by Condor
“Listen,” he said, shaking his head to dispel the images of bayoneted children, and men with their hands cut off and their eyes removed, “we may have to cancel dinner. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be stupid. I’m not cancelling anything. Just a rain check. That’s all. You call me when you know what your schedule is, and we are having dinner together. And you can come and stay here, too. Promise me.”
“Britta, I …”
“Promise me!”
“OK, I promise. I have to go. I need to sleep. Don’s got me an appointment with the prime minister.”
“OK. Sleep tight, you. I …”
“Bye, Britta.”
Gabriel ended the call. Whether it was the shock, the Chablis, the bath, the call with Britta, or a combination of all four, he was asleep twenty seconds later.
*
At one forty p.m., Gabriel awoke to the sound of surf and seagulls. For a moment, he thought he was at the seaside. Then he reached over and silenced his phone. He felt refreshed and calm, despite the nightmare of the preceding few hours. He dressed quickly and was downstairs five minutes later.
“Ah, there you are, sir,” James said, emerging from the kitchen as Gabriel’s feet landed on the carpeted floor of the hallway. “There’s a car waiting for you outside, ready to take you to Whitehall. Shall I hold onto your clothes for now? We can courier them to your home address whenever you’re ready.”
“Thanks,” Gabriel said, then they shook hands, and he was through the front door and climbing into the back seat of a gleaming, black Jaguar XJR with blacked-out windows and a set of gunmetal alloy wheels. The car smelled as if it hadn’t been long out of the showroom—a mixture of expensive leather, beeswax polish, and a whiff of something that might have been vanilla in the air-conditioned atmosphere cocooning him and the chauffeur from the warmth of the September sunshine.
“Afternoon, sir,” the driver said in a brisk, efficient voice Gabriel had always associated with company sergeant majors and other long-serving NCOs. “Whitehall, is it?”
Suspecting the man already had his orders, Gabriel simply agreed without furnishing the full address.
“Yes, please.”
“Very good, sir. Shan’t take us long; traffic’s eased up since lunchtime. In that business in the West End, were you, sir?” he asked.
8
Investor Meeting
“HOLD ON TIGHT, PÈRE CHRISTOPHE,” the pilot said. Thirty minutes into the flight from Eden’s airfield to El Dorado Airport in Bogotá, the Cessna 206 bounced and hopped through the sky, dropping alarmingly once for a couple of seconds as clear-air turbulence sucked the lift from under its wings. Sitting next to the pilot, one of the Elect, Jardin swore. The man grappling with the stick glanced to his right at the profanity.
“Relax, Robert,” Jardin said. “I’m sure God would forgive me an oath under these conditions.”
The pilot inclined his head and returned his gaze to the front. The plane steadied and they flew on.
Ninety minutes later, at 12.30 local time, the little aircraft was scudding along the tarmac in a landing slot allocated by the Colombian control tower between jets arriving from Medellín and Houston, Texas. The pilot feathered the throttle, then taxied along the runway and an access road. He brought the plane to a stop half a mile from the passenger terminal, on a pale concrete apron fronting part of a cargo building. He killed the engine. It spun down to a stop with a whine from the propeller shafts.
Jardin unsnapped his harness and stepped down from the plane. He was stiff from the flight, and his arms and hands were tense from gripping the sides of his seat during the choppy ride. The only bad point to a compound sited in a location inaccessible except by air was the air itself. He hated flying.
Bogotá was enjoying warm weather and he began to relax, unhitching the muscles of his shoulders and rolling his head from side to side, eyes closed in what he hoped Robert would see as a sign of spiritual realignment. Fucking idiot.
Overhead, a jet screamed towards the runway, its landing gear down—the Houston flight. Full of fat Texan oilmen, no doubt. Maybe one of these days I’ll put one of my Children on a flight with you.
