by Susan Lewis
Fifteen minutes and a couple of commercial breaks later, her interview was over, and now the entire nation, and half the world, knew that Hernán Galeano’s nephews, Gustavo and Julio Zapata, along with a Colombian lowlife by the name of Salvador Molina, had carried out the kidnap and murder of Rachel Carmedi. They also knew that Galeano had been hiring people to threaten those involved in the making of the movie; that Ellen Shelby McCann’s accident had been a shooting carried out by Galeano’s hit men; and about Galeano’s instruction to murder a child a day as a means of getting the movie stopped, and of keeping his nephews, who were now instrumental in running the Tolima Cartel, out of jail. Sandy went on to describe the unspeakable arrogance of a man like Galeano who truly believed he could get away with all this; and ended by revealing Tom Chambers’s suicide mission to Colombia now, in a bid to save any more children from dying.
As she walked off the set Chris Ruskin and the publicist were waiting for her, took her shaking hands and congratulated her. She felt horribly faint, and in desperate need of some air. They took her outside, then Ruskin gave her his cellphone so she could call Rosa at the hospital to see if there was any news.
There was. Ellen was out of surgery and in Intensive Care. The next twenty-four hours were crucial, but if she managed to pull through them there was a chance she might make it. Michael was with her now, though she was still unconscious and expected to remain that way for a while yet.
Sandy returned to the hotel, leaving Chris Ruskin to go on to the production office with the publicist to sort out how they were going to handle the wave of publicity that was no doubt already heading their way. She needed to be alone now in order to carry out the rest of her plan, the part she hadn’t mentioned to Chris.
Once inside her room she sat down at her laptop and began composing an e-mail which she then circulated to Michael, Tom, Alan Day, Chris Ruskin, Zelda Frey in London and her flatmate Nesta. ‘After the interview I just did on Larry King Live,’ it read, ‘I know my life is now in danger. So I have gone away for a while, to a place where no-one will think to look for me. Please don’t worry about me. I’ll keep watching the news and when it is safe to come back, I will.’ And to Tom she added, ‘I don’t know if what I did has made things more dangerous for you, but I am praying that it will force the Colombian and American authorities to stop the child killings, and to stop you carrying out your revenge.’
When she was finished she packed up her computer and put it, with several other of her possessions, in hotel storage and took a taxi to the airport. By nine o’clock that nigh she was no longer on American soil.
Ellen got through the next twenty-four hours, and the twenty-four after that. She remained in Intensive Care, connected up to so many machines it wasn’t easy to get close to her. She was still unconscious and there were still no guarantees, but there was hope, and that was something Michael was clinging to, as hard as she was clinging to life.
He sat with her for hour after hour, holding her hand and gazing past the tape and tubes to her pale, scratched face with all its bruises and stitches. Her chest rose and fell in time with the pulsing pressure of the ventilator, and on the floor at his feet a small suction device, that was connected to a place somewhere behind her ribs, bubbled air through water. There was a tube in her nose to suck air and acid from her stomach; IVs were attached to her arms, and patches and snaps on her chest were wired up to yet more monitors.
He talked to her softly, insistently and lovingly. Sometimes he joked, sometimes he urged, occasionally he cried. He told her how sorry he was for all the heartache he had caused her; how desperately he wished he’d been man enough to stand by her when she’d first told him the baby might not be his. He rambled at length about his useless pride and the idiocy that had made him consider it a weakness to trust, or believe her, when she finally told him the baby was his. But because he knew that their son would matter to her the most, he spent long hours making up crazy and outlandish things the little rascal was thinking, all snugged up there in his private little playpen. The nurses had christened him Seven Leaguer because he was improving so fast, though Michael still hadn’t been allowed to hold him yet, that would happen, the doctor said, as soon as he came off the ventilator. He recited long lists of names, asking Ellen to squeeze if he said one she liked, but so far there had been no response. He berated himself for being so inept that he couldn’t even come up with a name she approved of, and told her he hoped they weren’t going to fall out over this, because there were quite a few on that list that were OK by him.
