A black beetle crawled up his leg. Nathan wanted to scream. He bit his tongue so hard it bled. He swept the beetle off with the back of his hand. It scurried away into a heap of rotting leaves with an outraged snap of its pincers.
The gunship drifted away and joined the others. They flew north. Within seconds, the clamour of the rainforest had taken over again, monkeys chattering overhead.
Nathan turned to Manuel. ‘You have to let me know what’s going on here.’
‘They’re hunting for survivors,’ Manuel said as they rose to their feet.
‘So far from the attack zone?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘Seems odd.’
A shadow shifted. Nathan grabbed Manuel’s arm. They crouched. Something was making its way through the foliage roughly twenty metres away. It stopped. Nathan lifted his rifle. For a moment, he lost sight of the shadow amid the myriad shades of the undergrowth. Then it stirred again. It was the silhouette of a person.
Had someone been following them?
Nathan’s index curled round the trigger.
The shadow moved away. There was the regular thud of a machete chopping its way through branches and vines.
They waited in silence.
‘I’m guessing that was who attracted the choppers,’ Nathan said eventually.
‘The forest is full of people.’
‘Too much like coincidence.’
Manuel shrugged.
‘Manuel, you need to tell me about Front 154.’
Manuel wiped his machete clean of mud and leaves against a tree trunk.
‘Manuel?’
‘I know nothing.’
‘Oh, come on. You know you can trust me. You said yourself the other day that it’s all about trust and loyalty.’
‘That’s beside the point.’
‘I need to know for my report. Otherwise, it’s not even worth me writing it.’
‘No.’
‘Why not, for God’s sake? I’ve just spent six weeks in this hellhole and I’m not an inch closer to finding out what’s going on.’
Manuel stood up. Nathan’s shoulders sagged. This was getting nowhere.
‘Okay,’ Manuel said, peering ahead into the rainforest.
‘Okay what?’
‘They’re a new paramilitary cartel. They kill people and steal cocaine, then sell it in America and Europe. They’re making big money.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘The campesinos tell me,’ Manuel said over his shoulder as he hacked his way forward.
‘But they don’t tell me.’
‘No.’
Nathan caught up with him. ‘Why not?’
‘Because they fear you’re with the Front. Why else?’
‘What the hell?’ Nathan said. ‘That’s crazy.’
‘Listen to me.’ Manuel twisted round. ‘Colombia’s not the UK. There’s been war here for fifty years. Politicians, narcotraffickers, Pablo Escobar, death squads, the FARC, the CIA, the DEA, the ASI. Everyone fucks this country. Front 154 is just one more bunch of bad guys.’
‘So why doesn’t anyone want to talk about them?’
‘Mala suerte.’
‘Speaking about them will bring bad luck?’
Manuel nodded.
‘Who’s the head of Front 154?’ Nathan said.
Manuel resumed his march.
‘Manuel?’
‘Nobody knows.’
‘Any idea?’
‘No.’
They trudged on in silence, Nathan swallowing his frustration at Manuel’s lack of communication.
‘Where we going?’ Nathan said after a while.
‘A village. My cousins live there.’
‘Further north?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s where the choppers were—’
‘I know.’
They slogged through another two miles of mud and forest. Hundreds of frogs erupted into a chorus of croaks as they waded through a swamp. Red and blue flashed to their left. Nathan raised his rifle. He relaxed as a macaw fluttered away.
They found a spot for the night. Nathan hacked down some branches and built himself a makeshift tent with large leaves as overhead canvas and thick sticks as tent poles. He lit a cigarette and burnt off the leeches that clung to his legs. Darkness descended as soon as the sun went down. They took turns to sleep, but Nathan found it hard to drift off. His mind kept going over the day’s events.
The attackers had been highly trained and well-equipped professionals. Whatever Manuel said, Front 154 was more than just another group of bad guys. It was an organised criminal network. But who was behind them? Who was funding them? Who was supplying them with such firepower?
He shook his head. He’d been fighting the war on drugs for years now, yet it wasn’t getting any better. Quite the opposite. Many believed that the heyday of the drug barons had been in the eighties and nineties, when Pablo Escobar became one of the richest men in the world because of his global cocaine trafficking empire. They were wrong. So wrong. Some modern-day cartels were turning into full-scale military outfits, employing ex-special forces soldiers as attack forces, buying the latest in high-tech weaponry, their influence reaching to the summits of power. The more the anti-drugs agencies clamped down, the more violently the cartels retaliated.
But none, so far, with the intensity of violence and sophistication of weaponry of the elusive Front 154.
Nathan opened his eyes. Manuel was crouching to his left, like some kind of ninja. The outline of his silhouette was barely visible against the shapes of the trees in the darkness.
‘No sleep?’ Manuel said.
Nathan shook his head.
‘You’re a good man,’ Manuel said. ‘I’m sorry about earlier.’
