Eddie and Chris turned to greet the owner of the Wearside accent. The Dame plonked himself down on Eddie’s bed.
‘You just got in?’ Eddie asked.
‘Yeah. Just come over from fuckin’ Belfast.’
‘I thought you were on leave like the rest of us.’
The Dame sighed. ‘I was. Enjoying it too, getting looked after hand and foot by my sisters. But the bosses needed me for a special job …’
‘Oh, listen to him – special job!’ Chris said.
‘We’re not fit to tie his shoelaces,’ Eddie agreed.
‘It was tied up with something happened over there last year,’ the Dame said placidly. ‘What are we doing here, anyway? I thought I’d be back in Sunderland tonight, not listening to you two wankers mouthing off.’
‘Fuck only knows.’ Chris looked at his watch. ‘It’s five to six – we’d better get down there.’
The Kremlin’s briefing room boasted all the usual paraphernalia associated with such rooms, plus a huge mounted water buffalo’s head which dated back to the regiment’s time in Malaya, and whose large, serene eyes gazed down benevolently on Eddie, Chris and the Dame as they took their seats. It was a minute before six, and Chris’s stomach was already rumbling. It had to be true, he reflected – the more you eat, the more you need.
‘Did I hear thunder?’ the Dame asked.
‘I doubt it,’ Chris said.
‘Do you know how Major Bourne got the name “Roy”?’ Eddie asked.
The other two shook their heads.
‘When he was in the Oman the food used to make him fart like there was no tomorrow. So first they called him “Bourne on the Wind” – get it? – and that got shortened to “Roy” ‘cos it’s a song by Roy Orbison.’
‘That sounds almost stupid enough to be true,’ the Dame observed.
‘It is true.’
‘Have I died and gone to hell?’ Chris asked the ceiling.
‘You should be so lucky, Trooper,’ Bourne said, brushing past him and putting his papers on the table next to the overhead projector. Another four men filed in: Captains Mike Bannister and Rory Atkins, officers commanding C Squadron’s Air and Mountain Troops respectively, Training Wing’s Major Kilcline, and a man in civilian clothes whom Bourne introduced as ‘Mr Pennington from the Foreign Office’.
Bourne started things off. ‘Right, unless our security’s even worse than I think it is, you four’ – he indicated Eddie, the Dame, Chris and Mike Bannister – ‘have no idea why you’ve been dragged out of the bosom of your families halfway through the season of good cheer. I’m sure your families are glad to be rid of you, but …’
‘Is it true you need a diploma in stand-up to be an officer here, boss?’ Eddie asked.
‘Yes, Trooper, it is. But to get serious …’ Bourne went through what they knew of what had happened in Cali. ‘We thought Joss Wynwood had been taken as well,’ he admitted. ‘We only heard this morning that he’s alive and well in the capital.’
‘That big Welsh bastard would survive a night with Cilla Black,’ Kilcline observed.
‘Perhaps,’ Bourne agreed, ‘but what sort of shape would she be in?’
Everyone laughed.
‘So,’ Bourne went on, ‘the job is to get Sergeant Anderson back. And, if we can, recover Muñoz as well.’
‘Any particular reason?’ Chris asked. ‘For Muñoz, I mean.’
‘Yes, there is. The unit which was supposed to be protecting him from something like this blew it. Since they were at least partly trained by us, we blew it. OK?’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘OK. Colombia. I don’t suppose any of you have been there?’
They all shook their heads.
‘Or know anything about the place?’
‘Wasn’t that where Bobby Moore got accused of stealing a bracelet or something?’ the Dame asked.
‘Very useful,’ Bourne said. ‘Well, Bobby can’t be with us today …’
‘We could give him a buzz, boss,’ Eddie suggested.
Bourne ignored him. ‘But we do have Mr Pennington here from the Foreign Office.’
