Black Coke (47 page)

‘Lucita!’ he said, pushing two bodyguards aside and standing up. He gripped her in a bear-hug so strong she thought he was going to break her in two.

‘My, you’ve grown,’ he said, his eyes lighting up. ‘Here, have a seat.’ He sat down and reached for the bottle of red wine. ‘And a drink. In memory. There, have this. Fine Italian wine. How you doing, my dear?’

‘Mr president, I know you’re busy but—

‘It’s still Enrique for you.’

‘Enrique, I need your—’

‘I know, I know. Sylvia explained. I’m about to do the welcoming speech. I think you’ll like what I’m going to announce.’ He winked. ‘Let’s talk afterwards.’

‘Somewhere private?’

‘Over dinner will be fine. We’ll sort something out. Here. To our health.’

He took a long gulp of wine and wiped his lips with a napkin. He watched Lucia sip her glass and was about to say something when a voice from the stage introduced the evening. The president winked again and turned in his seat to face the front. The room was packed. Huge screens on either side of the stage showed the face of the speaker: the elderly former vice-president of Colombia.

The president’s table had filled up with key members of the cabinet. People Lucia would have given anything to meet and lobby a few weeks ago. People she’d have easily been able to approach had she remained her father’s good girl. People who would gladly speak to her, rather than glare at her out of the corner of their eye, if her family history wasn’t so shrouded in scandal, mystery and death.

Lucia glared back.

The president was speaking to one of his aides and glancing through his notes scribbled on small sheets of white cardboard.

She caught George Lloyd-Wanless’s eye. He was sitting three tables away to her left. He was staring at her with contempt. She resisted the urge to storm over and slap him.

She needed to speak to the president, now, before it was too late, before he got embroiled into other matters and forgot all about her. She reached out to tap the president on the shoulder.

‘…the president of Colombia,’ boomed the voice on the stage.

The room erupted into clapping. The president made his way to the stage, waving his hand as though at a political rally. Lucia swore to herself. She’d missed her chance. She’d have to grab him as soon as he got back and make him stick to his promise of speaking to her.

Someone grabbed Lucia’s arm.

‘Hey.’ She twisted away.

It was the first security guard from earlier on, the one who wanted to refuse her entry. He pulled her to her feet.

‘Leave me alone,’ Lucia said, her voice rising.

Everyone on the table was looking away, ignoring her. The guard tugged at her so forcefully she nearly tripped over. The clapping was dying down. The president was at the glass lectern on the stage, scanning the room with a satisfied gaze. As the guard dragged Lucia through the rows of tables, she caught sight of George watching her with a look of triumph.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the president said. ‘We are here tonight to remember the victims of the drugs war that has gripped our country for far too long.’

They were close to the double doors of the dining room. The guard’s grip was like a vice. She only had seconds before she’d get thrown out, unceremoniously, onto the street. She tried to twist away, shifting herself round and hanging onto the door handle.

‘A drugs war that has spread across the globe, wreaking death and devastation in its wake. A war that gives terrorists and criminals a means to make vasts amounts of money. A war that has been going on for 50 years, yet that we can never win.’

Lucia’s mouth dropped. What had the president just said?

The guard peeled Lucia’s fingers off the handle. She looked around desperately for something else to grab onto, someone to help her.

‘That’s why I am calling tonight for an end to this violence, an end to this conflict, and end to the war on—’

A loud spit.

The president stumbled backwards, one step, two steps. His face, magnified a hundred times on the two screens, was ashen, his mouth hanging in disbelief. His eyes went wide, then narrow, then wide again, frowning, horrified, frightened. His tuxedo shirt, previously so white, filled with red like blotting paper. Blood flowed over his hands, onto the bits of cardboard, which fluttered to the floor.

A stunned silence descended.

The president crumpled.

A woman screamed.

The stage exploded.

Putumayo, Colombia
17 April 2011

T
horns and spikes ripped at Nathan’s clothes as he hacked his way through the tangled mass of undergrowth. Grasses, ferns, shrubs and vines towered above him, fighting for access to the shards of early morning light that broke through the jungle canopy.

Manuel was a few of metres in front. His arm rose and fell like a machine, slicing through branches and leaves and bushes with his machete. Sweat flowed down his neck, forming a patch on the back of his green shirt. Still he pushed forward as though driven by an unnatural force. He seemed barely affected by the terrible beating he’d received. Or maybe he’d learnt long ago to overcome pain.

Nathan faltered. Images of Caitlin’s dead body flooded his mind.

Manuel glanced round. ‘You okay?’

Nathan nodded.

Manuel pulled a half-ripped map from the back pocket of his combats. He unfolded it. Nathan grabbed one side, Manuel the other.

‘We’re here, in secondary jungle,’ Manuel said, pointing. ‘Over here is primary jungle. It gets easier. That’s where the base is.’

‘What were the guards asking you?’

‘If anyone else was with me.’

‘And?’

‘What do you think? I never give away my friends.’

‘They seemed very relaxed,’ Nathan said.

‘They think the Front is unstoppable.’

They pressed on. The undergrowth thinned out. Trees rose from buttress roots to at least 60 metres, each one bursting into a mushroom of leaves. A cool darkness descended, the heat and light blocked out by the dense mass above. On the ground, ferns and mosses pushed through a deep carpet of leaves.

They paused to rest. Nathan ripped open an energy bar from his backpack.

‘Lucia,’ Manuel said, studying Nathan with a curious look. ‘She likes you.’

Nathan chomped into his bar.

‘I can see that in a woman, you know,’ Manuel said. ‘It’s in her eyes. When we left, yesterday, she was upset.’

