‘Right,’ Maritza said, wiping her face with the hem of her dusty Santa Muerte T-shirt, revealing a tattooed but bulging stomach that belied multiple pregnancies. ‘We wait for el cocodrilo.’
‘Wait!’ George said, holding up her hand. She pointed to Paola. Spoke to Maritza, breathing steadily, trying to keep the blind panic out of her voice. ‘Let Paola do the job. She’s got a kid and a mother to feed. I haven’t. Seriously.’ She shrugged nonchalantly. ‘I’d love to do it, but there’ll be other opportunities.’
Approaching in a slow swagger, Maritza stood nose to nose with George. The older woman’s breath smelled of chewing tobacco and coffee. She whipped off George’s shades and seemed to look straight into George’s soul.
Keep breathing. You feel nothing. Everything you’ve told this woman is the truth. She cannot see what lies deeper.
The tension rippled on the air like heatwaves. The transportista’s hand rested ominously on her rifle, slung to the side.
Then, Maritza took a step back, her lips curling upwards just a fraction. ‘You’re a good girl. Too good for our band of crazy bitches!’ The half-smile blossomed into a fully fledged grin. ‘You sure you’re one of us?!’
George merely raised an eyebrow in response and took a thankful step back. Exchanging a gang hand-sign with a delighted-looking Paola.
‘I owe you a beer, Jacinta,’ Paola said.
I owe you my soul, George thought.
But she had no more time to reflect on her lucky escape, for el cocodrilo, a.k.a. Nikolay, a.k.a. the Rotterdam Silencer, had just emerged from the dense treeline into the clearing. And she was certain he was staring straight at her.
The order was given. In one smooth movement, the transportistas all drew their machetes. The screaming of the women as the bags were removed from their heads was gut-wrenching. It was the sound of grim realisation dawning. It was the worst thing George had ever heard in her life. Averting her gaze, she saw fear and shame in the fieldworkers’ faces as they were forced to watch. They were all party to this bedlam. Prisoners of the Silencer’s whim. Even the transportistas who held the blades aloft, poised to behead the runaways, were trapped inside his vortex of violence that they could only escape through death. Behind her sunglasses, she closed her eyes and conjured the sound of Curtis Mayfield. A favourite anthem of manufactured optimism at a time when all hope seemed otherwise to have fled the scene. This was the wet road Mayfield had always sung of that lay ahead. And still, she could not slip. And still, she must bite her lip and dared not cry.
God forgive me for standing by and doing nothing.
The blades fell. The sound of the victims’ heads rolling on the compacted dirt of the airstrip had a dull finality to it.
Watching the reaction of his fieldworkers and chatting to a small, deferential man who appeared to be the head of his considerable entourage of vest- and jeans-clad gangsters, the Rotterdam Silencer started to nod. Laughed out loud at something his lackey said. Snapped his fingers and beckoned Maritza over.
He hadn’t recognised her. Had he? Surely not!
It was all George could do to stifle a whoop, inappropriately tacked onto the end of her despair and disgust, like a text that delivered bad news being signed off with a winky emoji. Except her relief was short-lived as Maritza ordered them back to the truck.
‘We’re to follow el cocodrilo,’ she said to their group, stalking over the decapitated bodies of the dead runaways. Her boots left a red trail in the dust. ‘We’re going to the Yucatan jungle. He’s got work for us there.’
Though the risk of being recognised by the Silencer remained, George told herself that if she had managed to evade detection thus far, the chances were that she might slip beneath his radar, as long as she remained a safe distance away.
But when his Mercedes pulled over by a food stall at the roadside and Maritza turned to her, George felt suddenly certain that old Curtis Mayfield was full of shit.
‘El cocodrilo wants a tostada from the stall,’ she said. ‘We’re his armed escort to the jungle. You know him personally, Jacinta. You go. It’ll give you two a chance to catch up.’ She winked.