Pennington was pinning up a large-scale map of northern South America. ‘Colombia,’ he said, a little nervously, pointing it out on the map. ‘It’s a big country. About thirty-five million people in an area five times that of the UK. The vast majority of the population, about seventy per cent, are mestizos – people of mixed Spanish/Indian descent. Another twenty per cent would consider themselves of pure Spanish blood, while seven per cent are pure Indian and three per cent negro. Nearly all the power is in the hands of the pure Spanish twenty per cent, but the country doesn’t have a race problem the way we would understand it. The majority is in the middle, so to speak, which makes for stability, at least in that regard.
He turned to the map. ‘As you can see, Colombia is only just north of the Equator, so those areas close to sea level, the coastal plains and this huge area of jungle in the south-east, have a tropical climate – hot and humid the whole year round.’
Eddie groaned.
‘But don’t despair,’ Pennington went on with a smile. ‘About ninety-five per cent of the population live in these mountains’ – he ran his finger down the map – ‘which give the country a kind of dual spine running north to south. Most of the population lives over 1200 metres above sea level, where the climate is much kinder.
‘One last point, before I abandon the geography lesson. You can see from the way the country’s made up how hard overland communication must be. And of course this has made it almost impossible for anyone or any government to stamp its authority on the whole country. So instead of a powerful centre you have regional powers. Warlords. Or these days, drug lords.
‘So you should always remember – law is local in Colombia. You may be on territory controlled by the local arm of the military or by the local representative of central government or by some local bigwig or by some guerrilla group – and there are plenty of those – or by one of the drug cartels. If someone offers you any help, try and make sure they can deliver what they say they can.’
‘It sounds like a nightmare,’ Chris said.
‘In some ways it is. It’s probably the most lawless country in the world. And yet most people who visit it also think it’s one of the friendliest.’ Pennington shrugged. He was beginning to enjoy himself.
‘That’s enough geography,’ he went on. ‘We don’t yet know which group has Carlos Muñoz and Sergeant Anderson, but it’s likely to be one of the major drug cartels. I’m using the word “cartels” because they’re often called that in the media, but usually they’re just phenomenally successful family businesses. And being successful they can each afford an army of hired guns – sicarios in local parlance.
‘I’m probably telling you things you already know, but … cocaine is made from coca leaves. The coca bush doesn’t grow in Colombia, only in a few high Andean valleys in Peru and Bolivia. The leaves are picked and reduced to a paste there, and then this is flown north to hundreds of hidden airstrip laboratories in the Colombian backwoods where it is further refined into pure cocaine. From there it’s moved by sea and air, mostly across the Caribbean to the States. Over the last few years a growing amount has reached Europe, often via West Indian transit points.
‘As you’d expect, the governments of the West are keen to at least reduce the flow, if not stop it. There are several obvious ways of going about this. They can try and stop the Peruvians and Bolivians from growing the leaf, try to intercept the shipments en route, or try to stop our kids wanting to use the stuff. They’ve tried all three and they’re still trying, but the success rate isn’t encouraging. The fourth option is to try and help the Colombian Government put its own house in order. Which I assume is why Anderson and Wynwood were out there helping to train an Anti-Narcotics Unit.
‘I should add that a lot of people in the Colombian Government and Military have got their own snouts in the trough, and that the anti-cartel noises they make are strict
ly for show. They need to impress their own people at election time, and the rest of the world whenever there’s trade or aid deals in the offing.
‘Right. That’s the place you’re going to. It’s a wild place, wild like the Falls Road rather than wild like the Falklands. But then again, it’s probably the most beautiful country you’ll ever see in your lives. The phrase “a land of contrasts” is pretty much a cliché, but it fits Colombia better than most.’
He sat down.
‘Any questions?’ Bourne asked.
‘What kind of government is it?’ the Dame wanted to know.
‘What difference does it make?’ Eddie muttered.
‘There are regular elections, but it would be stretching it more than a little to call Colombia a real democracy,’ Pennington said. ‘The same groups tend to take turns in power.’
‘Sounds like Hackney Council,’ Eddie said.
Chris was trying to remember how far north the giant condors lived. He would give a lot to see one of them.
