Days of the Dead

by David Monnery

  ‘What time is it?’ Docherty asked between yawns.

  ‘Nearly nine. Yes, I know,’ he added in response to Docherty’s look of reproach, ‘but we’re off in about half an hour. Fancy a cup of coffee before we go?’

  ‘Sure,’ Docherty said. He had not only come to admire the big Welsh lunk over the past few days – he had grown to like him too.

  He reached for his only pair of trousers, thinking that some of his increasingly hard-earned fee from Gustavo Macías would have to be spent on another set of clothes. Downstairs the hotel restaurant was still serving breakfast, but the two men just ordered coffees and took them out to one of the gaily coloured metal tables which sat beneath the palms around the empty pool. As they lowered themselves gingerly into the metal chairs a couple of buses full of tourists swept past on their way to the airport.

  ‘They’re not wasting much time bringing you home,’ Docherty observed.

  ‘No,’ Wynwood agreed. ‘The other three are pretty pissed off – they were hoping for at least a couple of days on the beach.’

  ‘But you weren’t?’

  ‘I’ve just got married,’ Wynwood said, as if that explained it.

  Remembering the first few weeks of his marriage to Isabel, Docherty guessed it did. ‘Congratulations,’ he said.

  Wynwood smiled. ‘So what’ll you do now?’ he asked.

  Docherty shrugged. ‘God knows. Or Shep does.’

  ‘I wish we could have finished it,’ Wynwood said.

  ‘Aye,’ Docherty agreed, thinking about Carmen. ‘But then think how happy we’d have made the bastard’s competitors.’

  Wynwood grinned. ‘So tell me – is there life after the SAS?’

  It was phrased like a joke, but Docherty knew it was a serious question – one he’d asked himself often enough before his retirement. ‘Aye, there is. And a family helps. But it’s hard at first. I think if you’ve been doing something long enough, retirement usually is.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Wynwood agreed, thinking of his dad, who still got up wanting to go down the pit, even though the nearest working one was now a couple of hundred miles away.

  ‘Any idea what you’re going to do when the time comes?’ Docherty asked.

  ‘None,’ Wynwood replied cheerfully. Over the Scot’s shoulder he could see Blackie and Bonnie ogling one of the chambermaids in the foyer, and a few seconds later Stoneham appeared in the doorway. ‘The car’s here, boss,’ he said, walking towards them. ‘Good to work with you,’ he told Docherty, extending a hand.

  ‘Likewise,’ Docherty said, taking it. ‘Give my love to Hereford,’ he told them both, and a couple of minutes later he watched as their car disappeared in the direction of the airport. They’d sleep all the way home, he thought, and when they got there everything would seem a bit unreal for the next few weeks. They were the SAS – they did things other people thought only happened in films. A picture of the Brecon Beacons filled his mind’s eye, and then his old CO’s face on that night in the Glasgow pub when he’d asked Docherty to go and look for John Reeve in Bosnia. He could see the Dame lying beside the lorry, the wonder of death in his eyes, and he could hear Razor mixing proverbs in the scrape above the airbase at Rio Gallegos. There was no fool like a friend in need.

  He missed it all right. But he wouldn’t have given up the life he had now to get it back, even if he could.

  It was still only nine-thirty, but he felt wide awake now, and decidedly hungry. The hotel served up the sort of English breakfast which reminded him of his childhood – the holy trinity of bacon, eggs and toast, his dad had used to call it – and which Isabel was reluctant to sanction at home. He was on his second cup of coffee when Carmen appeared in the doorway, eyes blinking in the strong sunlight.

  She was also wearing yesterday’s fighting clothes, and they didn’t look any better on her than his did on him. Her eyes looked more subdued than tired, and they sat in silence for several moments waiting for her coffee to arrive.

  When it did she tore open two sachets of sugar and stirred them in. ‘I want to say something,’ she said without looking up. ‘Yesterday…when you promised to keep looking – I know that you had to say that or…’ She looked up. ‘I can’t hold you to that promise. You have a life of your own to live.’

  He smiled. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘But if it’s at all possible I intend to keep looking. The problem is, I’m just a private citizen these days – I don’t have the resources we’ll probably need to trace Bazua’s movements.’

