Soldier D: The Colombian Cocaine War

by David Monnery

  He lay there on top of her, other thoughts crowding into his mind, hardly noticing as she gently disengaged them and rolled him onto his side.

  But he did notice the door slam open.

  There were two of them. Both were in their late teens or early twenties, wearing almost identical clothes – T-shirts, tight jeans and trainers. The differences lay in the messages emblazoned on the T-shirts: while one proclaimed the superiority of Pepsi the other endorsed Madonna’s claim to be ‘Like A Virgin’.

  Wynwood swung his legs off the bed and sat on its edge, looking up at them. He made no move to reach for his clothes – that would be seen as a sign of weakness.

  ‘Buenas noches,’ one of them said with a smile.

  Wynwood looked round at the girl to see if she was part of this. Her face betrayed nothing.

  ‘What do you want, compadres?’ he asked them

  The one who had smiled, laughed. The other looked tough. They had seen too many movies. But they were both big for Colombians, Wynwood admitted to himself. And he was not in the best state he had ever been in. He wondered if they were armed.

  As if in reply to the unspoken question, Smiler pulled a gun from his jeans pocket, and his partner a flick-knife, pressing the switch as he did so, causing the blade to leap out dramatically.

  ‘I bet you practise that in front of the mirror,’ Wynwood said.

  The frown deepened. Obviously he did.

  ‘We want everything you have, gringo,’ Smiler said. ‘It’s only fair – you come here and fuck our women and fuck our country. You should pay for all this. It’s only fair.’

  ‘And you’re Robin Hood and Little John, I suppose?’ Wynwood was beginning to realize just how bad this was going to be if he fucked up. Andy was relying on him, and what the fuck was he doing?

  ‘Your money, gringo. And a specimen of your signature with the credit cards of course.’

  Wynwood reached for his trousers, pulled out his wallet and handed it up. Frowner stepped forward three paces, taking care not to get between his partner’s gun and Wynwood, took the wallet and passed it to his partner.

  Smiler’s smile widened. With this act of submission Wynwood had removed any anxiety they might have had. Smiler moved the gun from one hand to the other to examine the wallet. Frowner did not bother to retreat the full three paces he had advanced, and his attention was divided between Wynwood and what bounties the wallet might contain.

  This was the moment. Wynwood rose and took a step towards Frowner in one swift movement, then continued on, bringing the other foot up in a vicious arc between the man’s legs, and the right arm down across the subclavian artery as he buckled.

  It took two seconds. Smiler was still trying to juggle the gun from one hand to the other when Wynwood’s fist slammed into his throat. He fell back, breath rasping and still clutching the gun. Wynwood trod on his wrist and extricated it from his fingers.

  He turned to see the girl looking at him with a mixture of awe and … contempt?

  He felt suddenly naked.

  Frowner was groaning on the floor, Smiler wheezing. Wynwood watched them as he dressed, keeping the gun within easy reach. He handed the girl her twenty dollars, which she took and placed under a pillow without saying a word.

  She had made no effort to dress herself. She looked, Wynwood thought, like a fallen madonna, or was he just being sentimental. She also looked about sixteen. Why hadn’t she looked that young before?

  He turned back to the youths. ‘Get up!’ he said.

  They did so, humiliation and frustration sharing the pain in their expressions.

  ‘Now go away,’ Wynwood said. ‘And don’t bother this girl any more.’

  ‘She is our sister,’ Frowner said. It was the first time Wynwood had heard him speak.

  He laughed without humour. ‘Get lost,’ he said.

  They went. She looked at him as if she was expecting him to take his money back.

  ‘How do I get back to the centre?’ he asked.

  ‘There are taxis,’ she said reluctantly.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Round the corner. Everywhere.’

  He picked up her dress and threw it to her. ‘Show me. And I’ll give you another five dollars.’

  ‘Big deal,’ she said. But she pulled the dress on.

  They went back down to the street. There was no sign of her two ‘brothers’. Three taxis were waiting round the first corner, outside what looked, from the tickets littering the pavement, like a betting joint.

  Wynwood climbed in, and they drove off. Looking back he could see her standing on the pavement, just staring into space.

