Luc: A Spy Thriller

by Greg Coppin

  Warita leaned in further and spoke to Grace. ‘Is this true, ma’am?’

  Grace remained silent, staring down at the floor.

  ‘Give her a chance to really absorb the idea. It’s been a startling few hours for her.’

  One of the dark-clothed men strode up behind Warita.

  ‘We’re ready, ma’am,’ he said.

  ‘You stay here,’ Warita told me.

  Silhouetted beneath an orange sunset, Warita ran with her colleague, disappearing into the mass of other dark-clothed personnel. Using hand signals, they spread out and peeled away, a few taking each entry point.

  There was a brief pause and then the quiet was shattered as doors were blown. The dark-clothed figures stormed inside, guns aimed.

  The explosions had woken Grace out of her reverie and she now flinched every time we heard sporadic bursts of gunfire.

  There was another explosion from inside. More gunfire. Screams.

  It suddenly went silent for a few seconds. Grace looked at me. I was staring at the entry points. Then people appeared through the smoke, running, frantic. They were dressed in normal, everyday clothes.

  They were the hostages.

  They were directed where to run, behind a shield of vehicles and armed officers. I could make out some of their faces as they made it to safety. Fear. Relief. Numb.

  Another burst of gunfire. And then all was silent again.

  A couple of minutes later some of the black-clad figures strode out, guns by their side. One of them slapped another on the back and then strolled up to me. They pulled their respirator off. It was Warita Aranda.

  ‘Good intel,’ she said. She pointed to Grace. ‘This one decided to talk?’

  ‘I think she will.’ I pointed to the freed hostages. ‘Good job.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  I looked at my watch.

  ‘We keeping you?’ Warita asked.

  ‘Just got a meeting I need to make.’

  ‘Anybody interesting?’ She removed her baseball cap and ran the back of her hand across her glistening forehead.

  ‘Your Minister for National Security. Julio Falcao.’

  ‘Really. Quite the golden one, aren’t you?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘word on the grapevine is that there’s going to be a motion of no confidence in Neville Dutton. And Falcao is the favourite to replace him.’ She put her baseball cap back on and made to move away. ‘Your little meeting could be with our new Prime Minister.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Belmopan is the capital of Belize. The capital used to be in Belize City itself, but following Hurricane Hattie in 1961 which destroyed a lot of the low-lying properties there, the decision was taken to move the country’s administrative centre. So Belmopan became the new capital in 1970.

  I took the Toyota on the hour-long journey west on the George Price Highway. I could almost feel Belize calming down. Belize City is gloriously and maddeningly exuberant. Belmopan is like the relaxed younger brother. Or the more serious older brother. Depending on your point of view.

  Travelling from the storage facility to pick up the Toyota and then drive down here took a while and so by the time I swung round the corner and advanced up towards the National Assembly building I was almost late.

  My arms were raised and the personal security man patted me down. We were standing next to a Toyota Prado and I could see the bulky outline of the Minister for National Security sitting in the back.

  ‘He’s clean,’ the security man said.

  What I presumed to be the Minister’s Personal Private Secretary stepped forward. He leaned into the car.

  ‘Mr Falcao, this is Philip Luc from the British Embassy.’ The PPS looked up at me and signalled that I could get into the car. ‘Mr Luc.’

  I thanked the PPS and stepped into the rear. The door was closed behind me.

  ‘Mr Falcao,’ I said to the politician, as I settled down on the seat next to him. ‘Thank you for seeing me.’

  The PPS got into the passenger seat up front and the driver started the engine and we were away.

  Falcao had his briefcase on his knees, some paperwork he was going through resting on top. He looked across at me, his big brown eyes, like a bear’s, commanding. But also I thought there was a touch of humour in them.

  ‘Mr Luc, good to see you. I’m sorry I can only give you ten minutes, but I’m afraid this is a busy and uncertain time for my country.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘And I understand you had something to do with the release of the hostages. This country is very grateful for that.’