Nathan shrugged.

‘I feel your pain,’ Manuel said. ‘Don’t let it eat you up.’

Nathan finished the energy bar and took a swig of water from his bottle. He picked up his machete and fingered the blade. Still sharp. He got up, gritted his teeth and was about to start hacking at undergrowth again when a thought struck him.

‘Manuel, I’ve been wanting to ask you something.’

Manuel stood up. ‘Sure.’

‘Does the name El Patrón mean anything to you?’

Manuel stumbled back as though he’d been slapped in the face.

‘Where did you hear that?’ he said.

‘The agents at the embassy house in Bogotá.’

‘That can’t be possible.’ Manuel shook his head furiously. ‘You misunderstood.’

‘Why? Who’s El Patrón? Don Camplones? I thought he’d been shot in Mexico along with Amonite. But she escaped, so I’m guessing he could’ve escaped too. Wouldn’t be great news for us. Camplones is even more of a psycho than Amonite.’

‘That’s impossible.’ Manuel rubbed his temples. ‘They killed El Patrón years ago. I saw the photos. The dead body. It was all over the news.’

‘Who was he?’

‘El Patrón,’ Manuel said, his voice dropping to a whisper, ‘was Pablo Escobar.’

Putumayo, Colombia
17 April 2011

‘P
ablo Escobar?’ Nathan frowned. ‘That can’t be right. Must be someone else who’s taken that name.’

‘There’ve been rumours for years that he didn’t really die, that he somehow escaped the assault in Medellín and went into hiding. Nobody believed them. Just old wives’ tales to scare kids at night.’

‘Must be an imposter.’

‘I’ve often wondered,’ Manuel said. ‘Those car bombs, the assassinations. The grand plans with the Black Coke. It’s his style.’

‘Shhh.’ Nathan lifted his finger.

There was a rustling. Manuel tucked his machete in his belt and unslung his assault rifle. Nathan pointed to the left, rifle in hand, crouching. He peered through the leaves, branches and trees.

Then he saw it. A slow movement through the undergrowth, just a few metres away, accompanied this time by a low, painful moaning. Nathan hacked at the leaves and branches. There, in front of them, was a skeleton of a man. His body was so thin the bones protruded from under the skin. Dirty clothes hung from him in tatters. Strands of longish grey hair formed clumps on an otherwise bald head. He seemed to feel Nathan and Manuel’s presence because he twisted round, revealing a gaunt face with two large, bloodshot eyes. He lifted a stick-thin arm.

Nathan moved towards the man, dropping his rucksack to the ground. The man tried to crawl away, but found himself up against a tree. He whimpered.

‘We’re not going to hurt you,’ Nathan said.

The man’s left hand clutched his chest, which was all bloody. Lacerations covered the front of his body, as though he’d been whipped. His eyes had black spots in them and his ears were bluish-black. His joints were bent and lumpy like an old woman’s.

Nathan yanked his first aid kit from his rucksack. Manuel stood behind, scanning the surrounding area, weapon in hand.

‘Who’s done this to you?’ Nathan said as he pulled gauzes and antiseptic from his kit.

The man was still staring at Nathan with wide eyes. His breathing had slowed to a more regular pace. He said something, but it was too quiet.

‘What was that?’ Nathan said.

‘They know.’

‘Know what?’

‘They’ll be here soon.’

‘Who will?’ Nathan said. ‘The Front?’

The man lay back.

Nathan leant over him. ‘Is the Front base nearby?’

The man’s eyes closed. For a second, Nathan thought he was going to lose him. Then the man’s eyes flickered open. This time they’d lost focus.

‘Don’t wanna go back there,’ he said.

‘Just tell us where it is.’

The man grabbed Nathan’s shirt.

‘His arms,’ Manuel said, pointing.

Nathan unpeeled the man’s hand from his shirt and looked closely at his forearm. It was covered in needle marks.

‘What’ve they done to you?’

The man launched himself at Nathan, saliva dripping from his mouth like from a rabid dog. His fingers bent like claws, aimed at Nathan’s face. Nathan pushed the man sideways. The man twisted round and attacked again. Nathan jumped to his feet and stepped back, rifle pointed. The man tried crawling towards him, but collapsed. Nathan bent down and put his fingers to the man’s neck.

‘dead,’ he said, straightening himself.

He hacked some large leaves off a nearby tree and covered the corpse with them.

‘Let’s go,’ Manuel said. ‘The Front base must be near.’

Putumayo, Colombia
17 April 2011

T
hey kept walking through the jungle, until they reached fields of cracked, brown stalks that stretched out to either side. Manuel gave Nathan a knowing look. Nathan pushed away the memories of the black beetle attack all those weeks ago. They hurried through the fields and crossed back into dense forest.

Nathan lifted the palm of his hand.

The sound of a chopper thumped close by.

Nathan went first, eyes peeled, each foot placed carefully in front of the other, rolling them from the side inwards to avoid making any sound. He caught a glimpse of a silhouette ahead. He held out a hand and pointed, then showed one finger.

‘One up,’ he whispered.

They dropped to the ground. The silhouette moved out of sight.

They waited. A large black beetle scurried over Nathan’s arm. He brushed it away and crushed it with his rifle butt. Next to him, Manuel grimaced as he shook off a black beetle that had crawled into his hair. After an hour or so, Nathan crawled forwards. The trees thinned out and a large rock face appeared in front of them, extending for hundreds of metres to either side. Bushes hung from outcrops.

So this was the Front’s secret base. Tucked away in the depth of the jungle and hidden underground, where nobody could discover it by accident.