  Back at his hotel the night clerk gave him his key and a quizzical look. He ignored the man, wearily climbed the stairs and tried to unlock the door of his room. It was already unlocked. He cautiously pushed it open.

  ‘It’s only me,’ Oliver’s voice said from inside.

  Wynwood closed the door behind him. The embassy man was sitting in the only chair, an open bottle of aguardiente on his lap. ‘Well?’ Wynwood asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  ‘You look like you’ve been out on the town,’ Oliver commented.

  ‘You could say that.’

  Oliver grunted. ‘Well, there’s no news from London, and in this case no news is good news. It seems to be on.’

  Wynwood let his head fall back onto the bed. ‘Brilliant,’ he said.

  ‘And I think I’ve located Anderson and Muñoz,’ Oliver went on.

  Wynwood sat up again. ‘Even better. Where are they?’

  ‘Outside Popayán – you know where that is? – about a hundred and thirty kilometres south of Cali. The Amarales family have them. Theirs is probably the third largest of the cartels. Their headquarters is a ranch called Totoro, some thirty kilometres outside Popayán, and that’s where my information says they’ve taken Anderson and Muñoz.’

  ‘This is probably a naive question, but if it’s just a ranch not far from a major town, why …’

  ‘Why can’t the authorities do something?’ Oliver smiled. ‘It is a naive question. The whole area is in their pocket – police, military, you name it … that province belongs to the Amarales.’ He poured Wynwood an inch of aguardiente. ‘And the ranch itself is like a fortress,’ he added cheerfully.

  Chapter 4

  It felt strange going off like this, without so much as a knife. It was more like going on holiday, Eddie thought, surveying all the bodies spread around the Gatwick departure lounge who were planning on just that – waiting to be jetted away for a week in the sun. Mind you, he thought, in the old days he usually had taken a knife on holiday.

  Their scheduled departure time was still an hour away. Chris had disappeared, the Dame was deep into a Wilbur Smith, and he was bored. Why not ring her, he thought. What harm could it do?

  ‘You’re on bag detail,’ he told the Dame, and went looking for a phone. It rang just once before she picked up.

  ‘Hi,’ he said.

  ‘I knew it was you,’ Lisa said.

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ he retorted. Somehow things like that made him uneasy.

  ‘Yes, I did. Don’t be so grumpy. Where are you?’

  ‘At the airport.’

  ‘What airport? Why?’

  ‘I’m going away for a bit. That’s why I’m ringing.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I didn’t want you to think I’d just disappeared,’ he said, surprising himself.

  ‘How long will you be?’

  ‘Don’t know. Couple of weeks, maybe a month.’

  ‘Send us a postcard …’

  ‘Yeah, look, I haven’t got any more money,’ he lied. ‘I’ll be in touch when I get back, OK?’

  ‘OK. I …’

  The line went dead. ‘I’ what? Eddie wondered. He stood there for a moment, thinking. She had a nice voice. And she was … straight, that was it. She was straight. He liked that. She said what she thought. No bullshit. He liked her. He thought about the time
in his back seat and felt something stir in his trousers.

  Across the departure lounge he could see Chris and the Dame talking to a young man in a suit. The latter had disappeared by the time he had rejoined them. ‘Who was he?’ Eddie asked Chris.

  ‘Foreign Office,’ Chris said. ‘He brought us this.’ He handed him a book: The South American Handbook 1990.

  ‘In case we get lost?’

  ‘The chaps thought we might find it useful,’ Chris said with an upper-class accent. ‘Where’ve you been?’ he asked.

  ‘On the phone. I suddenly remembered I hadn’t broken a woman’s heart yet today.’

  ‘Mission accomplished?’

  ‘I expect she’s knee-deep in tears by now.’

  ‘Of gratitude, I expect,’ Chris said. He had rung Molly the night before, and she had been downright cool. Still, they hadn’t exactly got to know each other yet. ‘You got anyone to ring, Dame?’ he asked.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘It’s all those sisters,’ Eddie observed. ‘They weaken a man.’

  ‘I thought that was against the law,’ Chris observed.