  ‘I know,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Neither do I.’

  Assistant Secretary of State Calvin Stahoviak had come in to Foggy Bottom that morning expecting nothing more than a chance to catch up on his paperwork. Instead he was listening to a crisis call from John Holzman, the US Ambassador in Bogotá.

  ‘You know people who start spraying you with saliva when they get really mad?’ Holzman was asking him. ‘Well, Domínguez is one of those. By the time he’d finished I felt like I’d been caught in the rain. But this is serious,’ he went on, hearing Stahoviak’s grunt of amusement, ‘and they really are pissed with us. Their goddam honour has been insulted. At the moment they’re just venting, but unless they get some real satisfaction we’re in for trouble. Just lodging a protest isn’t going to cut it this time.’

  ‘What will?’ Stahoviak asked. He was wondering which particular bunch of morons in either Intelligence or the military was responsible for sticking a hornet up Bogotá’s backside.

  ‘The sight of heads rolling,’ Holzman said. ‘And if you want really happy people then mount them on stakes and mail them to the Presidential Palace.’

  ‘Shit,’ Stahoviak murmured, more to himself than the ambassador. ‘I’ll get back to you, John,’ he said, and resumed eating the chocolate croissant he had picked up en route from home. The accompanying frappuccino had seemed like a good idea on the sweltering street, but in the chronically over-air-conditioned State Department offices it almost made him shiver.

  He sipped at it nevertheless, wondering how the Colombians might express their anger. There were the old diplomatic stand-bys of course, like rabble-rousing among the other Latin American countries at the OAS or the UN, but with Colombia there was also the added problem of never knowing quite who you were dealing with. Official government, cartels, guerrillas – they all seemed willing to help each other out when it came to sticking knives in poor old Uncle Sam.

  He finished the croissant, reached for the phone, and spent the next hour tracking down the guilty party, only to find that it was the fucking Brits.

  Stahoviak felt almost as intrigued as angered by this piece of information. What in God’s name did they think they were doing shooting up islands in America’s backyard? ‘Are you one hundred per cent certain?’ he asked his source at the Customs Service.

  ‘Yep. Our AWACS tracked their chopper from the Caymans to a point just north of Providencia – consistent with a pick-up from a boat – and then back again.’

  ‘So what did they want on Providencia?’

  ‘Probably Angel Bazua.’ The Customs man explained who Bazua was, and why the British in particular had a grudge against him.

  ‘Did they get him?’ Stahoviak asked.

  ‘No idea. But the AWACS tracked another flight – a large jet this time – which left Providencia for northern Mexico at around the same time. Bazua could have been on that.’

  ‘OK, thanks,’ Stahoviak said, and hung up. The Brits might have a good reason for running amok on Providencia, but that was neither here nor there. This was American turf, and they didn’t get to play on it without an invitation. Someone would have to do some tough talking, and it might as well be the President.

  He asked his secretary to connect him to the White House.

  Carmen and Docherty were still sitting in the chairs by the pool when Shepreth found them. From the look of suppressed excitement on the younger man’s face, the Scot guessed it was good news. Maybe Bazua’s plane had crashed.

 
; ‘We’re still on the case,’ Shepreth said.

  ‘We?’ Docherty asked.

  ‘Ah,’ Shepreth said, smiling. ‘I’ve been asked to put a proposition to you. Her Majesty’s Government would like to offer you a twenty-grand consultancy fee. For assistance in the field.’

  Docherty’s surprise was short-lived. After all, who else did they have available? They needed people with military experience when it came to taking on the private armies of the drug barons, and while they might get away with using the regulars on an isolated island like Providencia, the Mexican interior would be a very different kettle of fish. And if things went wrong he would be the scapegoat on the spot.

  He saw that Carmen was waiting anxiously for his reply, and fought back the temptation to refuse the bastards’ money. If he did they’d probably spend it all on raising cabinet ministers’ salaries. ‘So when do we leave?’ he asked.

