‘I know.’ Wynwood said curtly. He was feeling the adrenalin beginning to flow. They were no longer just four tourists – they were four heavily armed soldiers behind enemy lines. Always assuming you could find a line in Colombia.
He turned off the main road, and it was like leaving the world behind. There seemed to be no traffic on the mountain road to Neiva, and there was likely to be even less on the Cauca valley road. For the next fifteen minutes they would be somewhat conspicuous. And there was nothing, Wynwood thought, that the SAS hated more than that.
The fifteen minutes dragged slowly by, Wynwood driving, the others just sitting, in a tense silence.
‘This is it,’ Chris said softly.
Wynwood pulled the car over and killed the lights. They all got out, ears and eyes straining for danger.
The only sounds came from the rushing river, the only light, and a ghostly one at that, from the crescent moon rising above the hills ahead and the sparks of silver it struck on the water.
Eddie and the Dame pulled the canvas bags from the back seat and boot. ‘I’ll take one of the Brownings,’ Chris said, and did so, with a spare magazine of ammunition. He looked at his watch. ‘Twenty-two forty-eight,’ he said. ‘I’ll try and dump this at least ten kilometres away, so’ – he did a rough mental calculation – ‘you should see me before dawn.’ He climbed back into the driving seat, ‘Enjoy your digging, lads,’ he added, and started the engine.
As he turned the car the other three shifted the canvas bags off the road and into the trees. By the time the noise of its engine had faded into nothing they were about thirty metres up the slope. A convenient area of nearly flat ground offered a chance to rationalize the baggage.
First they picked out the night goggles and put them on. The world was suddenly a stranger, greener and more visible place. Next they emptied out the canvas bags, and while the Dame went to work burying one of them in the roots of a tree Wynwood and Eddie divided its contents into roughly equal weights for their rucksacks and bodies. Everything Wynwood had asked for was there. He offered Oliver a silent vote of thanks.
The three of them applied camouflage cream to their faces and wrists, checked each other’s artwork, and started off, Wynwood picking out the trail, Eddie and the Dame carrying the large bag between them. At first they seemed to be making an incredible amount of noise, but as they climbed a breeze blew up, rustling the trees and helping to hide the sounds of their passage. The ambient light also increased, and they were able to dispense with the night goggles.
With the compass and his experience earlier in the day Wynwood had no trouble finding the way, and it was only the weight and awkwardness of what they were carrying which prevented a really brisk pace. As it was, they covered the three kilometres to Wynwood’s first observation post in just over an hour, and the other two got their first sighting of Totoro.
By night it looked more like a prison, Wynwood thought. Arc lights covered both the outer fence and inner wall; floodlights bathed the buildings. There seemed to be more guards than there had been by day, but it might well have been that they had been less visible in mere daylight. Wynwood hoped to God they had no thermal imaging devices. It did not seem likely, but then not much about the cocaine cartels did.
The last lap, circling round to the hide position Wynwood had found beyond the ridge of the valley’s southern slope, took another hour, mostly because they were sacrificing speed in the interests of silence.
It was now 01.15, and their work was far from over. Eddie and the Dame went immediately to work with their spades, digging out a hide-cum-sleeping area in the form of a cross some five metres wide. Each arm had space for one of them to lie down, leaving the central hub for their equipment.
While the troopers dug, Wynwood took out the PRC 319 and set up the two tuning antennae. Once he had the right frequency he typed out the call-sign on the small keypad, checked it through, and sent: ‘Condor calling Hummingbird.’
The magic message came back: ‘Hummingbird receiving.’
Wynwood passed on the information that they were in the process of establishing the observation post outside Totoro. ‘Hummingbird’ told him that they had good daytime satellite photographs of the area, and that, based on these, they had a list of queries needing answers. The words ‘Do you have a pencil?’ appeared on Wynwood’s display.
He smiled to himself in the darkness and took down the list, half wondering why he was bothering, since everything on it – details of the defensive structures, security guard patterns, lighting, power sources – would have occurred to him in any case.