  ‘Not up north – they’re used to sleeping four to a bed up there. And you know, one thing leads to another and …

  ‘They’re sleeping five to a bed.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  The Dame observed them tolerantly. ‘What you two know about the North could be written on a rabbit turd.’

  ‘I expect everything anyone needs to know about the North could be written on a rabbit turd,’ Chris said.

  ‘Maybe it’s not the sisters,’ Eddie mused. ‘Maybe it’s not even the pictures of Virginia Bottomley he keeps under his pillow.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘I think our friend here has made a great discovery. He’s realized that there’s only one person he really wants to make love to, only one person who won’t complain about his appalling technique or embarrass him in the morning by demanding a spoon with the cornflakes …’

  ‘Who can this be?’ Chris wondered out loud.

  ‘Himself, of course.’

  The Dame gave them an ironic round of applause, slammed his Wilbur Smith shut and got to his feet. ‘Boarding Gate 22,’ he said.

  ‘Sit down, John,’ Barney Davies said.

  Kilcline obliged.

  ‘I’ve just been talking to the PM.’ He thought about this statement and amended it. ‘Listening to her might be a better way of putting it.’

  ‘She’s not called it off!?’

  ‘No. It’s still on …’

  ‘Thank God for that!’

  ‘Yes. There’s one fly in the ointment, though. We’ve had to involve the Americans …’

  ‘Why for Christ’s sake?’

  ‘Two reasons. One, MI6 insisted they needed CIA help inside Colombia. Two, the Foreign Office insisted that using the Colombian military to pull the lads out was unnecessarily risky. MI6 supported them. So the Americans will do it from Panama.’

  ‘Have they got the range?’ Kilcline asked doubtfully.

  ‘They say so. And before you ask, they’re restricting it to a Need to Know.’

  ‘Oh good,’ Kilcline said sarcastically. ‘It won’t be in the papers till tomorrow then.’

  ‘I don’t think so. They’re only helping with a weapons cache for the patrol in situ and providing a taxi service. And there’s no organizational connection between the two jobs.’ He shrugged. ‘Anyway, ours not to reason why, etcetera. Let’s look on the bright side. It’s on. Our man in Bogotá – name of Oliver – will be on a scrambled line to you at 1600 hours our time. He’ll be your liaison with Wynwood and the patrol. So set up contact procedures. And make it clear to him that whatever Wynwood wants he should get.’ He paused, then smiled. ‘I don’t need to tell you that, do I? No. OK. How soon can we get our lads away?’

  ‘First thing tomorrow.’

  ‘Good. Let’s do it.’

  Two hours later Oliver was ushering Wynwood down Carrera 7 towards lunch. Wynwood felt more hung-over than hungry, but Oliver had insisted. They found the restaurant the embassy man was looking for halfway up one of the streets leading down to the Plaza Bolivar.

  It was called the Indian Cultural Museum, which did not seem such a strange name for an eating-place once they got inside. The room had more Indian artefacts in it than people, and it was dark, with candles burning brightly on each table. The long wall of windows might have admitted more of the noon sunlight, but the courtyard it overlooked was filled with a dense jungle of foliage, and only the slimmest line of blue sky was visible above the tall plants, creating the momentary impression that they were sitting at the bottom of a well.

  There seemed to be only one dish on the menu, so Oliver ordered it for both of them and then disappeared in the direction of the toilets. Wynwood was left to nurse his head. Strangely enough, in every other way he felt better than he had the day before. The events of the previous evening had somehow exorcized something.

  Oliver returned to the table. ‘Nice, isn’t it?’ he observed, looking round. ‘And quiet. I’ve just been talking to one of your superiors – a Major Kilcline.’

  ‘Killer.’

  Oliver looked at him askance. ‘If you say so. I have instructions for you.’ He paused while the waiter arrived with a half carafe of Chilean wine, took an appreciative sip, and continued. ‘You are to rendezvous with three other men – Martinson, Wilshaw and Robson – tomorrow in the Plaza de Armas in Popayán. At 1900 hours. If either party is late then try again two hours later, then at 0900 hours the next morning and at two hour intervals throughout the day. Is that all clear?’

