Harm

by Hugh Fraser

  ‘Will you be all right?’ I ask.

  ‘Look for me on the road.’

  She looks out of the window and then turns her back to it, raises her leg behind her and pushes it through the window. She leans forward, places her hands on the basin, puts her other leg through the window and springs out backwards.

  I go back to the bedroom, ring for Juanita and review the contents of the wardrobe. I select a pair of straight Fiorucci jeans, a simple white cotton shirt and a light calf-skin jacket. Although the heat is already approaching blistering, I choose a pair of low-heeled, ankle-length boots with a solid square toe.

  Juanita arrives with a tray of fresh coffee and two cups. She sees that the bathroom is empty and gives me a look of mild amusement.

  I try to look enigmatic and say, ‘You don’t miss much.’

  ‘She is a lovely girl.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Juanita pours a cup of coffee and hands it to me. She picks up the second cup, walks to the door and says, ‘They are waiting for you in the living room.’

  ‘Thank you, Juanita.’

  She looks at me for a moment and says, ‘Be careful.’

  She closes the door and I sit on the sofa and drink coffee. Beyond the pool, I can see a truck driving in through the gates. The driver lets down the tailgate and six or seven men climb down and walk towards the house. The truck drives away and the gates close behind it.

  I walk through the already burning sunshine to the house and go in through the French windows. Carmela and Rodrigo are sitting beside a small table with coffee and several plates of sticky pastries. Rodrigo offers me coffee and a pastry. I accept and sit down.

  He says, ‘For the drop, we’re going to use two pick-up trucks that are the same.’

  ‘Identical,’ says Carmela.

  Rodrigo glances at her and continues, ‘You’ll go in one truck and the coke in the other, but by different routes. We put the coke in metal containers and weld them inside the front and back fenders of one truck, also in a compartment underneath the gas tank, so the dogs can’t smell it. When you meet with Manuel, you check that the coke’s there and then swap trucks and license plates so that Lee sees that the deal is made. You understand?’

  Rodrigo pours himself a cup of coffee.

  ‘You have the trucks?’ I ask.

  ‘They’re out back.’

  ‘Who will drive Manuel’s truck?

  ‘Guido.’

  ‘With Manuel beside him?’

  ‘At the meeting place, yes.’

  ‘Where will you be?’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ says Carmela.

  ‘OK,’ I say.

  Carmela says, ‘Once we have Lee Masters, you can take off with the coke.’

  ‘And find myself a welding kit,’ I say, biting into a pastry.

  ‘We’ll give you a guy in El Paso who’ll take care of it.’ Rodrigo stands. ‘Come see the trucks.’

  We go downstairs and out into the yard behind the house. Rodrigo leads us to an outbuilding and opens one of a pair of heavy wooden doors. Inside are two identical white pick-up trucks. A man with a metal visor and an oxyacetylene torch is welding at a bench. I avert my eyes from the glare. Two others are fitting a fender to one of the trucks. One lies underneath the truck, the other kneels in front, holding the fender in place. The welder switches off the torch, lifts his visor and stands back. We move to the bench and inspect his work. Metal tubes, about the size of thermos flasks, have been attached to the inside of the fender with metal straps welded to the chrome.

  I notice a toolbox on the floor under the bench. While the men are bent over the fender I reach down, take a box cutter knife from the upper tray of the toolbox and slip it into a pocket. The two men who were fitting the front fender to the pick-up come over, collect the newly finished fender and carry it to the back end of the truck. Rodrigo says something to them and one of them pulls a hydraulic jack over to the truck, pushes it under the rear end and raises it a few feet.

  Rodrigo kneels under the rear wheel and beckons me to him. I kneel beside him. He points to what looks like the petrol tank.

  ‘That’s where the rest of the coke is.’ He indicates a seam half way up the side of the tank. ‘The join is there. We’ll cover it,’ he says and stands up.