  ‘I only found the location, sir. Your Special Branch did the difficult part.’

  He nodded. ‘I’m always impressed with them.’

  ‘Mr Falcao, the reason I asked for this meeting is that I still see that in some quarters Guatemala itself is receiving the blame for what’s going on. I don’t know what your intelligence is telling you but it’s not true.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I have reason to believe that a man named Ernesto Giuttieri is the real person responsible for what’s happening. We have good evidence that he was behind the bombing and the kidnappings. He’s set up some phoney group called the Guatemalan Territories Brigade. The media are buying it, saying they had smuggled the prisoners out of the country into Guatemala.’ I flicked a hand up. ‘Well, as we know, that’s simply wrong. The hostages never left Belize and the people behind the kidnapping were a mixture of Guatemalans and Belizeans and god knows what else. Despite what this group say, I don’t believe that the sovereignty of Belize has anything to do with what’s been going on. I spoke to one of the men of this so called brigade. It was clear to me that he wasn’t particularly interested in Guatemala’s claim, let alone actually agree with it. It’s a front. For something.’

  ‘So what is going on?’

  ‘One of the men responsible for the kidnapping was a man named Jimmy Dondero. A Belizean. He was linked to four Guatemalan gunmen who may have had something to do with the bombing. They were all linked to a man named Ray Mortlake. An American lawyer. And Mortlake works exclusively for Ernesto Giuttieri. It seems Giuttieri is trying to wreak havoc in Belize. Why he’s trying to do this I don’t know. Maybe just because he can.’

  ‘I appreciate you telling me this, Mr Luc.’

  ‘Well, I saw a Belizean housewife interviewed on the news earlier. She said you were a man who could get things done. Good enough for me.’

  Falcao shook his head. ‘I’m just a normal guy struggling to do his duty,’ he said. ‘You know there’s to be a motion of no confidence against the PM?’

  ‘I had heard there might be? Is it definite?’

  He nodded. ‘Unfortunately, it looks almost certain. Some of my colleagues are panicking. I don’t agree with it at all. Neville Dutton is a good man who has done a sterling job for Belize. He’s inexperienced, yes, but he has strength of character, Mr Luc. To be honest, it’s been an honour working for him. What they’re saying in the news, how they’re caricaturing him: dreadful. People seem to be forgetting all the good when I hear them speak.’

  The Personal Private Secretary turned around from the front passenger seat. He was looking at his mobile phone.

  ‘Sir,’ he said, looking up at Falcao. ‘Hillary Danziger is sending us the stats.’

  Falcao nodded. ‘Right, thank you.’

  ‘Another thing about Giuttieri,’ I said. ‘We know that he bussed in groups of young men to start the riots yesterday. I encountered a few. I’m not an expert but they weren’t Belizean or Guatemalan.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’ He nodded. ‘We certainly know a lot of them were foreign. We didn’t know they had been brought in specially.’

  ‘This isn’t Guatemala versus Belize. Or Belize versus Guatemala. This is Ernesto Giuttieri. And whatever he has planned.’

  Falcao nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘We need to be thinking about where he could st
rike next,’ I continued. ‘What are the possible sites or infrastructure he could target? We need to be one step ahead of him.’

  Falcao nodded. ‘I speak to a number of security experts on a daily basis. I’m sure if you spoke to one of them…Actually, Geoffrey,’ he looked at the back of his PPS, ‘could we do something to help there?’

  The PPS turned round. ‘If you’re sure, sir?’

  ‘His government has vouched for him,’ Falcao said. ‘And his involvement in rescuing the hostages puts us in his debt.’ Falcao looked across at me. ‘And I’m simply talking about you liaising with one of our security guys.’

  ‘Well, that’s very kind, Mr Falcao,’ I said. ‘I would appreciate it.’

  The PPS nodded and looked at me. ‘Is there a number we can reach you on, Mr Luc?’

  I gave him my number and he said someone would call within the next few hours.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  ‘Good. And expect a call from either me or one of my staff later too,’ Falcao said. ‘I want to keep up with what’s going on.’