On the third day the doctor pronounced her strong enough to try breathing alone. As she was still unconscious they had to leave the plastic tubing that ran down to her lungs in place. But she could still breathe with it there, the doctor insisted, they would simply turn off the machine.
When the time came the tiny room, with so many devices and strange, greenish light from the monitors, was full of doctors, and the tension was so great it was as though something might explode any second. They allowed Michael to stay, and he watched in frozen terror as the respiratory therapist did a final check before turning to the ventilator and putting a hand on the switch. He looked back at Ellen, then quietly shut down the machine. Everyone waited, watching her chest, willing her to breathe. The silence, now that the pneumatic pressure had gone, was horrible. Above her the heart monitor continued to bleep, but the waves were becoming erratic. Michael started to panic and was about to turn the machine back on, when the therapist put a hand on his arm and nodded for him to look. It was weak, very weak, but there was an unsteady rise and fall in her chest. She was doing it alone.
He felt ridiculous as tears poured down his cheeks and everyone, unable to touch Ellen, shook his hand and congratulated him instead. They were all so proud of her it made him want to break out the champagne. When they’d all gone he sat down with her again and leaning on the padded bed rail told her how much he loved her, how well she was doing and how happy she was going to make her parents, who were coming in later. Then, in a state of uncontainable euphoria, he expanded even further and told her how thrilled all the people who’d heard about her on Larry King were going to be when they heard how well she had done. He knew she didn’t know about them, but they were the ones who were sending all the flowers that were filling up their home, as flowers weren’t allowed in the ICU. Then he related the story of Sandy’s interview, and how she had now disappeared before Galeano’s men could get to her too. Obviously she didn’t want to be yet another burden on Tom’s conscience, though Michael didn’t say that to Ellen.
Nor did he tell her that down in Mexico the movie was still under way, with a new director, new star and new writers. She didn’t need to be troubled by the way Forgon was welcoming all the publicity with open arms, rubbing his hands in glee and telling anyone who cared to listen that this kind of exposure couldn’t be bought at any price. The fact that he personally was the target of a national hate campaign, and had become the subject of every lampoonist from Leno to Letterman, bothered him not a bit. It was all about money and fuck everything else, including the bombardment of lawsuits that were coming his way. He didn’t even give a damn about the Feds and their inquiries; not that he was being unhelpful, but so far he’d managed to get a judge to rule that the movie could keep going until the Federal Government could give good enough reason for it not to.
Needless to say a public and media outcry followed that ruling, everyone demanding to know how many children had to die or women be shot to provide good reason. And meanwhile Forgon just carried on lapping up all the publicity, and relishing the sour-grapes gossip of his industry peers who were either accusing him of staging the entire show, or hissing with envy at his great good fortune.
But Michael was going to put a stop to it all tomorrow. His lawyers had now gained him the necessary legal status to vote on Ellen’s shares, so her forty per cent, together with Chris Ruskin’s eleven per cent, gave them the necessary amount to stop Forgon dead in his t
racks.
Michael just hoped it was going to be enough to stop Chambers’s enemies too, for they had to be closing in on him by now, if they hadn’t got to him already. There had been no word from him since he’d left, so Michael didn’t even know if he was aware of Sandy’s interview, or if it had had the desired effect of thwarting his suicidal mission. So far there had been a lot of hot air blowing out of Washington, though whether anyone was doing anything, either there or in Colombia, was impossible to tell. If the authorities had managed to cut in on him there was every chance that kind of news would have been made public by now. So it was Michael’s guess that Chambers had either been able to give them the slip and was somewhere in hiding right now, or, God forbid, his enemies, having been tipped off by the interview, had been waiting for him when he got into Bogotá and had him exactly where they wanted him.