After arranging to call at 22.00 the next day he signed off.
‘Watch out for tarantulas – over and out’ was the last incoming message.
Bastard, Wynwood thought. He packed away the PRC 319 and went across to where the other two were still digging. ‘Looks soft enough,’ he observed.
‘It’s so easy I’m reluctant to give up my spade,’ Eddie said.
‘Good,’ Wynwood agreed. ‘I’ll go over the ridge and cut some wood for the roof. And I’ll take those.’ He indicated the two rucksacks already filled with earth for dumping at a reasonable distance from the hide.
It had been a long day. It was going to be a long night.
‘Hey, boss,’ Eddie said quietly, ‘before you go. It’s New Year. How about a silent rendition of “Auld Lang Syne”.’
Wynwood grinned. ‘Why not,’ he said, linking up arms. The Dame looked at them as if they were both mad, sighed, and walked over to complete the circle. And for a minute or more the three men gently raised and lowered their arms on the dark Andean hillside, miming the words in silent harmony.
Chapter 7
The small amount of dawn light filtering through the roof of their star-shaped hide was a good sign, Wynwood thought, as he lay on his back in one of its arms. Above him rows of cut branches supported the waterproof sheeting they had brought with them, and above that a thin layer of turf with vegetation cover had been added. An unsuspecting stranger might fall in, but someone looking out for it would have to search the small dip in the slope with a very suspicious eye to spot anything.
Raising his head, Wynwood could see Eddie’s feet just protruding from one of the arms at right angles to his. A low snoring could be heard, which was not so good. He looked at his watch. It was 06.15. Time to get moving. He crawled towards the centre of the star, and raised his head up through the hollow ball of vegetation they had placed there.
‘Morning, boss.’ The Dame’s voice was so low he only just heard it. Looking up he could see him perched astride the split trunk of a tree.
Wynwood scrambled out and walked across, taking care to vary the route. ‘No sign of Chris?’ he asked.
‘He arrived about twenty minutes ago. He’s gone down to wash.’
‘I’ll do the same when he comes back.’ It was important to keep clean – the less they smelled, the more chance they had of remaining undetected, particularly by dogs.
Chris appeared, so silently that he almost made Wynwood jump. Another good sign, he thought. This had the makings of an excellent patrol. The two men smiled at each other. ‘Wake Eddie up,’ Wynwood told the Dame. ‘We’d better have a meeting. Oh, and tell him to bring the make-up.’
‘A pleasure,’ the Dame said.
‘No problems?’ Wynwood asked, squatting down next to Chris.
‘Nope. The car’s in a bush about twelve kilometres away. It’s about fifty metres from the road, and I did my best to cover up the tracks. It’s hard to tell in the dark …’ He looked around. ‘Shouldn’t we have someone on lookout?’
‘We will soon. As far as I can tell, no human has set foot in this valley for months. Or on any of the slopes overlooking Totoro. They may be armed to the teeth down there, but the notion of active defence seems to have passed them by, thank Christ. So I think we can do without a lookout for ten minutes. We need to talk about the day’s work.’
Chris nodded his agreement. ‘I co
uld do with a few hours’ sleep.’
‘You’re first in the queue. Ah, here comes Sleeping Beauty.’
Eddie and the Dame made a circle with the other two. ‘Where’s breakfast?’ Eddie asked.
Everyone ignored him.
‘This is the plan for the day,’ Wynwood said. ‘We’ll do four-hour shifts in the observation post, starting with Eddie, then me, then Chris. By then it’ll be dark again and we’ll re-evaluate. After Eddie’s done his shift and the Dame has had some sleep the two of you can go up the mountain and look for a decent landing zone.’ He looked round at them all. ‘How’s that sound?’
‘Sounds good, boss.’
‘Right, you two get some sleep. Next shift is 10.30 hours.’