  ‘That’ll be fine,’ I said.

  ‘We’re nearing the exhibition centre, sir,’ the PPS said.

  Falcao nodded.

  ‘Thank you for taking the time to see me, Mr Falcao,’ I said, preparing to leave.

  ‘Is there anywhere we can drive you to? I won’t need this car for another two hours.’

  ‘No, that’s fine, sir. Thank you.’

  He held out his hand. ‘Good to see you, then.’

  We shook hands. He had a strong, steady grip.

  The car pulled up to the entrance of the exhibition centre. Falcao’s mobile phone went and he pulled it out of his jacket pocket, the volume of the ringtone increasing dramatically as he did.

  ‘I’ve got to take this,’ Falcao said with a smile. ‘You will excuse me.’

  ‘Certainly,’ I said, getting out of the car. I looked back in. ‘Thank you again.’

  I walked away back down the road. Julio Falcao was certainly as impressive a figure in person as he appeared on TV. And it had started to feel good having a man like that on our side.

  And then his phone had rung. And as I walked away in the late evening gloom, I too felt a little cloudy. Because the ringtone on his mobile phone was a Rolling Stones tune. And that was twice I’d heard a Stones tune for a ringtone in only a few days.

  The other time was in Ray Mortlake’s office.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  The large moon sent wide strips of bright light into the safe house’s kitchen. I opened the fridge door and crouched down to get a proper look at its contents.

  I made up a cold turkey and pickle sandwich and sat at the kitchen table with the sandwich and a cup of tea.

  I realised I was probably being daft. Rolling Stones ringtones are probably quite common. It wasn’t even the same song.

  I finished the sandwich and took a swig of the hot tea.

  There was the sound of movement in the hall and then Lucia came padding into the kitchen in her bare feet. She was wearing a long grey T-shirt that came down to her thighs. Her hair was a bit fluffy. She’d obviously just got up.

  ‘Lucia. How are you?’

  Lucia put an arm on my shoulder and then took the seat at the table next to mine.

  She nodded, but didn’t say anything.

  The moonlight shone on her beautiful face. I don’t know if it was the moonlight itself, but she looked a little washed out.

  ‘Have you been able to get much sleep?’ I asked her.

  ‘I’ve tried. What have you been doing?’

  ‘I had a meeting with your Minister for National Security. Julio Falcao.’

  ‘Right.’ She nodded.

  ‘He’s arranged for me to meet one of their terrorism experts.’

  The PPS had rung me about an hour ago. He said Dr Almeira would see me at his offices for half an hour before he started his work. I was to be there at eight thirty tomorrow morning.

  ‘How have you been, Lucia?’ I asked again.

  ‘Bearing up. I miss Granddad, obviously.’

  Her dark soulful eyes looked strained.

  She pulled her knees up to her chest, her bare heels resting on the cushion of the seat, and wrapped her arms around her shins. She dropped her chin.

  ‘He’d be proud of you,’ I said. ‘The way you’ve handled yourself.’

  She shook her head. ‘He shouldn’t have to be. He should be here.’ She gently bit into her right knee. ‘He should be here.’

  I nodded. I didn’t say anything.

  ‘Hold me,’ she said, still gazing down.

  I stood and hugged her to me and she held me tightly and buried her cheek softly into my stomach.

  ‘Would you like me to go with you to meet the expert tomorrow?’ she asked sleepily.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The scientist was based in an office suite in the western district of Belize City. I drove through the early morning rush hour traffic and occasionally took sips from the carton of lime juice I’d bought from one of the stalls. I didn’t want to be late for this meeting. Unfortunately, the traffic at this hour was quite heavy and rambunctious and the street signs were a little on the subtle side, making progress towards where I wanted to go a bit of a hit and miss affair.

  The airwaves that morning were dominated by a breaking news story. The Prime Minister, Neville Dutton, had called a leadership election. He said there had been no alternative. It was a Back Me or Sack Me move. The initial snap polls, however, didn’t look good for him.