‘OK,’ Bourne said. ‘Since we don’t yet know where the prisoners are being held it’s more a matter of getting you as near the likely action as possible.’ He paused. ‘Now this isn’t the Falklands, and this isn’t a military operation in that sense. You won’t be going in armed.’
‘What?!’ Eddie and the Dame said in unison.
Bourne just smiled at them.
‘Nothing?’
‘You’ve been trained to look after yourselves without any technological help …’
‘Yes, boss, but …’
‘We don’t know if you’ll be expected. We don’t know the connections between the Government, the Military and the cartels. We do know that Englishmen turning up at the Colombian border in the next few days armed to the teeth may make someone suspicious.’
‘Border, boss?’
‘This one.’ Bourne pointed out the border with Ecuador. ‘We don’t want to fly you into Bogotá for exactly the reasons I’ve just stated – in the circumstances any English arrivals are liable to be deemed suspicious. So we’re going to fly you into Quito, on a regular flight. By the time you get there we may have more information. Either way we’ll take a decision about where you should rendezvous with Wynwood inside Colombia. The three of you will then make your way across the border. This is a travellers’ trail – lots of Americans, Europeans, Australians, you name it – will be travelling in each direction. You’ll just be three more. Your clothing and packs should be chosen accordingly – I don’t want three standard-issue bergens in a row. Once you’re inside Colombia we can see about getting you properly kitted up.’
‘That’s a relief.’
‘Wynwood will be arranging for a cache.’ Bourne looked at them. ‘So all you three comics have to do is meet him without drawing attention to yourselves. That’s all. Almost a joyride.’
‘Thanks, boss,’ Chris said with a smile.
‘What’s the weather like?’ Eddie wanted to know. ‘Should we take umbrellas?’
* * *
It was just past half-past eleven in Bogotá. Wynwood nursed his whisky chaser and stared blankly at the rows of bottles behind the bar of the Intercontinental Hotel. The only other customers were a group of middle-aged Germans in a booth behind him. Every now and then their guttural tones would impinge on Wynwood’s consciousness, reminding him how much he disliked them and their nation. When it came down to it, the Germans had all the worst characteristics of the English and none of the latter’s few redeeming features. Arrogant, humourless sods!
Wynwood had been propping up the bar since sundown, except for a brief interlude in the adjoining restaurant. He was not particularly drunk – he had been drinking too slowly for that – but neither was he the soberest man in South America.
The same thoughts were circling his brain like Indians round a wagon train. In fact they seemed to be drawing the circle tighter as the evening went on. The sheer absurdity of it was beginning to really piss him off. It all seemed so bloody unreal.
‘So make it real,’ he murmured to himself. Break the spell, talk to the bitch. Remind yourself why you’re better off without her. Call her up.
He called the barman over. The barman told him he could make an international call from reception. Reception told him it would take about ten minutes, if he could wait in the booth. ‘Sir does realize it is the middle of the night in England?’
Sir had forgotten that, but what the hell. Wynwood waited by the phone booth, deliberately avoiding any premeditated thought of what he was going to say, until the receptionist indicated he should pick up the phone. It was ringing. Amazing, he thought. All that distance. It was a fucking miracle.
The phone kept ringing. Twenty times, thirty times. It gradually dawned on Wynwood that his wife was not at home.
He could not remember ever feeling so frustrated in his whole life.
He put the phone down with dreadful care and left the booth. The receptionist was saying something, but he ignored him, walking down the three steps and out through the swing doors onto the busy avenue. He stopped for a second, then spun round to the right and broke into a brisk walk. He had no idea where he was going and he didn’t much care.
The Colombians filling the crowded pavement – the ones that saw him coming – stepped judiciously out of his way. Some were not so lucky, and simply got shoved aside. Their curses followed him, but he hardly heard them.
The city was like white noise. He went past food stalls doing a brisk trade, cafés with music pouring from their doorways, groups of men gathered round a spinning wheel of faces, coins clattering on a board. He saw none of them.