It had to be a test. George silently admonished herself for being so stupid as to believe she could deploy temporary tattoos, A-level Spanish and a couple of months of watching El Salvadoran soaps on YouTube as a means of duping these people? But there was no glimmer of trickery in Maritza’s expression. Perhaps George’s act had been that convincing. And maybe she was the natural linguist and accomplished performer that Sally Wright and Van den Bergen had always said she was. Hadn’t she pulled stunts like this before? With Danny and Tonya. With the Silencer himself.
You can do this. Keep going for Papa. Keep going for the dead kids in the canals. Keep it up for those women whose lives were just snuffed out on the airstrip.
Ordering the tostada and marching over to the Mercedes, wearing her sunglasses and her best poker face, George was careful not to look directly into the car at the Silencer. Her heartbeat was thunderously fast – so much so that she felt her hands trembling from the rapid blood-flow through her body. Clenching her fists close to her hips so that she would give nothing away. She felt him scanning her breasts; the familiar contours of her face. But the smell of alcohol on his breath was strong. The possibility that he was simply too drunk to respond to any prompts from his subconscious gave her courage.
‘Enjoy your snack,’ she said.
‘How about you come into the air-conditioned cool and enjoy my snack?’ he said, grabbing at his crotch. ‘I’m el cocodrilo. But I promise not to bite.’
Glancing into the truck, she finally saw his face up close. He had aged dramatically since she had last seen him, dressed like an accountant in a sharp grey suit inside that Amsterdam warehouse. A decade later, his tanned face was scored with deep lines, giving him the appearance of overcured leather. Hair that had been greying all those years ago he had now bleached blond, and there was a puffiness to his lower eyelids that put her in mind of drunks she had seen sleeping rough. Though incarceration had clearly not lasted long for Stijn Pietersen, his subsequent self-imposed exile in the sun-drenched inferno that was Central America or the frozen wastes of Eastern Europe had not been kind to him. During that momentary derisory glance, George got a snapshot of a man who had pushed things too far and who had pushed himself right to the edge in doing so.
Don’t suck your teeth. Don’t suck your fucking teeth. If you do that, you’re dead. This isn’t Catford or Lewisham. And you’re a transportista, not a Peckham rude girl. Move it. Get to the truck before he changes his mind and drags you into the car. And don’t piss yourself.
She walked away, clenching her pelvic floor for all she was worth.
CHAPTER 41
Groningen, Chembedrijf corporate Head Office, 1 June
‘You’ve got some bloody cheek, getting in touch with me after all this time,’ Ad said under his breath to his computer screen. Grinning at the words that shone with adventure and daring in that otherwise drab, grey office.
Feeling the flutter of anticipation in his stomach, he reread her message, rolling his typing chair closer to the monitor, angling his screen away so that his colleagues might not see what he was doing. At that moment, he was glad that telepathy was a figment of somebody’s imagination – the sort of bunkum Astrid believed in, along with angels and hellfire.
‘Talking to yourself again, Karelse?’ Roel said.
Ad glanced to his left to take in the sight of the overweight computer programmer, who was lounging in his chair, chewing on a gooey stroop wafel. Wearing a yellow shirt and a green tie, with no discernible spine, judging by his consistently hunched posture, Roel put Ad in mind of an overripe banana.
‘Yes,’ Ad said. ‘It’s the only way I can get a sensible answer.’ He pointed to the photo by his computer of his two shining baby pearls. A photo of their mother beside them. He put Astrid face down onto the desk. No need for her to know what he was doing. ‘That’s what kid
s do for you.’
Banter. He hated office banter. But Roel was snorting with laughter, so perhaps he’d mind his own damned business and leave Ad in peace to read on …
… an international drug- and people-trafficking ring, headed up by a man named Nikolay Bebchuck. It’s alleged that he’s actually the Rotterdam Silencer, but we need concrete proof … kids dying from a poisonous batch of crystal methamphetamine. I’m here in Mexico, trying to track down my father but I’ve run into … You always were the best sidekick a girl like me could wish for, Ad. Remember the excitement of your trip to Heidelberg, surrounded by all those sword-wielding, mensur-duelling wankers …? When I realised you were coincidentally working at the very company Nikolay Bebchuck is listed as doing business with, I thought …
You are in my heart.
Be well and please say you’ll help.
