrenaline through his veins, making his mind and vision acutely clear.

He stopped behind a bush and peered round. Three men sat by a campfire in a clearing, tents to either side. Two men patrolled round it, thirty metres away, smoking cigarettes, relaxed. Nathan waited. One of the three men picked up an assault rifle, which from afar looked like one of the L85A2s he’d found in the boxes in the basement of the embassy house. The man stood up and walked towards one of the patrolling guards. They exchanged a few words, then swapped positions.

One of the men by the campfire kicked a black shape lying next to him. The shape moved. The guard laughed, kicked it again, repeatedly, viciously, then turned back to his mates. A flicker from the fire lit up the shape. It was Manuel, curled up sideways, wrists and ankles tied up, with a gag in his mouth. His face was unmoving, but his good eye was blazing.

The guards cracked open a bottle of wine. One of them pulled out a gun and put it to Manuel’s head. He shouted something to his mates, who slapped their knees and gave coarse belly laughs. He pulled a burning branch from the fire and put it close to Manuel’s face. Manuel twisted and turned. The guard threw the branch back into the fire. He stood up and kicked Manuel repeatedly in the stomach.

Nathan slung his AK 47 over his shoulder and grabbed his hunting knife. He waited, patiently, focused, his training flooding back as though he’d never left the special forces. He pushed away all emotions, any sense of empathy for the guards. He was here to rescue Manuel, find and kill Amonite, and bring down the Front. He was doing this for Caitlin, Steve, Cedric and the thousands of campesinos who had suffered at the hands of the Front. Anybody who stood in his way had to be taken down.

The guards resumed their chatter. About half an hour later, they headed for their tents, dragging Manuel with them and dumping him in the closest one. Nathan waited a while longer. It was all about the timing. The moon had appeared, casting a silver glow over the forest and tents.

The two remaining guards were standing at opposite ends of the camp. Nathan crawled forward, staying within the underbrush. He stopped every few metres, checking his surroundings, listening, ready. He was within five metres of the guards’ perimeter when he froze. One of the other men had got up from his tent. He headed straight towards Nathan, who tried to disappear into the ground. The guard unzipped his trousers. A flow of piss erupted, landing barely a couple of metres in front of Nathan.

Nathan held his breath. His hands were on the ground, ready to push up and lunge at the slightest sign that the guard had seen him. The guard zipped up and stumbled back to his tent. Nathan took a deep breath, crawled forward some more, then waited. One of the guards was pacing up and down a few metres away. The one on the far side was looking the other way.

The closest guard was three metres away and approaching.

Two metres.

One metre…

Nathan pounced. His left hand went over the guard’s mouth and tugged backwards. With his right hand, he sliced the guard’s throat with the knife. The guard let out a sigh and collapsed. Nathan kept on sawing at his throat, until he was sure the guard was dead. He dragged the body further into the undergrowth and left it there.

He crept round. The other guard was having trouble lighting a cigarette. Nathan crawled up behind him. The guard swore and threw his lighter into the forest. Then he turned round to face the fire.

And came face to face with Nathan, who plunged his knife into the man’s chest while putting his left hand on the man’s mouth. The man’s eyes opened wide. His arms lifted to grab the knife, which Nathan was twisting into his body. The man let out a muffled groan, then his knees buckled. Nathan lowered him gently to the grass.

Nathan headed for the three tents, unslinging his rifle. He was close to the first one when a head popped out. Nathan shot it twice, the gunshots disturbing the sound of the forest. The head disappeared back into the tent. Nathan peered in and fired a third shot at the man’s head. It was standard SAS procedure. Always make sure your enemy’s dead.

There was rustling in the other tents. Nathan spun round. The barrel of an assault rifle poked out of the closest one. Nathan dropped to the ground, narrowly avoiding a barrage of lead. He fired twice at the tent. The rifle fell.

The third tent, the one with Manuel inside, ripped open. A man lunged out and rolled. A smoke grenade spilled its fumes. Nathan blinked. He fired where he thought the man would end up. Then he jumped to his feet and charged through the smoke.

A shape to his left. The man was heading for the trees. Nathan raced after him. The man stumbled, then regained his balance. He twisted round and fired a wild shot at Nathan, who ducked. The trees were ten metres away. Nathan was gaining ground. The man tripped on a branch, dropping his gun. Nathan was nearly on top of him. The man spun round, a knife in his hand. Nathan pointed his rifle straight at the man’s forehead.

‘Drop the knife,’ Nathan yelled.

The man glared at Nathan.

‘I said drop the knife.’

The man lunged. Nathan fired two shots. The man crumpled backwards. Nathan stepped forward and fired a third shot to the man’s head. He pushed away the feeling of remorse that threatened to erupt. He had to focus on the mission. He ran back to the tents. There was the sound of shallow, fast, troubled breathing. Nathan dragged Manuel out. He ripped off his gag and slashed the cable ties from his wrists and ankles.

‘What happened?’ Nathan asked.

Manuel struggled to a sitting position and rubbed his arms and legs. He stared at Nathan with his good eye wide.

‘What the hell were these guys doing at the RV point?’ Nathan said.

‘They were waiting,’ Manuel said between coughs and groans. ‘Someone told them.’

Bogotá, Colombia
16 April 2011

‘T
he president will see you at his table,’ Sylvia said.

Lucia turned away, glad to rid herself of the footballer, who was turning out to be one of the most boring, self-obsessed people she’d ever met.

‘What did Lloyd-Wanless want?’ she said as Sylvia led her down the corridor to the dining room.

‘He knows you’re here.’

‘And?’

‘That’s all.’

They pushed through the double doors. At least a hundred round tables filled the dining room. They were laden with silver cutlery, an assortment of glinting wine glasses, red and white wine bottles, silk napkins and elaborate menus. The room was filling up.

The president was sitting at the front table, surrounded by a phalanx of bodyguards in dark suits and ear-pieces. Lucia hadn’t seen him in person for years, but he still looked as handsome as ever with his chiselled jaw, sharp cheeks and confident gaze. Only a few wisps of grey hair betrayed his age.