  It is clear that this is all designed to make sure I show up at the farm house, so I try to look suitably impressed, although I have absolutely no intention of trying to leave the United States with a suitcase full of pure cocaine. We walk over to the other pick-up. It is long and wide with low, rather elegant lines. I see the Ford insignia at the centre of the steering wheel. Rodrigo hands me the keys, Caroline’s passport and money in pesos and dollars.

  He says, ‘This passport is good for entering the US, but not for international, as you know. We give you Sarah Collins’s passport after the deal’s done for you to fly to London with. OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘The tank’s full. You have map in cab. You go to Mexico City, then you take the Pereferico Norte …’

  Carmela interrupts him. ‘You follow signs to Querétaro then …’

  ‘I have a map,’ I say.

  I get into the car, wind down the window and start the engine. Carmela leans too close to me and says, ‘You take care now.’

  I nod at her, find reverse and back slowly past the other pick up and through the yard outside. I swing the wheel over and come to a halt beside the back door of the house. Rodrigo and Carmela emerge from the outbuilding, shading their eyes from the sun. I glance up and see Juanita looking down from a high window. I engage drive and move off round the side of the house. Guards see me coming and swing the gates open. I accelerate down the drive and turn onto the road.

  I drive slowly while I get used to the width and the solid feel of the truck, and keep an eye out for Pilar. She can’t have got far since she got over the wall. Just as I am getting worried that she didn’t make it, she steps out from behind the yellow flowers of a bush at the roadside. I stop the truck and she hops in, giggling excitedly. She winds the window down as I pull away and I suddenly see how young she is as the wind blows her dark hair back from her innocent face.

  ‘We need to find you some food,’ I say.

  ‘In Mexico City.’

  ‘That’s about four hours.’

  ‘I want to get away from here.’

  Her tone tells me that she means it, and I concentrate on negotiating the bends as we descend towards the highway. When I explained the deal and the plan to her in bed last night, she asked me to take her to Ciudad Juárez, opposite El Paso on the Mexican side of the border. When I asked her what she planned to do, she told me she intended to cross the border and make her way to Los Angeles where her brother lives. When I offered to help her get across the border, she said that she preferred to go alone, and that with the money she had it would be easy.

  On a tight bend, I slow down and pull over to allow a donkey cart labouring up the hill to pass us. Pilar looks at the old man holding the reins and turns her head away from him as the cart lumbers past.

  ‘Something wrong?’ I ask.

  ‘I thought I knew him, but it’s OK.’

  I drive on. Pilar looks thoughtful, but stays silent.

  We reach the highway and roll northwards with the sun climbing above the hills to the right of us. I remember the old man on the donkey cart and ask, ‘Are your family near here?’

  ‘Not any longer.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘They are dead.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pried.’

  She sits silently, looking out of the window at the mountains. After a while she says, ‘We were farmers.’

  ‘It’s beautiful country.’

  ‘We grew corn and limes mostly and we sold in the market.’ After a pause she continues, ‘We were six children, me and five brothers. We were poor, but we were getting by, but then my father’s brother starts to grow marijuana on his farm and sell it in the market to
men from the city. He is making much more money, so my father starts to grow marijuana and sell it as well. All at once, there is plenty to eat and we have new clothes and everyone is happy, and soon all the farmers in the mountains are growing it and the men from the city are buying it. Then one day, the man my father sells to tells him that the soldiers are coming to burn the fields, but that if he pays money to him, the soldiers will not burn our fields. Some days later, they come and burn all the fields around us but they don’t touch ours and my father is accused of informing to the authorities. Then the battles between the farmers start and everyone is making deals and forming gangs and there are guns in the house and these rivalries go on and on and finally Manuel and Rodrigo come with their men and kill my parents and my brothers, except for one who gets away, and then they take me to where you found me.’

  Pilar sits back and wipes the tears from her eyes. I slow the truck and look for a place to stop, but she says, ‘No, no, go on please. I do not want to be here.’