Chris and the Dame disappeared into the hide. Wynwood and Eddie took out the tubes of camouflage cream and started work. First they applied a light base coat to dull the shine on all exposed areas of skin, then a second coat of darker streaks in random patterns. Each checked the other to make sure neither had missed anywhere.
Then they turned to the MP5s, swathing them in strips of green and brown cloth that Wynwood had torn from a shirt bought for that purpose on his arrival in Popayán. More strips were tied round the binoculars.
‘You’ve got the veil?’ Wynwood checked.
Eddie pulled the sheet from a pocket. Using the binoculars behind it would have a minimal influence on vision, but would eliminate any chance of tell-tale reflective flash.
Lastly the two men each walked a few paces to check for sound. Neither rustled, jingled or clattered.
‘Let’s go,’ Wynwood said, and led off up the slope. At the top of the ridge they approached with caution, advancing on their stomachs, but beyond the crest was nothing more than empty forest and the distant roofs of Totoro in the valley below. They crossed over and worked their way downhill, constantly alert and as silent as they could make themselves, careful to leave no trace of their presence, and on the lookout for traces of anyone else’s.
They found none. At the observation tree Wynwood waited while Eddie climbed up, returned his eventual thumbs up and then climbed back over the ridge to their camp, where he took his place in the tree some thirty metres from the hide, and spent much of the next four hours considering their options for rescuing Anderson.
Kilcline leant back in the his chair and grimaced at the taste of the tea in his mug. How many times did he have to tell the stupid bastard that stewing the stuff didn’t improve its taste?
He put the mug down with a thump that sent tea slopping over the side, and with reflexes that did credit to a man of his years managed to yank the report from Bogotá out of the way in time. He read it through again, then gazed gloomily out of the window at the dull grey winter day.
If he was reading between the lines correctly, then Joss Wynwood seemed to be using up his lives rather fast at the moment. Not to mention the lives of others.
The men who had followed the big Welshman southwards from Bogotá worried Kilcline. They could have been under orders from any number of authorities, legal or otherwise – always assuming you could tell the difference in Colombia – and there was no way of finding out which. If they had been working for the Government, that was probably OK. If the cartels, then it might be, or might not be. It depended on which cartel. It might even have been some damn-fool game of the Americans.
The bottom line, Kilcline thought to himself, was simple enough. Had the operation been blown? Did the Amarales family know they were coming? And the answer to that could only be discovered by surveillance. If this Totoro ranch was being made ready to face a major attack it should be obvious enough. And if that was what Wynwood’s patrol reported back then they would have to abort and think again.
He tried another sip of the tea. It was colder.
There was another way of improving the odds. Assuming that any leaker would have to be high in Colombian Government circles, then some judicious misinformation might be in order. The place was a given, so it could only be the time.
A day later, Kilcline thought. If they told the Colombian Government the operation was set for a day later than it actually was, and that information was leaked, then Totoro might have some forewarning, but there would still be at least some element of surprise. Of course, the British Government might not want to tell porkies to the Colombian Government. He had better find out.
At 10.30 Chris relieved Wynwood, Wynwood went to relieve Eddie, and Eddie came back to check the Dame’s make-up. Satisfied, they took the large-scale map and began working their way east up the slope.
According to the map, the road below Totoro ran roughly parallel to the 2000-metre contour, and the slopes above eventually ended in peaks nearly 5000 metres above sea level, but the two SAS troopers were not aiming to climb that far. About three hundred metres above them there seemed to be a wide ledge on the mountainside, almost a plateau, which might offer a suitable LZ. There was no way of knowing without having a look.
At first the going was not particularly difficult, the vegetation not particularly tropical. In fact, Colombia above 2000 metres did not seem that dissimilar to Wales at sea level. Until you looked back, that was, and found yourself watching clouds floating along in the valley beneath you.
After half an hour or so, as the slope steepened into a tumbling mess of broken rock, the vegetation began to thin. Another fifteen minutes and they were over a rise and onto the ledge. Here, on a space about the size of two football fields, small palms that resembled enormous pineapples and the occasional outcrop of stone were all that dotted a grassy heath.