George x
Though Adrianus, a married man almost 30 years old and father of two, thought this was his difficult ex-girlfriend’s cynical attempt to rope him into a police investigation against his will and better judgement, the young Ad who had risked life and limb to help that old bastard Van den Bergen track down a deranged serial killer had to undo the top button of his shirt and loosen his tie. The excitement was almost unbearable. And George had made contact with him. After all these long years.
Fleetingly, he remembered the smell and the feel of her naked body. The taste of her kiss. The sound of her voice as they had spooned in her bed, talking about their hopes and fears and what kind of a life they might build together.
Just memories now. He had chosen to walk away for a reason. George had betrayed him. They had not been so compatible after all. And he had settled for the lovely Astrid, who had always been so very good on paper and who wouldn’t harm a fly. Everybody loved Astrid. She was the woman who had given him the two most precious things in his life – his babies. Georgina McKenzie, on the other hand, had broken his heart. She was just using him. She could go fuck herself.
As he clicked the email closed, the phone rang. He picked up.
‘Chembedrijf, good morning. Adrianus Karelse speaking.’
‘Oh, darling. I’m in the supermarket.’ Astrid, of course. The sound of little Lucas and Sofie screaming in the background to the sound of a supermarket jingle. ‘We’ve got Lies Oostendorp and her hubby coming for dinner. You didn’t forget, did you? Do you think I should do fish or beef? How about witlof?’
‘I hate witlof,’ he said, visualising a steaming dish of snotty endives. He had hated them when his mother used to foist them upon him. He hated them now.
‘Great. I’ll do witlof!’ she said, clearly not listening. Jabbering on about Lies’ new car, which was Japanese, would you believe it? And Lies’ new hair colour, which was a full shade brassier than the blonde she used to have. And Lies’ cleaner, who had stolen some money, but then, she was Romanian, after all, so what did she expect? ‘I love you, honeybunny!’ Astrid’s voice rang like Sinterklaas’ sleigh bells on a crisp winter morning. Except it was summer and he was too old to believe in Santa Claus, and Zwarte Piet, his black sidekick – almost always represented by some white guy who thought it was funny to black-up and don an afro wig – was just plain racist.
‘Yep. Bye!’
‘Fish or beef?’
‘Chicken.’
He hung up and opened the email from George yet again. Fingers hovering over his keyboard, poised to respond …
CHAPTER 42
Mexico, Yucatan jungle, 30 May
‘What’s in the middle of the jungle that’s so important?’ George asked Paola.
She could tell by the way they had started to bounce around the now empty truck that their route had shifted from a smooth road to somewhere woefully uneven and undeveloped. Though they were still sitting in the darkness of the cargo area, with no view of the world outside, George was certain they had entered the Yucatan jungle. They had been travelling for a while now, and the terrain had flattened out. Was Van den Bergen close? More to the point, might she find out more about her father?
Paola was busy examining her teeth using the selfie function on her mobile phone. ‘Maritza said el cocodrilo needs us to load a shipment of meth onto the truck and take it down to the beach. He’s had a submarine or some shit specially built to sail the drugs over to the Dominican.’
‘Why doesn’t he use his own guys?’
Paola shrugged, still staring into the phone’s display. Running her little fingertip over her eyebrow. Checking her chin for spots, as if she could actually see anything beneath the camouflage of her facial tattoos.
‘I don’t think he trusts them with meth that’s got a street value of hundreds of millions of dollars. Would you? These low-level guys are always out to con and double-cross each other. El cocodrilo’s not stupid. He maybe has a few men he trusts and keeps close like that greasy little asshole, Miguel, but the rest would sell their grandmothers for a new cell phone. And he’s used us before, don’t forget. All of the cartels use us because we’ve got the reputation. We don’t take sides. We don’t take crap. We get the job done. Everyone knows Maritza. Everyone’s scared shitless of her too.’ She chuckled, popped some chewing gum into her mouth and observed her leader with evident admiration.
‘A sub?’ George asked.