Chapter 23
THE VILLAGE WAS two hundred kilometres from Bogotá, down in a valley, remote from the world. From a small dusty window Chambers watched the square. It was dense with plane trees and magnolias that shaded the hot, cracked pavements and drooped low over the crumbling buildings around. Local traders were starting to open up for the day. The man who sold lotto tickets was taking coffee with a couple of ice-cream vendors in a dim, vinyl-clad café close to the church, their empty carts parked against the kerb outside. A vagrant lay asleep on a bench. Rowdy birds fluttered and flocked to the gutter where a beefy-looking woman was dumping the remains of stale arepas de queso.
The church clock tolled the first of the seven chimes it was due. Already the sun was seeking a thousand different trails through the wide canopy of trees. A dog scooted from the path of a fast-trotting horse that was carrying a slit-eyed campesino dressed in a handstitched ruana and fine calf-leather hat. He was quickly lost from view, disappearing along a side street from which the roar of two ancient, rusting Jeeps could be heard, crunching gears and revving up engines to get past any debris or stray humanity that obstructed their way.
The open-sided Jeeps came into view. The drivers were both wearing camouflage, M16s propped on the seats beside them. They drove at high speed, bouncing over potholes and squealing round corners until they disappeared through the arch under Chambers’s window. They’d be parking up now in the courtyard behind the hospedaje – the small, cheap hotel where Chambers had been almost since arriving in Colombia.
He knew now that he had Sandy – and Larry King – to thank for his detention, which was what General Gómez was calling it. Kidnap would be the word Chambers would’ve used, had he been asked, but Gómez wasn’t interested in asking. Nor were the men who were guarding him – or holding him hostage, as he preferred to call it. He guessed he’d have to concede the point on guarding, however, since no-one was demanding any payment for his return. In fact, it wasn’t certain they were going to return him at all, though he couldn’t imagine what else Gómez was planning to do with him.
It was boredom that was making him fractious, for to be fair he knew he wasn’t really a prisoner, as he’d been provided with a gun and was free to come and go as he wished – though not without escort. He was here for his own protection, as Sandy’s interview had informed Gómez – possibly the only incorruptible police officer in Bogotá – that he was on his way, and why. The general had accordingly arranged for a welcome at the airport, sending a dozen of his handpicked men to board the plane and escort Chambers, much to the fascination of the other travellers, to a fleet of waiting cars, whereupon he was whisked off into the night. Had the general not done that, then Galeano’s people would most certainly have afforded themselves the privilege of meeting Chambers, in which case there wasn’t much chance he’d be sitting at this window today. And apart from the occasional stroll over to the café for a few games of tejo, or the couple of hikes through the hills he’d made in an effort to keep himself fit, about all he had done the past few days was sit at this window – and wait.
Gómez’s men were not great conversationalists, nor did they show much interest in what was going on in the world. This meant that Chambers still didn’t know if the movie had been stopped, or if Ellen was managing to hold on. He’d have given a sizeable sum to be able to contact Michael, though even if he could, what the hell he’d have said he had no idea. Even with so many hours to think, Chambers was still unable to find adequate words to express how he felt about all that had happened, or how sorry he was that he had ever come into their lives only to bring them such pain. It was too late now to change it, though God knew he would if he could, but he could at least try to put an end to Galeano’s monstrous control over their lives, which he knew amounted to little more than a game to the old man, something to keep him amused, and his enemies in tune with his power, during his ever-decreasing stretch in jail.
Deciding to go get himself a coffee, he tucked an old navy cotton shirt into his jeans, belted the Beretta automatic, and left the room. Carrying a lethal weapon in this village wasn’t only normal, it was also an extremely wise thing to do, since the military base just down the road made an attractive target for every insurgent and bandido for miles around. There was also a pretty good chance that the price of his whereabouts was an especially high one, so Galeano’s people could come riding in at any time.
Taking the back staircase he found his escorts in the quaint little courtyard, idling around the Jeeps and smoking barillos, the two newcomers about to check in before the other two checked out. Chambers didn’t have a problem with the marijuana, but he didn’t imagine Gómez would be too impressed were he to happen along.
