El Infierno

by Pieter Tritton

  ‘Would it be possible to change these notes to euros? I’m afraid I have forgotten to bring my ID, is that a problem?’

  The Arab took a long draw on the Gauloises while his eyes peered through lenses nearly as thick as the glass behind which he sat.

  ‘No problem at all, Monsieur, no problem.’

  Yes, perfect.

  ‘Would I be able to change any more?’ I asked as he was handing over the first bundle, producing a couple of thousand more.

  ‘Yes, yes, no problem. How much you have to change?’ This man liked money and liked easy money even more.

  ‘Well, twenty thousand in total.’

  ‘Bon, no problem, we do it in four or five goes, come back every hour.’

  Perhaps not so perfect. The hour delay could be so the system didn’t show anything suspicious, or it could be that I would be walking into a trap when I returned. Just long enough to call the gendarmes and have me arrested. I looked closely at his face and decided that this was someone who you could do a deal with.

  I spent the next few hours wandering up and down the Champs-Élysées, calling in every hour between coffees to change wads of notes. On one occasion, a group of tourists came in behind me and had to wait while the money counter whirred away checking €6,000 in high-denomination notes. By the end of the afternoon a small bag of English banknotes had been reduced in size to a slim envelope fitting easily in the inside pocket of my jacket. Excellent.

  The plan was for Nicky to join me in Quito a couple of days after I had concluded my business, so that we could enjoy a holiday together and I could show her the country. The mule’s flight was due to arrive roughly two weeks after I had dealt with the initial exchange with El Comandante, when he would hand over the tent containing the impregnated cocaine. I thought that if there was any heat from the police it would have died down by then. In the meantime, I would hold on to the tent. We had an unblemished track record so far as the mules were concerned. Not a single one had been arrested. This was very important to me as I never wanted to see anyone go to prison; I did as much as I possibly could to minimise the risks they faced, and it had worked so far.

  So, in short, I would go to Ecuador, get the tent, spend a couple of weeks with Nicky, pass on the tent to the mule and send him on his way, return to France, grab a change of clothes and head out to my mate’s place in Thailand and wait there for the money to be transferred to me after the business was concluded. Nice and simple. While I was in Paris, my father and stepmother arrived at the house for a visit. When I returned to the house early the next evening they were in the garden having dinner and enjoying the warmth. I had a few days before I flew to Quito and was looking forward to spending some time with them.

  Of course, they wanted to know why I was going to South America. I told them I was going to Ecuador to buy a container load of Panama hats, which I planned to sell at cricket matches. They asked loads of questions about how I could charge enough for the hats to make it pay and wondered what I was doing going out to South America again. They knew I had been out to Colombia, Ecuador and Venezuela five or more times that year. They also asked why I was going so soon after the incident in Edinburgh, which I had told them was nothing to do with me.

  I hate lying and felt terrible about it. I could see the worry in my father’s eyes. He really didn’t want me to go out there this time. I was beginning to feel that I didn’t really want to go myself. I would much rather relax at the house with my family, drink some wine and eat good food instead. But too many people were involved by this point and wheels had been set in motion.

  The day before my flight I packed my large black holdall for the trip. Early the next morning I got up and had breakfast with my father. He once again asked if my trip was really necessary. I was committed, but it was all beginning to feel wrong. We drove into the local town so I could catch an early train up to Paris. The two of us stood on the quiet platform awaiting the train. It was one of those cool, slightly misty mornings you get before a hot day. As the train pulled into the station my father embraced me and said, ‘Take care, son. Go careful and look after yourself. Hope to see you soon. Love you.’

  He rarely said that he loved me, but I knew that he did. I boarded the train, found my seat and then went back to the window in the carriage door. I watched my father standing on the platform in the mist as the train pulled away.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE BUST

  ‘QUETO, NO LO mueves, manos arriba!’ Stop, don’t move, hands up!

  Nicky and I were laughing and joking as we strolled down the corridor. Nicky had flown into Quito that morning and we were returning from a great dinner in an upmarket restaurant close to the hotel where we were staying on Avenida Amazonas, in the new part of the city, high up in the Andes. I slid the card key into the lock and, just as it clicked open, all hell broke loose. A group of heavily armed men in plain clothes charged down the corridor towards us, guns drawn, wearing balaclavas – shit! I knew it was the police. They might as well have been wearing badges.

  I looked at Nicky, who was in shock.

  ‘Don’t say or sign anything! Let me do the talking—’ I whispered urgently.

  They were on us by the end of the sentence. We were grabbed and led into the hotel suite: Nicky into the bedroom and me into the living room. That sick feeling was washing over me from the adrenalin coursing through my system but I tried to keep it under control. The Ecuadorian police are renowned for being corrupt. I was hopeful I’d be able to broker some sort of deal.

  The police rapidly located the rucksack containing the tent with the cocaine impregnated in its rubber groundsheet. They had obviously been into the suite while we were out as they went straight to it, making a great show of being surprised by their find. They searched both Nicky and me, emptying our pockets, and opened the safe in the bedroom, revealing about $2,500 in cash, passports and phones, which were all bagged up as evidence.