The valleys below, which held Totoro and their hide, were completely invisible from where they stood. The slopes on the far side of the Cauca valley rose up in the distance towards rocky heights and blue sky.
‘What do you think?’ the Dame asked, squatting on his haunches.
‘It’ll do,’ Eddie said. ‘Though I wouldn’t fancy landing in one of those pineapples.’
Wynwood started his watch by surveying the entire panorama and noting down the position of every man and vehicle he could see. Then he went through Eddie’s notes.
No one had arrived from the outside world during the last four hours, and no one had left the valley either. The movements of the Amarales’s security guards – those that could be seen, at least – had all been neatly noted down. It did not look like they operated to any rigid pattern. This, though predictable, was unfortunate.
One man and one woman, the first answering to their description of the elder Amarales brother, Ramón, had sat on the verandah drinking coffee. The woman had been a ‘stunner’.
Wynwood smiled to himself and went on reading. There had been no sign of either Anderson or Muñoz.
He went through another survey of the panorama before concentrating on the inner compound. Always assuming Andy and Muñoz were here, and the embassy in Bogotá had not been given the runaround, where would they be? There was no way of guessing, but somehow they had to find out. And not only the building, but also the room. It was going to be hard enough penetrating the inner compound; if they had to conduct a room-by-room search of all the buildings they might as well give up now.
The morning wore on. Wynwood carried on noting the movements in the valley below and scouring the set-up for any other information that might prove relevant. Shortly after midday he was watching the space between the compound wall and the main house when he thought he caught a movement on the wall’s white inner face. The shadows of people moving, perhaps.
Taking an instant decision, he clambered down from the tree and made his way two hundred metres or so diagonally up the slope to the east. There he shinned up another suitable tree and aimed his binoculars at the space which had previously been invisible.
‘Geronimo!’ he murmured. Two men were walking in the space – Andy and Carlos Muñoz. Both looked fit and well.
Seconds later they were being ushered in through a door in the back of the main house. Wynwood had not seen them
a moment too soon. Now all he needed to know was which room. There seemed to be a lot to choose from.
* * *
Back in the tree close to their hide, Chris was cleaning his weapons, unloading and breaking them down, wiping off any moisture they had acquired from the dew, checking the movement of all the moving parts, finally reloading the magazines bullet by bullet. Every now and then he would stop to listen or watch a bird in a nearby tree, and wish that he could check an unfamiliar plumage or physiognomy with the book he had left in the hide. Books, though, were among the most visible things made by man, and he was too much of a professional to risk shiny white pages in a tree. He would just have to remember the blue-green breast, the badger-like face with its white streaks on black. Anyway, what did it matter what it was called? A name would hardly make it any more beautiful.
‘Are you suggesting we deliberately mislead the Colombian President as to the timing of our operation?’ Alan Holcroft asked.
‘Yes,’ Barney Davies said. His heart had sunk when he had discovered Holcroft on the other end of the line, but he supposed he should not have been surprised.
‘This operation is being mounted at the President’s request,’ Holcroft said, as though he was talking to a particularly obtuse schoolboy.
‘Then he’ll want it to be a success,’ Davies came back. ‘Come on, you’re not telling me that “Need To Know” criteria haven’t reached the Foreign Office yet?’
‘That’s hardly the point …’
‘I think it’s exactly the point,’ Davies said, grabbing what looked like an advantage. ‘But I’m not sure that’s what we’re talking about here.’
‘I don’t follow you,’ Holcroft said haughtily
‘You were against this operation from the beginning. I can respect your opinion in the matter. But I think you may be in danger of letting your antipathy to the operation seriously undermine its chances of success.’
‘Lieutenant-Colonel,’ Holcroft said, ‘military success can be quickly and easily measured. Diplomatic success is harder to measure and never certain, because the game is never over.’
Soldier D: The Colombian Cocaine War Page 14