  I turned the corner into Dell Road and eventually found the office. A white painted, three-storey building with ornate wrought iron balconies. I parked the Toyota a street away. When I walked inside it was about eight twenty-five.

  I strolled up to a reception desk. It had a framed photograph of Belize’s famous underwater Blue Hole on the wall behind. I asked to speak to Dr Almeira and a woman of about fifty, in thick black-framed spectacles, showed me to a nearby office and told me that Dr Almeira wouldn’t keep me long.

  ‘He’s a busy man, but he does like an audience to speak to about his subject,’ she confided to me with a smile.

  It was a non-descript office. A desk, two filing cabinets, a print of the Los Angeles skyline at night on the wall. I noticed there were two shelves lined with binders of the security and intelligence publication Janes.

  About two minutes later the door opened and in walked a young, athletic looking man with piercing grey eyes. It wasn’t really what I expected Dr Almeira to look like. He stepped to one side and stood to the right of the door. Another athletic young man followed him in, and he stood to the left of the door. There was a momentary pause and then a large round man strolled in. He was wearing a navy blue blazer and cream coloured trousers. He had a bland expression on his face and it didn’t change when he saw me.

  It was Ernesto Giuttieri.

  And I was a dead man.

  ***

  ‘Sit down,’ Giuttieri said to me. He had a quiet voice, with a faint trace of a lisp.

  Through the frosted glass I could see that two more of his men stood outside. Then the blinds were closed and the door was locked.

  It would be a waste of time and energy to resist on the small points. I sat down on the chair in front of the desk.

  Falcao…

  So the Rolling Stones ringtone had been a sign. I almost felt sick.

  ‘Where’s Dr Almeira?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m not aware of anybody who even cares,’ Giuttieri said lazily.

  ‘Does he exist?’

  ‘Not quite sure of the purpose of the question.’

  I nodded. ‘I’ll flesh it out a bit. Is Dr Almeira a real person - .’

  ‘Stop speaking,’ Giuttieri said in a conversational tone.

  ‘Or is he just a fabrication of you and Falcao’s imagination?’

  Giuttieri casually glanced at the second of his thugs. Th
e thug strode rapidly towards me and drove his fist into the side of my face. Everything went white and then black and I collapsed onto the carpet. My collar was grabbed and I was dragged upwards and I was thrown back onto the chair, my head swimming, the pain almost touchable.

  ‘Do as I say.’ Giuttieri. Conversational.

  I sat up in my seat, arched my back. I took a deep breath.

  ‘This is an office building,’ I said. ‘I could make a lot of noise.’

  ‘Like a little girl?’ He nodded. ‘Go ahead. Scream the place down. If you think it would take long for my men to silence you.’

  ‘What do you want?’ I said.

  ‘Good. I want to know what you know.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘But not here.’

  I didn’t even see a glance, but before I knew it the first thug was sticking a needle into my neck.

  I tried to hit him, swipe his hands away, but I couldn’t move. And then the floor swung up to meet me and everything dissolved into a black nothing.

  ***

  A blinding light. I tried to shield my eyes but I couldn’t move my arms. Or my head. I shut my eyes tight, but that did little to block out the penetrating ray.

  I was lying on my back and I could now feel the straps on my legs and arms and across my forehead. I could see nothing else but the white light.

  Nobody spoke. Was I alone?

  So it was Falcao. I imagine that was how he was able to stop the riots so professionally. He or Mortlake had paid the ringleaders. And when on their orders the ringleaders disappeared, most of the rest followed. It would probably be easy to mop up the remnants.

  I tensed. I thought I heard somebody breathing.

  Behind and to the right of me.

  ‘Anybody there?’ I asked.

  Nothing. Silence.

  So, Falcao and Giuttieri.

  They had said on the radio that Julio Falcao was the front runner to win this leadership election. If Falcao was in the pay of Giuttieri that meant that if Falcao was to win, Giuttieri would have the Prime Minister of the country in his pocket.