‘Ah, Señor Tom,’ one of them greeted him. It was Valerio, at twenty-eight the oldest and also most senior-ranking among them. He had just arrived, so would be one of Chambers’s companions for the day. Of them all, Valerio was the most talkative, and probably the best-informed in matters not pertaining to their immediate surroundings. It had long since occurred to Chambers, however, that Valerio and his fellow officers had been carefully instructed in their ignorance of the outside world.
‘I have a message for you,’ Valerio declared, dropping the end of his cigarette on the ground and grinding it with a standard issue field-green Vietnam boot. ‘The general sends his apologies that he has not come to see you sooner, but there have been important matters for him to attend to. However, he will be here in maybe an hour. He says you should be ready to leave.’
This unexpected piece of news surprised and cheered Chambers, until it occurred to him that he might be taken to the airport and deposited on the next plane out.
‘No, that is not my intention,’ Gómez informed him, when he finally showed up, some three hours later. ‘I am taking you to La Picota to see Hernán Galeano.’
Chambers stared at him in amazement. He was a slight, impeccable man, with a handsome thatch of silvery hair and an impressive black moustache that framed his mouth like a horseshoe. He was well-known for the risks he took, and the fearless and impossible battle he waged against organized crime. He was also known as something of a joker, and it was to that side of his character that Chambers’s suspicions immediately turned.
‘I take it you do want to see the man?’ Gómez barked.
‘I don’t know about see him,’ Chambers responded. ‘I’d like to kill him.’
‘We’ll need to discuss that,’ Gómez replied, deadpan. ‘But now you will come with me and we will drive to the prison. Galeano is expecting us. I did tell you, did I not, that the order for his release has been signed? He will be free by the end of the month.’
Though disgusted, Chambers wasn’t surprised. It was possible to buy anything here, including escape from a life sentence.
Minutes later they were speeding along the autopista in Gómez’s grey armour-plated Mercedes. Though it was against regulations, he liked to drive himself once in a while, so the chauffeur had been banished to one of the gleaming black Jeep Cherokees – also armour-plated – that were providing the escort. The eight bodyguards inside the Jeeps were equipped with Uzi
smgs and CAR-15 carbines, standard issue for the protection of high-ranking officers. The weapons were certainly necessary, for there had been at least two dozen attempts on Gómez’s life that Chambers knew of, so the fact that he was still living was pretty convincing evidence that no-one went until their time was up. He’d come damned close on a few occasions, however, one of them not so long ago, hence the reason for his lengthy Spanish vacation, recuperating from a car-bomb attack outside his brother-in-law’s country home.
‘So why the visit?’ Chambers asked.
‘Galeano requested it,’ Gómez answered. ‘I thought you would have no objection. Did you ever visit La Picota before?’
Chambers nodded. ‘There are a lot of people with a lot of information inside those walls,’ he replied.
Gómez’s eyebrows rose in agreement. ‘Did you visit the rich guys, or the lobos?’ he asked.
‘Both.’
The forward Jeep was racing ahead. Gómez swerved out from behind a lumbering bus straight into the path of an oncoming truck. His foot hit the gas and he pulled off the pass with inches to spare. The men in the car in front, and the Jeep behind, appeared oblivious to their boss’s close call with mortality, so intent were they in challenging their own.
‘So, if you’ve already seen the rich guys, you know what to expect?’ Gómez continued.
Chambers let go his breath. ‘More or less,’ he said. ‘Why did he request the visit, do you know?’
‘He wants to offer you a deal,’ Gómez answered.
Chambers was immediately wary. ‘What kind of a deal?’
‘The kind where he gets to win and you get to lose,’ Gómez answered with a grin. ‘What other kind of deal is there, if you’re Hernán Galeano?’
‘He didn’t tell you what it was?’
‘No. By the way, did anyone tell you that the movie got cancelled?’