As the truck lurched its way down whatever dirt track it had taken, she wondered how likely it was that Stijn Pietersen would be cunning enough to kill two birds with one stone – kidnap her father, a skilled engineer, so that he might design an ocean-going smuggling vessel, and simultaneously destroy her family. George didn’t believe in coincidences and she was staking her life on the likelihood that those had indeed been the Silencer’s intentions all along.
Unexpectedly, the truck came to a halt. A thump on the partition that divided the cab from the cargo area jolted George out of her reverie.
‘We’re here,’ Maritza said. ‘We break for lunch first. Then, we load the truck. Delivery after sundown. Back on the road home tonight. Got it?’
The women all nodded, swinging their rifles onto their backs.
Dappled light suffused with a green glow flooded the truck as the shutters rolled up. She was faced with a backdrop of dense, lush jungle, where butterflies fluttered among the exotic flowers that hung in clusters from trees. A dragonfly as large as a man’s hand zipped by in staccato bursts, so fast that it left only a notion of its iridescent blue body and diaphanous wings behind before disappearing.
She had arrived in paradise.
George scrambled out, breathing in the fresh air. But the air was baking hot and damp, making her hair and clothes stick to her body. She had not felt clean since leaving Amsterdam. Now is not the time, arsehole, she told herself. You’re a transportista. Stinking armpits and bad hair are part of the job description. Don’t worry about the filthy fingernails. You can get a scrubbing brush on them if you make it through this alive.
She had arrived in hell.
‘This way!’ A tiny barrel of a man had appeared from the thicket and grunted the instruction at them, eyeing them warily. A stained white vest clung to his belly. Jeans that had been cut off at the knee hung from low on his hips. Flip-flops on his feet. He waved an Uzi at them. ‘I’ll show you to the camp. You sure you weren’t followed?’
‘We’re not stupid,’ Maritza said, clicking her fingers so that the rest of the transportistas fell into line.
Clutching her gun like a safety blanket, George walked at the back, wondering what the immediate future might hold for her. Would the Silencer be there? Had they been summoned to pack up the lethal batch of meth that was responsible for the floaters back in Amsterdam? Was this search for her father nothing more than a wild-goose chase?
In her peripheral vision, as she trod gingerly over tree roots and the brown giant leaves that had fallen from the palms onto the jungle floor, she caught sight of insects scuttling to safety. She shuddered. Had that been a spider clinging to a tree trunk? Spiders weren’t meant to be
that big. What if there were snakes …? Stop this right now, you unutterable wimp. The wildlife is the least of your worries.
Up ahead, her compatriots came to a halt on the edge of a clearing that was guarded by two men who were similarly armed with Uzis. They engaged in a brief exchange with Maritza, whereupon the men stepped aside. Advancing into the clearing, George shivered as she felt the men watching her.
Her surroundings comprised several small corrugated iron shacks that had been camouflaged with palm leaves and other foliage. At one end of the makeshift complex, there was a solid-looking Portakabin, complete with a door and a properly glazed window. Smoke curled upwards towards the jungle canopy from a flue that poked out of the roof. The stench of sulphur wafted over towards her. She grimaced but steeled herself not to hold her nose or pass comment.
‘Food first,’ Maritza said, rubbing her hands together in the face of the man who had been their jungle escort, much to his obvious chagrin. ‘My girls need a good meal inside them. And you’d better not poison us with that stink coming from your lab. We don’t get paid for that.’
As they trooped over to a large shack where men came and went through a curtain of Perspex flaps, George studied the complex’s inhabitants. The rough-looking, dark-skinned gangsters, small in stature and sporting thick black hair, were all locals. That much she could tell. Shabby clothes. Flip-flops on their feet in the main. But there, inside the dining shack at the far end, seated at a long trestle table opposite a guard who was idly toying with the ammo clip on a semi-automatic handgun, was a Caucasian man. Rail-thin, his fair skin singed an angry-looking pink on his nose and cheekbones, with unkempt, curly red hair that clearly hadn’t seen a pair of scissors in a year. His wrists were ringed with red scabs. Had he been cuffed? George held her breath. Clearly, this man was not her father, but an outsider, nonetheless. Why else would he be eating with an armed guard watching his every move?
The Girl Who Had No Fear Page 26