As he reflected on the logistical difficulties of getting a teenaged acolyte wrapped in dynamite and ball bearings onto a commercial flight to the USA, a white car approached from the passenger terminal. An SUV of some kind. Cars didn’t interest Jardin; it was the people inside them who piqued his curiosity. And this vehicle contained someone very interesting indeed: his business partner. He stroked his beard and pushed his long, thin fingers through his hair, raking it back behind his ears then pulling it forward again. Every inch the prophet, Christophe.
The car pulled up ten yards from the plane’s starboard wingtip. The driver was a thickset man with a dark complexion and greased-back hair tied in a ponytail. Well over six feet, Jardin estimated, and with all his muscle concentrated in his upper body. He had thick gold hoops threaded through both earlobes giving him the look of a pirate, albeit one dressed like an FBI agent in a black suit, white shirt and black tie. He jumped down and scurried around to the rear to hold open the door for his passenger.
Jardin waited. The wind, which had sprung up as the car arrived, whipped his robe about his legs so that the coarse cotton stung his calves. He was calm. But then, he was always calm. Apart from those fucking flights.
The man who stepped down from the car was Diego Toron, the head of the Muerte Eterna drug cartel. His operation wasn’t as big as its more famous Cali and Medellín cousins had been in their heyday, before greed and government determination destroyed them, but it was equally ready to get rid of its enemies with extreme violence. He was taller than Jardin, five-eleven to the older man’s five-eight, and he was muscular, though good living had produced a rounded belly, made visible when his white silk shirt was blown against it. His top lip and his jawline, softened by the same luxury that had rounded his gut, were shaded with dark stubble. A thin white scar ran from his right ear under his cheekbone and down past the corner of his mouth. His nose was stubby, with wide, flaring nostrils. His lips were soft and full, almost like a woman’s.
He strolled over to the plane while buttoning his jacket, removed his sunglasses and looked Jardin in the eye, scowling. Then a wide smile split his face revealing dazzling white teeth. He leaned forward to embrace Jardin, kissing him on both cheeks, before stepping back and poking him in the chest.
“Buenos días, Christophe. You still look like you’re auditioning for Joseph and His Technicolor Dreamcoat! When are you going to get yourself a nice suit like this one?”
He unbuttoned his jacket again and let the navy linen fly back from his torso as the wind caught it. The lining was electric blue silk. Jardin caught the Italian brand name sewn in capitals onto a black label on the left-hand pocket. He smiled at Toron.
“When I turn into a fashion model, which,” he lifted the side of his robe away from his body and let it fall, “as you can see, is no time soon.”
The pleasantries out of the way, the two men climbed into the SUV, sitting side by side on the back seat. Jardin sniffed.
“Smells like a whorehouse in here.”
“That’s because we were taking some girls over to Medellín in it yesterday. It practically was a whorehouse.”
The two men laughed and, as the driver pulled away, began discussing business.
“So, you’re not happy with our current arrangement,” Toron said, frowning. “I thought running coke up to Texas was a nice little income stream for you. Keeps you in prayer books and incense, doesn’t it?”
Jardin smiled, laying a reassuring hand on the other man’s knee for a couple of seconds, enjoying his discomfort at the overly friendly physical contact.
“More than happy, Diego. America is a sick society. Their idiot presidents bleat on about the war on drugs when it’s their own citizens who suck half the cocaine in Colombia up their stupid, fat noses. You know what they ought to start, if they were
serious about saving the lives of their people?”
“What?” Toron said, biting at a loose piece of skin at the side of his thumb.
“The war on guns. But somehow, I can’t see that happening, can you? So if we can profit from their hypocrisy, so much the better.”
“Well, what is this all about then?” Toron said.
“I have a business proposal for you. You see, I think what we need is a little vertical integration at Eden. A manufacturing and processing plant. Maybe even a plantation. We have the land, and a more-than-willing workforce, believe me.”
Toron scratched the bristles stippling his chin.
“Vertical integration, eh? You know a lot of business talk for a man of God.”