  I put my foot down and pull out into the fast lane. The drone of the engine, the whine of the wind and the highway sliding beneath the truck eventually bring us into the present. I reach over and cover her hand with mine. Moments later she is asleep.

  We cross the great white bridge over the Mezcala River. It can’t be more than a week since I crossed it with Lee on the way to the reception, although it seems longer. Cars are parked on the middle of the bridge and people are leaning over the barrier, looking down at the gleaming water hundreds of feet below. Pilar sleeps beside me as we whoosh past them and on through the rugged countryside, which begins to roll more gently as we leave the highlands and approach Mexico City.

  I stop at the first gas station I see. It’s the middle of the night in London, but I head for the payphone. After a couple of false starts the call connects. Several rings later I’m about to hang up, when a muffled voice answers.

  ‘Graham?’ I say.

  ‘Er … yes?’

  ‘It’s Rina.’

  ‘Ah … hello.’

  ‘How is she?

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Is she still in the hospital?’

  ‘Erm … no.’

  ‘She’s back home?’

  ‘Well, no.’

  ‘Then where is she?’

  ‘Well … no one really knows.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When I went back this morning, they told me she’d discharged herself.’

  ‘Oh, Christ.’

  ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  I curse myself for being so far away. She could be anywhere, but if I was there, I could at least try to find her.

  I say, ‘Is there any reason why she wouldn’t come back to the house?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Did you have a row or anything?’

  ‘No.’

  I can think of a couple of places she could be, but I have no phone numbers with me or any way of finding out. My address book’s in the safe, but if I let Graham know where it is and give him the combination, he’s going to wonder why his girlfriend’s sister has so many guns and knives and gold bars.

  Graham says, ‘I’m not really sure what to do.’

  ‘Just stay where you are and wait, if you can, Graham.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll come back soon.’

  ‘I hope so. When are you …?’

  ‘I’ll be on a flight tomorrow night.’ I’m lying. Even if the deal gets done and I get away, it’ll be the day after. I say, ‘I’ll call as soon as I can.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Stay where you are.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Goodbye, Graham.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  I put the receiver down and lean against the wall. I try to banish the thought of Georgie wandering the streets of London and wasting away. I need to get this business done and get back as fast as I can. I make myself go to the counter and buy water and burritos.

  When I return to the car, Pilar is stretching and yawning. She says, ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Almost at Mexico City.’

  I hand her a burrito and a bottle of water, reach into the glove compartment, take out the map and say, ‘How’s your map reading?’

  ‘Not so good, I think.’

  While she munches into her burrito, I study the map and locate our position. I can see the Periferico Norte, the ring road and the exit to Quérétaro that Rodrigo mentioned. I show the map to Pilar and trace the route from the ring road to the autopista and on to the highway to Querétaro with my finger.

  She nods, licks a blob of red sauce off her finger and says, ‘OK, yes, I can see how to go.’

  I give her the map and drive into the city. It’s the height of the morning rush hour. We struggle through the chaos of horns and hysteria and, after several near-death experiences, I manage to find the central square that contains the Palacio Nacional where the reception was held. I remember Adelina’s luminous beauty as we pass the building and grieve a moment for her.

  I pull over, consult the map and manage to find my way to the ring road. The traffic thins as we head north out of town on a tree-lined boulevard. Pilar seems to have grasped the basics of map reading by the time we reach the Querétaro exit and she directs us from there to the autopista and the highway.

  The sun climbs above desiccated hills, scattered with occasional trees and patches of sandy scrubland. I look across at Pilar and she gives me a warm smile of complicity. She slides along the seat and puts her head on my shoulder. A ripple of love for her thrills through me and a hope that she won’t suffer any more in her life.

  24

  The shop looks well protected, with a metal grill over the window and two alarm boxes with flashing lights on the wall above. The clock at the top of the stone arch over the window says half past three. We’re parked in Kirby Street in Hatton Garden and the shop lies directly in front of us at the junction with Greville Street. I put my mask and gloves on.