  One of the Ecuadorian police officers, who seemed to be in charge, spoke some English, so I subtly tried to get his attention.

  ‘Is there some other way we can resolve this problem?’ I quietly asked. ‘I can get $25,000 here within the hour if we could just forget about this misunderstanding – after all there are no drugs in evidence, only an old camping tent.’

  ‘Señor, we are the Ecuadorian police force. We do not receive money. We are not corrupt.’ I almost laughed out loud. Yeah, sure thing tonto!

  It was at this point that I realised that this operation was being overseen by someone else. I imagined that the British police must be in the background, making sure that this way out was closed to me and that I was definitely arrested. Otherwise the Ecuadorians would almost certainly have jumped at the offer.

  We were handcuffed, taken to the elevator and down to the underground car park of the hotel where a car was waiting for each of us, along with four police armed with M16 assault rifles and side arms. We were whisked away through the familiar streets of Quito, back towards the airport where poor Nicky had just arrived that very morning and to the headquarters of Interpol, who, it turned out, had made the arrests. The dark streets flashed by in a haze, my mind whirling as I imagined the repercussions.

  Upon arriving at the Interpol HQ, the cars were driven into a courtyard through a solid steel gate, bordered by watchtowers with armed guards. Nicky and I were led from the cars into a nondescript three-storey building that from the outside resembled any other small office premises, but within it held dark, dank communal cells. Down badly lit narrow corridors the men’s cells lay directly ahead and the women’s to the right, both facing on to an enclosed and roofed courtyard.

  Racing through my mind were thoughts of my family, how they were going to react once I was able to call them. What was I going to say? My parents were going to be devastated, as was Emily. She was with her grandparents, who had no idea even as to our whereabouts. I also really needed to contact my friends in Britain to tell them to clear everything up and disappear fo
r a couple of weeks. I didn’t want anyone else to be arrested.

  I immediately asked that the British embassy be informed of our arrests as I knew they were obliged to help out to some extent, although I guessed they probably already knew, if I was right and the British police were involved. I knew they had had us under heavy surveillance for several months in Britain. I was also fairly sure several people were acting as police informants against me as I had been tipped off by family members, corrupt police and just that sixth sense we all have. This was the culmination of their efforts for sure. It was probable that Nico was responsible for my capture as he had arranged this whole deal. No one else knew I was out here. There had been too many coincidences all pointing the finger of doubt towards Nico.

  The British police tended to operate out of the embassy or closely with them when investigating cross-border crime. The Ecuadorian police said they would contact the embassy if I provided them with the number. How the hell was I supposed to do that? They assured me they would do their best to contact them, but for the time being we would have to wait. Waiting was something I was to become very accustomed to doing.

  CHAPTER THREE

  INTO THE DARKNESS

  IT WAS APPROACHING midnight when I was reunited with Nicky, first allowing me to give her a hug and kiss.

  ‘Look at me, Nicky,’ I said, and she tilted her head and looked into my eyes. ‘I promise you I will get you out of here. I’m not sure how long it’s going to take but I absolutely assure you I will get you out. I will do whatever it takes.’

  She simply replied ‘OK’ and put her head back against my chest.

  She was shocked and bewildered. Knowing the pain I was causing the one I loved was like a knife to the stomach. I held her in one final embrace that I never wanted to end, trying to reassure her, feeling her warm, shaking body against mine. Then the police separated us and I watched as the barred doors closed behind her and the women in the holding cell began greeting her.

  Now it was my turn. The police officers led me towards the men’s holding area. It looked like a dark hole from which it seemed if I entered I might never return. The officer pulled back the gate and pointed towards the left-hand side of the holding area. Directly in front of the gate was a wall and a corridor leading to the left, along which I could just make out entrances to cells, two on each side. A solitary light bulb hung from a cable, illuminating a shower area and toilet. As I advanced cautiously the gate behind me closed with a resounding clang. This is a sound you will only ever hear in prison, and one you can never forget. It is the sound of defeat, of loss and helplessness, of utter despair. It is followed shortly afterwards by the grinding of metal on metal as the key to your destiny turns. At this point all control over your life is suspended and you are a prisoner.

  I advanced warily down the corridor bracing myself for contact or attack from another prisoner, but nobody emerged. Strange. The ringing silence of the darkness intensified a little more as I moved towards the bathroom area at the end of the corridor and the smell of urine and faeces began to tickle my nose. The second cell on my right was also empty. What the fuck was going on? I could hear the women chattering away, their voices drifting down the corridor. I sat down heavily on the bottom bunk, no more than a concrete shelf designed to take a mattress – of course there was none – along with a whole lot more of nothing. At this point the weight of the problem began pressing down not only on my shoulders but over my entire body, as if I was in a diving bell with the pressure being slowly increased. I sat there in the dark and cold trying to collect my thoughts.

  At this point I was still optimistic because they hadn’t actually charged me yet with any specific quantity. The cocaine impregnated in the rubber groundsheet was not visible to the naked eye. Perhaps the police thought there were only a few grams, as they hadn‘t mentioned anything about kilos yet. We hadn’t lost a single load in over two years of operating. Please, please let it be so.