  ‘Yep.’ A good choice of men, Wynwood thought. He had worked with Chris Martinson before, and he had heard good things about both Eddie Wilshaw and Damien Robson.

  ‘Next thing … ah, we’ll have to wait.’

  The food was arriving, but not on plates. Each steak was presented on a wooden board, with a selection of vegetables arranged around it – one potato, one cassava, one dumpling-like object which Oliver said was called an arepa. A circular hollow in the board held a small quantity of highly spiced liquid.

  Hungry or not Wynwood found it all delicious, and he said so. Oliver gave him a slight bow, as if he was the chef receiving compliments, and refilled their wine glasses. ‘Back to business,’ he said. ‘The four of you are to place Totoro under observation. The cache should be in place soon, and once you have recovered it you will of course be able to talk directly to your people in Belize on the radio. Until then your only link is with me by telephone, and it shouldn’t be used by you except in an emergency. I will call you each day with news of your mother. When she comes out of the coma the cache is ready for collection. Understood?’

  ‘What’s in the cache?’

  Oliver reached into his pocket. ‘This is the list I was given by Hereford, with the understanding that I’d ask you if there was anything needed adding.’

  Wynwood scanned the list. Everything seemed to be there. Except … ‘Add a couple of Claymores,’ he said, ‘with all the usual trimmings.’ He read through the list once more, and handed it back. ‘Plus I need a car.’

  ‘Here or in Popayán?’

  ‘Here would be better – I’d feel less conspicuous travelling down that way. But I’m really thinking of there – it’ll give us some flexibility.’

  ‘I can’t see any problem. Any particular make?’

  ‘A Rolls?’

  ‘How about a Fiat?’

  ‘Long as it’s not red.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Oliver gestured to the waiter. ‘Let’s continue this conversation outside,’ he suggested to Wynwood.

  They left the restaurant and strolled slowly down the bustling Carrera 7 to the Plaza Bolivar.

  ‘This should be safe enough,’ Oliver said, taking a seat on a low wall in the centre of the square. ‘See that empty space,’ he said conversationally, pointing out a large gap in the buildings surrounding the square. ‘That’s wh
ere the Palace of Justice used to stand. Guerrillas occupied it a few years ago, taking about thirty hostages, and the Army decided that the best way to deal with the situation was to level the building. With the guerrillas and the hostages still inside.’ He smiled. ‘There aren’t many races capable of giving lessons in ruthlessness to the Spanish.’

  Wynwood could believe it.

  ‘Anyway,’ Oliver said, rubbing his hands together, ‘two of your troops will be arriving in Belize tomorrow. They’ll be ready to drop in on the Amarales family at your invitation.’

  ‘Who’s taking us out?’ Wynwood wanted to know.

  ‘The Americans.’

  Wynwood was not surprised. ‘From Panama?’

  ‘Yes. They’re also filling your weaponry order and getting satellite shots of Totoro to supplement your work on the ground.’

  Wynwood nodded. ‘So when can I get the car?’

  ‘You don’t need to leave till tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I’d rather get off today.’ He looked round to where the twin towers of the cathedral seemed to be almost glowing against the background of dark hills and darkening sky. ‘I’ve had enough of Bogotá,’ he said.

  ‘That I can understand,’ Oliver said. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  Richard Anderson pushed away the lunch tray and went to the window. It was the fourth morning of his captivity, and the lack of information as to his captors’ intentions was beginning to get to him. Neither he nor Muñoz had been badly treated – in fact, in many ways, they were almost being pampered. Anderson imagined most prisoners the world over would settle for nicely furnished single rooms with a shared bathroom, three good meals and two hours of outside exercise a day. One of the guards had even lent him one of the pornographic comics which Colombian men loved so much: ‘“Would she do that for him?” the handsome Rodrigo asked.’ You bet she would.

  No, there was no material discomfort – it was just not knowing what was happening. Not knowing when or whether he would ever see Beth and the kids again.

  The view from the window certainly did not tell him much. It faced slightly north of east – that much he knew from the sun – but all he could see was the small yard where they took their exercise, the wall which bounded it and forested slopes rising in the distance beyond it. He could have been in Wales if it was not for the heat.