  ‘Are you ready?’ I ask Sammy.

  He nods, puts on his crash helmet and tightens up his safety harness. I tap Claire on the shoulder. She pulls on her mask, picks up the bag and we get out of the stolen Land Rover and walk the few hundred yards to the shop.

  I have a look up and down the street to make sure there’s no one about, then I take the rivet gun out of the bag, poke it through the grill and puncture the armoured glass in three places. I put the gun back in the bag and give Sammy a wave. He guns the engine and lets in the clutch. Tires squeal and the Land Rover roars towards the shop, ploughs into the metal grill, smashes the armoured glass window, crunches into the shop counter and stops.

  Bells start ringing and sparks are crackling off the metal grill onto the roof of Land Rover. There’s a scream of ripping metal as Sammy pulls the Land Rover back onto the road. His door’s jammed so he passes a sledgehammer to me through the window and crawls out through the hole where the windscreen was. Me and Sammy head to the back of the shop while Claire makes a sweep of the jewellery from the counter and the broken display cases.

  We get to the steel door at the back and I shoot the lock. Sammy gives it three cracks with the sledge hammer and the door flies open. I go in and shine the torch over the shelves until I see a black leather case about the size of a cigar box. I pick it up and go back into the shop. Sammy and Claire are picking jewellery up off the floor. I tell them to leave it and we run to the car we’ve left outside in Greville Street. There are lights on in windows and people are leaning out watching. I see two figures walking towards us as we get to the car. I fire two shots into the air and they turn and run for it.

  The bag and the leather case go in the boot and we jump in and take off. We get to the end of Greville Street and Sammy nearly turns the motor over as we screech into Farringdon Road. I tell him to calm down and he slows to a normal speed. We cross over Clerkenwell Road and Claire and I duck down as two police cars race past us, bells ringing, goi
ng towards Greville Street. We pull into a side street where we’ve left Sammy’s car. We wipe over the nicked motor, transfer the gear to Sammy’s and head for King’s Cross, then west along Marylebone Road. Claire’s laughing and Sammy’s whooping it up and beating the steering wheel in triumph like he’s scored the winning goal.

  I get out of the car outside the scrapyard and tell them to wait for me back at the flat. I’ve got the bag with the leather case and the loose jewellery inside it. I unlock the gate and go to the shed. I can see a crack of light at the edge of the blackout curtain in the window. The door opens as I get there and Dave steps out. He takes the bag off me and I follow him into the shed.

  There’s a grey-haired man in a black coat and hat sitting at the table. I say, ‘What the fuck’s this?’

  Dave puts the bag on the table, picks up a bottle of whisky and says, ‘Calm down and have a drink.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ I say.

  ‘This is Arne. He’s from Amsterdam.’

  The grey-haired man looks at me and smiles. He says, ‘So young.’ He gets up and offers me his hand. ‘How do you do?’ he says.

  I shake his hand. Him being foreign seems to make it less dangerous, but I put one hand on my gun as I sit down and knock back the whisky. Dave takes the leather case out of the bag and empties the loose jewellery onto the table. Arne takes a quick look at it, then picks up the leather case and places it in front of him. He takes out a small metal tool, works it into the keyhole and turns the lock. He opens the case and smiles. There are six diamonds on a black velvet pad. He takes a pair of tweezers out of his pocket, screws a black monocle type of thing in one eye and closes the other. He picks up a diamond with the tweezers and studies it.

  When he’s had a good look at all six, he closes the case and says, ‘Yes. All is good.’

  He reaches under the table and takes out two small suitcases that are exactly the same. He puts the leather case in one and passes the other one across the table. Dave opens it and I can see it’s full of bundles of white fivers. He takes one out, licks his fingers and starts counting.

  Arne stands up, buttons his coat, and puts on his hat and a pair of black leather gloves. He picks up his suitcase and waits while Dave finishes counting, flicks through the other wads, and snaps the case shut.