  Shepreth looked at his watch, ‘I’m off in half an hour – the quick way, via Miami. But since Bazua has probably told our American Mr X about your visit it seemed wiser to book you and Carmen via Honduras. There’s a plane to La Ceiba at four this afternoon, and from there you can pick up a connection to Tegucigalpa. It’ll give you both time to pick up some clothes,’ he added with a smile. ‘The tickets will be waiting for you at the Islena Airlines desk. You OK for money?’

  ‘Aye,’ Docherty said – he still had a wad of Gustavo Macías’s traveller’s cheques burning a hole in his back pocket. ‘I’ll phone your flat first thing tomorrow morning.’

  Shepreth got up, hovered for a moment as if uncertain whether to give Carmen a goodbye kiss, then just placed a hand lightly on her shoulder before turning and striding off.

  ‘He’s sweet on you,’ Docherty observed.

  ‘I know,’ she said noncommittally, but there was pleasure in her eyes.

  In London it was almost five in the evening, and the sun was making a last-ditch attempt to put in an appearance. The Prime Minister took a deep breath and picked up the receiver. ‘Bill,’ he said, as if the call was a pleasant surprise.

  ‘John,’ the voice on the other end began, the southern US twang adding a layer of amiability to his tone, ‘I suppose you can guess the reason for this call.’

  There didn’t seem much point in simply feigning ignorance – that would just put the President’s back up. ‘I hear there’s been some excitement in the Caribbean,’ the Prime Minister said mildly.

  ‘And is the British government claiming responsibility?’ the President asked, both irritation and amusement in his voice.

  ‘As of this moment,’ the PM said carefully, ‘the official position of the British government is to deny any involvement in the events which took place last night.’

  The President sighed audibly. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘But would you like to tell me – off the record – just what the hell is going on?’

  ‘I’d be delighted. Angel Bazua has been using his so-called prison as a base for both drug trafficking and other activities hostile to the interests of the British Crown. We have made repeated requests for American cooperation in confronting the Colombian government and all have been refused.’

  ‘The DEA tells me he falls just outside their top ten of major-league players, and our policy, as you know…’

  ‘Our information differs,’ the PM said, as gently as he could manage. It was time to bite the bullet, as his audience would no doubt say. ‘And we think we know why it differs,’ he went on. ‘We believe that Bazua has an American protector – or even protectors – someone highly placed in one of your agencies responsible for combating the cartels. And once we had realized that this man or men existed…’ He let the words hang for a second. ‘Well, I’m sure you’ll understand that we had no choice but to act unilaterally.’

  There was silence on the other end.

  ‘Mr President?’

  ‘You don’t know the identity of this man? Or men?’

  ‘No, but I can send you everything we have which points to his existence.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll look into it.’

  ‘And I shall start an investigation into the possibility that British forces’ equipment was illegally used in a raid against this Colombian island. And I shall tell the Colombians that if we indeed find that this has occurred, then we will build them a prison to replace the one that was destroyed. I’m sure prison design is much the same the world over.’

  The President couldn’t resist a guffaw. ‘I’ll be getting back to you, John,’ he said, and hung up.

  A few moments later he was on the phone to Langley, thinking that if there was one thing he didn’t need right now it was a goddam Intelligence scandal. Not with the election less than four months away.

  Shepreth spent most of his two flights, not to mention the one-hour stopover in Miami, thinking about Carmen. He had got used to her being there, a thought that rather frightened him, particularly since he was far from sure that she reciprocated his feelings. Sometimes he was convinced that her emotions were so overloaded by worry for her sister that she didn’t really see him at all, or at least not as anything more than someone to help her find Marysa.

  His plane touched down in the Mexican capital soon after six. He took a taxi to his flat, asked the driver to wait while he showered and changed, then directed him to San Angel and the Luz de la Luna. Arriving between sets, he found Ted Vaughan alone at his usual table, drinking in the Mingus record that was playing on the sound system.

  Vaughan raised both eyebrows when he saw Shepreth. ‘I’m not sure I should be seen with you,’ he said, ‘but since I can’t wait to hear all the fucking details of your people’s latest brainstorm, I suppose I’ll have to be.’