It was a mile or more before he let the world back in, absent-mindedly agreeing to buy some chewing gum from a child who should have been in bed hours ago. The child’s delight was like some sort of switch. Suddenly Wynwood was aware of his surroundings again, and they left something to be desired. The swish shops and elegant squares of the city centre had given way to an altogether harsher environment, full of seedy-looking pool halls, rusty cars and groups of aimless-looking young men.
This was not the safest place in Bogotá, Wynwood realized. Thanks to his dark hair and sun-tanned skin his presence had so far not been noticed. So far. But he had come out without either the Browning or his knife.
‘Dumbo,’ he muttered to himself, looking round for a taxi to get him the hell out of there.
And then he saw her. She was really something: slimmer than most Colombian women he had seen, with dark hair spilling across brown shoulders, a tight-waisted red cotton dress emphasizing the rounded swell of breasts and hips.
And she was looking at him.
‘Would you like some love?’ she asked, or at least that was what he thought she said.
And somehow the question made him feel both sorry for himself and angry for feeling it. Yes, he thought, he’d like some love. Who wouldn’t? Plus, it would get him off the street. ‘What did you have in mind?’ he asked.
‘Come with me and I’ll show you,’ she said, offering him her hand. He took it, and she led him away down the side street.
She smelled of soap and water. Christ, he thought, he had not been with a prostitute since he was a teenager. And they didn’t look like this round King’s Cross. While a voice in his head told him how stupid he was being, his eyes were taking in the smooth brown skin of her shoulders and upper breasts. She stopped at a door and smiled up at him. ‘This is my house,’ she said.
They went in through an open door and up two flights of stairs to a door with paint peeling off it. She took a key from her purse and opened it. The sound of a crying baby was coming from somewhere inside.
‘Go through there,’ she said, pointing to another door, ‘I will be only a moment.’ He did as he was told, and found himself in a surprisingly large room. A large bed took up the far corner, and the only other furniture was a chair and table. On the latter were several books – two of them English primers.
She came in, closing the door
behind her. ‘You are American, yes,’ she said carefully in English.
‘British,’ Wynwood said. Telling people you were Welsh in Colombia was guaranteed to elicit only puzzlement.
‘I learn,’ she said.
‘So I see,’ Wynwood said. This was getting more difficult.
As if sensing this she went to the window and opened the shutters, bathing the far wall with an orange-neon glow from some invisible outside source. Then she turned the room lighting off, removed her belt and, with one simple movement, stepped out of her dress. She was wearing nothing underneath it.
‘You like?’ she asked.
Wynwood took a deep breath. ‘Yep,’ he said.
She smiled and walked across to him. She put one hand around his neck, while the other searched for and found the bulge his cock was beginning to make in his jeans. ‘Twenty dollars for everything,’ she said, her palm lightly stroking him as she waited for his reply.
‘Cheap at the price,’ Wynwood murmured.
‘Qué?’
‘S, twenty dollars.’
Her fingers unfastened his shirt, then his jeans. He stepped out of them, and she pulled down his shorts, took his cock in both hands and began to massage it.
Christ, it felt good.
‘I have condom,’ she said.
‘Great,’ Wynwood said. It was a good thing one of them had some sense.
She rummaged in a drawer full of clothes while Wynwood enjoyed the graceful lines of her behind, found the packet of condoms and extracted one for him. Then she lay back across the bed, her legs crossed, with one hand on her stomach, the other holding the condom on the pillow behind her head.
Wynwood lay down beside her and ran his hand down her body.
She handed him the condom and watched while he put it on.
‘Would you like me on top?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he said, gently pushing her legs apart and pulling himself on top of her.
She took him in her hand and guided him inside with a practised motion.
He tried to kiss her, and though she didn’t refuse it, she didn’t take much part in the exercise either. Her body was moving energetically enough. Trying to get it over as quickly as possible, a small voice said in the back of Wynwood’s mind. And it worked. His two months of celibacy ended in a satisfying rush.
Soldier D: The Colombian Cocaine War Page 8