“Listen, my friend. I keep the Children of Heaven in line using God and the Valium you so kindly supply as part of our arrangement. For myself, I’d cheerfully blow up every church, mosque, synagogue and temple from here to Jerusalem. Take every priest, imam, and rabbi and shoot them in the face. In fact, one day I might just do that. Now, as I was saying …”
By the time they arrived at the restaurant in the centre of Bogotá, the outline of the plan was in place. Toron would supply raw product, machinery, and expert staff to set up a cocaine production facility inside the Eden compound. Stretching, as it did, over two thousand acres of rainforest, with a supply of water from a tributary of the Rio Negro, there was plenty of space where no prying eyes from the Brazilian authorities would ever alight. Instructed that their new work was covered by the First Order, the Children of Heaven would willingly, or at least passively, go to work. They’d turn bales of coca leaves into blocks of pure-grade cocaine to be flown north and into the USA for final cutting and distribution. The executives, rock musicians, students, and soccer moms would get their fix. The US customs officials, DEA agents, and police who required them would get their bribes and their kickbacks. And Jardin and Toron would get rich. Correction: richer.
The maître d’ at Copa d’Oro was familiar with Diego Toron, and he never allowed the Colombian’s lack of a tie to cause him any problems. Not that it would be wise to raise any objections anyway. A year earlier, one of Toron’s bodyguards had spent a couple of days in Bogotá spreading a tale about his master’s nocturnal activities that would secure him the best table in any restaurant in the city, even if he turned up stark naked.
The duty manager at a French restaurant across town from Copa D’Oro had once refused Toron entry for not wearing a tie. Toron had returned with a couple of heavies at two in the morning as the restaurant was closing, bundled the unfortunate restaurant manager into the boot of a Cadillac, and taken him to “the baptistry”—a warehouse owned by the Muerte Eterna, whose central space was empty except for a gleaming porcelain bathtub in purest white.
They had dragged the man over to the tub, handed him a hose connected to a distant tap, and instructed him to fill it.
As the water splashed into the tub, Toron spoke to the man, who was white with fear and shaking so hard he could barely keep the hose pointed in the right direction.
“My name is Diego Toron. But everyone—everyone, it would seem, apart from you, my friend—knows me by another name. El Bautista. You know? Like John the Baptist?”
The man nodded, bobbing his head up and down in rapid jerks as if he could forestall whatever was coming by the fervency of his agreement.
“Well, now it is your turn to be redeemed.”
Then, he seized the man by the scruff of his neck and thrust him face down into the water. It was still only a few inches deep, but, as swimming teachers and anxious parents tell their children, that is still enough to drown in.
Knowing of Toron’s reputation, Rafael De Angelis, Copa D’Oro’s duty manager on this particular sitting, smiled a welcome to his powerful guest. However, he couldn’t help wrinkling his bulbous nose as he took in the man Toron had brought as his guest.
Noticing the fleeting expression of disgust, Toron leaned towards De Angelis and beckoned with a crooked finger. De Angelis leaned forward, ear towards Toron’s mouth.
“He is a very holy man,” Toron mumbled, forcing De Angelis to lean closer still, until his ear was almost touching Toron’s lips. “A spiritual leader. A guide for fallen souls over there,” he jerked his thumb over his right shoulder, “in Brazil. Amazonas. I would consider it a personal favour if you would waive Copa’s dress code for him.”
De Angelis straightened, flashed his best VIP smile at Jardin, and picked up two menus from the brushed steel stand next to him. He motioned the men forward towards a pair of deep green velvet curtains.
“Gentlemen?” he said. “Welcome to Copa D’Oro. I have a very good table for you. Please. Follow me.”
They started with ceviche, the thin slices of raw black clam perfectly cured by lime juice and chilli and garnished with fragrant chopped coriander. As they ate, Toron and Jardin discussed contractual details and the logistics of building, equipping and staffing the production facility, and how they would integrate it into the Muerte Eterna supply chain.
Jardin took a sip of his wine. “This Chilean sauvignon blanc is good, Diego. Almost as good as a Sancerre.” Then he winked. “Just kidding. I wouldn’t use that French piss to put out a fire. So, tell me, how is your family?”