  ‘I’ll tell you everything,’ Shepreth promised, ‘but not here. Fancy another drive up the hill?’

  ‘Sure,’ Vaughan said, getting up and draining his glass. ‘I was just about to leave anyway – I’ve got an interdepartmental briefing in a couple of hours. I only came down here to get a fix of the real world before listening to those turkeys talk.’ He glanced sideways at Shepreth. ‘You ever think you’re in the wrong job?’

  ‘A little more with each passing day,’ the Englishman said as they reached the street. The same group of youths as last time seemed to be practising with their skateboards. Maybe they never went home.

  ‘I think I’ve reached the certainty stage,’ Vaughan said.

  As they got into his car Shepreth was thinking that he had never heard his friend sound quite so jaded. He knew that as a kid Vaughan had seen his family torn apart by the crack epidemic, and he guessed that if the American didn’t feel he was making a difference in the war against drugs then the job would have little appeal. Vaughan wasn’t someone who liked playing games. He was clever, but he worked from the heart.

  They drove up to the Plaza San Jacinto, and Vaughan found a parking space on a nearby side-street. As they strolled round the noisy square Shepreth filled the American in on everything that had happened since their last meeting – from Docherty’s discovery that Bazua had the Argentinian Army’s Dirty War files to the raid on Providencia early that morning.

  Vaughan was not happy to hear that Bazua might have an American protector. ‘You don’t have a shred of proof,’ he argued, but his tone lacked conviction.

  ‘We don’t,’ Shepreth agreed, ‘but it’s the only thing that makes sense.’

  ‘Shit,’ Vaughan said, as much in sorrow as in anger. He shook his head. ‘It sure would explain a lot,’ he murmured.

  ‘Do you know where Bazua is now?’ Shepreth asked.

  ‘We’ve got a pretty good idea. The Caravelle was seen coming in to land on a dry lake bed in south-western Chihuahua. We’d already tipped off the Mexican Feds after your message came through, but this place is in the middle of nowhere – it’s still Indian country, for Chrissake – and they still had about twenty miles to go when they met the bad guys in a convoy coming the other way. A bunch of Ignacio Payán’s men, complete with a local poli
ce escort. There was a stand-off, but the Feds had only about a third as many men, and they backed down.’

  ‘Was Bazua with the bad guys?’

  ‘If he got on the plane in Providencia he must have been. The Feds found it empty, and there were no other roads out of there.’

  ‘Were there any women?’

  ‘No one mentioned any.’

  Shepreth hoped that was all it was. He didn’t think it was possible to throw someone out of a pressurized jetliner, but then for all they knew Bazua had left the women behind on Providencia. ‘So where does this Payán hang out?’ he asked the American.

  ‘Would you believe a monastery?’ Vaughan said. ‘Name of Ixmíala. It’s one of the ones the Spanish built in the first fifty years they were here. You know the kind: half monastery, half fortress.’

  ‘I know,’ Shepreth said. He’d visited a few during his off-duty explorations of the Mexican countryside. ‘I’ll need the precise location,’ he told Vaughan.

  ‘You’re still after the bastard then?’

  ‘Yep. And a satellite photo of the monastery wouldn’t go amiss.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ Vaughan promised him. He flashed his even teeth in a smile. ‘If you’re right, and some bastard in Washington is keeping the rain off Bazua’s head, then I want to be one of the first to know his name.’

  Soon after ten the following morning Shepreth, Docherty and Carmen were gathered round the map which the MI6 man had spread across the Scot’s hotel bed. ‘The DEA think he’s holed up here,’ Shepreth said, pointing to a spot in the mountains some thirty kilometres west of the small Chihuahua town of Norogachic. ‘He somehow persuaded the local state government to sell him one of the old fortress monasteries. It’s in the mountains, and accessible only by dirt road or helicopter.’

  ‘Tarahumara country,’ Docherty murmured reminiscently. He had a vague memory of the name, but couldn’t picture the town. What he remembered were mountains that glowed in the sunset, clear rivers running through canyons deeper than Arizona’s most famous tourist attraction, and a people who had so far been spared the two-edged sword of progress. It had been like visiting the world when it was young.