  My thoughts, which were beginning to spiral out of control, were interrupted by a cough and hushed murmuring from the other end of the corridor, but still no one appeared. It began to dawn on me that perhaps the police were trying to hold me separately from the other prisoners for whatever reason. I continued to sit there, listening to the night slowly sliding by, the traffic passing on the road in front and the nearby airport where I’d landed a few days earlier.

  I thought back to the day of my arrival and the few peculiarities that now, on reflection, were starting to make sense. The first was at passport control, where a pretty Ecuadorian police officer with a clipboard was standing to the side, examining everybody’s face. Seeing me, she did an almost comical double take as if she could barely hide her excitement. She hurried off and out of sight through a door, I now realised to inform her supervisors of my arrival. At immigration, I casually looked behind me and noticed the same police officer with the clipboard had reappeared, now in the company of a male officer. They were having an animated discussion and kept glancing in my direction. I tried to steady my nerves as the €25,000 in my inside jacket pocket burned a hole in my chest. I knew full well that this alone would mean a prolonged stay in the prison in Quito.

  I presented my passport to the official in the control booth, who swiped it. There was an immediate change in her face from one of abject boredom to interest and excitement. I had passed through this control on four previous occasions without a blink or second look. ‘Please could you wait here one moment, sir, I have to check something,’ and off she disappeared with the passport. This hadn’t happened before. Was there some kind of marker on my passport, I wondered. After a few minutes, she returned and apologised for the wait, and began joking around and almost flirting with me, saying, ‘You could teach me English any time. I would love some lessons from you.’

  All this behaviour had set alarm bells ringing, but I had chosen to ignore them. As I sat in the cell I wished that I had walked away then and there. Taken a bus to Colombia or Peru and disappeared as quickly as possible. But I hadn’t. I couldn’t sleep and just sat there pondering my fate for the rest of the night, wondering how I might get us out of this one, or at least minimise the damage.

  The days and nights in Ecuador are of equal length. The sun appears at about 6am and disappears again at around 6pm, seven days a week, 52 weeks of the year. So at 5.30am the walls of the cell started to turn a pallid grey. Around this time the airport kicked into life and the acrid smell of aviation fuel penetrated my dungeon, reminding me of the flight I should have taken and was now going to miss in the coming week. I could hear the roar of the turbines from the jets as they took off and landed. The traffic on the road to the front of the Interpol station had picked up as well and there was a steady hum of cars passing by, people on their way to work and school, going about their normal lives.

  I stuck my head out of the cell doorway a couple of times to see who was in the other end of the holding area, but I couldn’t see anyone. It was fully light when someone finally emerged and came down to use the toilet. He was a thinlooking guy around 32 years old, clean-shaven and respectable-looking. He introduced himself in broken English. ‘Hello good morning. My name is Hassan. I am from Lebanon.’ He had a soft gentle tone of voice and pleasant friendly manner. I warmed to him immediately. ‘You are English?’ he asked me.

  ‘Yes, from the south, 100 miles west of London,’ I replied. ‘My name is Pieter.’

  ‘Ah, very good, I know London. I have been three or four times, I like it very much. Many pretty girls.’ I laughed and we were friends.

  ‘I’m glad to have met someone who speaks English. My girlfriend is in the womens’ holding cell.’

  ‘Why are you here?’ Hassan asked. ‘The guard tell us all, “Move, quick, quick. Big international traficante is coming. No one speak to him or you get big trouble.”’

  Blimey, I thought, as I listened and it dawned on me that I was the big-time trafficker he was talking about. Shit! The police were taking this very seriously inde
ed.

  ‘Do you want to move back to this end?’ I enquired, feeling bad that my arrival had caused all the other people in custody to be cramped together in a small cell the other end.

  ‘I ask guard first. I no want trouble, guards very bad here.’ He looked a bit nervous at the mention of the guards. God only knows what sort of torture techniques they used on people here. Hassan went to use the toilet. When he came back he asked, ‘What did they catch you with? Drug?’

  ‘Yes. They arrested me in a hotel on Avenida Amazonas called Mercure.’

  ‘I am here for drugs as well. They say we are big organisation. That we are terrorists! Pa. The policia say we send cocaine to Hezbollah in my country and they buy guns and bombs and kill many people. I have grande problema my friend.’ He looked deflated by saying this. ‘I go ask guards if we can come back here. We can share cell. My brother is here as well and some other friends. I bring them now.’

  ‘OK, great,’ I replied. Off he went into the darkness at the other end of the corridor.

  Before long other people started to appear. Some introduced themselves, others not. I think there were about ten of us at this point, four of whom were Hassan’s co-defendants. They were all Arab, all educated and well travelled. Most spoke English. Quite a few of the Ecuadorians appeared to be emaciated, skeletal shells ravaged by drug abuse. Only one spoke English. He had been arrested for possession of a gram of weed – one joint.

  Hassan had spoken to the guards in fluent Spanish to find out if they were permitted to move back into the cells in my end so they could have more space. I would spend the next six weeks living with Hassan and his friends until we were finally transferred. During this period they helped me a lot with translation, explaining how the prison was, dos and don’ts, food and general support.