Toron’s face broke into a smile. His eyes widened and he took a sip from his own glass.
“Isabella has just been picked for the volleyball team. She’s only nine, but already she is so talented. A natural athlete. And my baby, Serafina. Two years behind her sister and she wants to overtake her. Her gift is painting. Dolores and I have hopes she will go to art school.”
“And the beautiful Dolores Maria Cristabel. How is she?” Jardin popped another slice of clam into his mouth as he watched the man talk about his wife and kids. The combination of heat, smoky clam, salt and citrus from the ceviche was almost too good to bear. He groaned quietly to himself, masking the sound by lifting his wineglass to his lips.
“She is well, thank you. Still perhaps a little too in love with the church, you know? She finds my line of work hard to square with her conscience. But she is a loyal wife.”
“And you, my friend,” Jardin asked, dabbing a trickle of lime juice from the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “How are you?”
“Me?” Toron appeared to find this question strange. He furrowed his brow and pulled his chin down, producing a wrinkled collar of flesh. “You know, I run my businesses. I have my health, thank God. I enjoy myself when I can. The opera, time permitting.”
“And your line of work. Can you square it with your conscience?” How I love to mess with people’s minds, you dumb Latino drug dealer.
Toron frowned, producing deep grooves in his high forehead.
“I provide for my family. I give to orphanages and charities. I go to confession.”
“And your priest. He must need a stiff drink after a visit from El Bautista, no?”
A flash of anger crossed Toron’s face. His brow lowered and his lips tightened over his teeth, compressing into a thin line.
“Watch your step, holy man. Make sure you don’t end up at the baptistry yourself.”
Normally, a threat such as this would have men pissing themselves in fear. Jardin merely laughed before draining his glass and signalling a passing water for a wine list.
“Calm yourself, Diego. My apologies. I was simply enquiring after your spiritual well-being. Confession is one of the Catholic Church’s best innovations. You can pull a man’s tongue out through a slit in his throat, but as long as you wag your own to a priest in a little latticed cubicle the next day, you’re back in God’s favour. Now, where are our steaks?”
The meal, and the deal, completed, the two men left. Outside the restaurant, the temperature had dropped from twenty-one to nine degrees Celsius. Bogotá was experiencing its famous sol de lluvia—“rain’s sun”. The earlier blue sky had been occluded by a thick blanket of grey clouds, and now fat drops of freezing rain were pelting p
edestrians like machine gun bullets, driving them inside shops and office blocks for cover. Toron’s car was waiting at the kerb, engine idling to maintain the SUV’s internal temperature. Spying his master, the driver exited the car and stood holding the rear door open, the rain drenching him as he maintained his pose like a statue. Toron and Jardin dashed the few yards from the end of the restaurant’s dark green and gold marquee and into the open door at the rear of the car.
Back inside Eden’s verdant embrace, Jardin relaxed again. The flight home had been even worse than the one out to meet Toron, and his robe was flecked with vomit. He stripped it off and stood under the shower, reflecting once again on his wisdom in recruiting engineers to the Elect. Though the Children endured primitive cold-water plumbing, he and his lieutenants enjoyed hot and cold running water and electrical power, courtesy of a sophisticated arrangement of hydroelectric and diesel generators.
Dressed in another robe he lifted from the pile in his wardrobe, he checked his satellite phone. There was a message from Slater in London.
Fewer sinners in London than yesterday. Insurance shares plummeted on news. Our short positions hit jackpot.
Jardin smiled. Time to select a new target. He unlocked the door to his office and ran his finger along the row of travel guides. Picked one out.
“Beverly Hills,” he said. “False idols as far as the eye can see.”
9
A Meeting with Barbara Sutherland
“NASTY BUSINESS WAS IT, SIR?” Gabriel’s driver asked. Gabriel stared out of the darkened window, which made the people, buildings and cars he was looking at somehow distant, at one remove from reality.
“I’m afraid it was. It was bad. Really, very bad.”