‘That’s okay.’ Nathan sat up. ‘I understand. How about you?’
‘My eye. It hurts.’
Nathan’s legs itched again. He lit another cigarette and rolled up his trousers.
‘What happened?’
‘Nine years ago,’ Manuel said quietly. ‘A death squad attacked my village. They raped my mother and sisters. Beat them to death. A sicario shot my father in the head.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Nathan said.
The leeches dropped off his shins as he sizzled them. He’d heard so many stories like Manuel’s since he’d been here. Sicarios were assassins who carried out hits for a few dollars. Many of them were just young teenagers, desperate for cash to feed their drug habit.
‘I hid under a pile of bodies,’ Manuel said. ‘Nobody else survived. I got shrapnel in my eye. I walked in the jungle until I found a village doctor. The paramilitaries have hunted for me ever since. They don’t want witnesses alive.’
‘That’s why you hate them so much.’
‘I hate everyone who invades my land. Paramilitaries, the Front, the DEA. All of them.’ He paused, as though reflecting on what he’d just said. ‘And you? What’s your story? Why did you join this NGO?’
‘To investigate human rights abuses. We write reports and publicise them.’
‘You think that makes a difference?’
‘I hope so.’
‘Believe me, Nathan, it doesn’t. Nothing makes any difference in Colombia. Only guns and money. How old are you?’
‘Thirty-four.’
‘You have a family?’
‘A sister.’
‘A wife? Children?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Why not? A wife is good. Children are good. They look after you when you grow old.’
‘I guess I haven’t found the right person.’
‘I’ll find you a beautiful Colombian wife. She’ll make you happy.’
Nathan laughed, surprised at Manuel’s uncharacteristic talkativeness.
Manuel inched forwards. ‘Tell me why you’re really here.’
‘I already told you. I work for the NGO Third World Justice. I’m here to help.’
‘Nobody comes to Colombia just to h
elp. ‘
Nathan shifted uncomfortably, glad for the cover of darkness. He focused on burning the leeches. Manuel would never forgive him if he found out Nathan’s true mission here.
Manuel grunted, but didn’t probe further. He shuffled back.
Nathan tossed the cigarette away. He lay down, his mind buzzing. The night-time cacophony of the jungle pulsed in the background, like an orchestra of chirps, squeaks, flutters, knocks, rattles, warbles and clicks. The air was soupy and dense, the sky invisible.
Nathan drifted into a half sleep, his senses alert for danger.
Chapter 4
Putumayo, Colombia
31 March 2011
The sun popped up as suddenly as it had dropped away the previous evening. Nathan grabbed his weapon. Next to him, Manuel was squatting with his arms round his knees, leaning against a tree. His eyes were shut. His lips were parted and moving slightly. His fingers clutched the engraved wooden cross that dangled round his neck.
His eyes flickered open.
‘Good sleep?’ he said, tucking the cross into his shirt and springing to his feet.
Nathan nodded. He patted down his combat trousers and shirt. They were crusty with dried mud and blood, which peeled off like icing from a cake. He untangled some of the knots in his hair.
‘Come on.’ Manuel was stamping his feet impatiently. ‘Let’s go.’
They kept plodding for hours. They sheltered under a tree while a storm drenched them. Thunder growled and lighting blazed. Then the clouds fled, revealing the crystal blue sky through the jumble of branches above.
A plane whirred. Nathan glimpsed it passing to their left, releasing a cloud of white spray that settled like morning mist. It was an AT-802 armoured crop duster: a fumigation plane showering herbicide to wipe out coca plantations as part of Plan Colombia, the US-backed counternarcotics programme.
‘See!’ Manuel pointed.
Nathan said nothing.
They reached a clearing. Manuel lifted his palm to indicate they should stop. They sneaked forward until they could see clearly through the undergrowth. Ahead of them were the ruins of a village. Smoke curled up from the simmering remains of huts. Bodies of men, women and children lay scattered. The earth was scarred black.
They ducked and lay still. Tears streamed down Manuel’s cheeks, mixing with dirt to form brown rivulets. Nathan felt anger surge through him.
He tapped Manuel on the shoulder.
‘Let’s go see,’ he whispered.
‘You crazy?’
‘There may be survivors. Cover me.’
Manuel tried to hold him back, but Nathan pulled away and crept into the clearing, M-16 raised. The attack was recent. Otherwise the storm would have snuffed out the fires. The villagers had been defenceless. Many were face down in the mud, their backs peppered with bullet holes, mown down while fleeing. Nathan wondered which ones were Manuel’s cousins.
He pulled out his camera and took snaps, taking care not to touch anything in case it was booby trapped. Ahead of him was the body of what must have been a member of the death squad. Half his head was blown apart. He wore a black flak jacket and combats that were different to the t-shirts and jeans worn by the local narcotraffickers. The jacket was torn at the shoulder, revealing a mark in dark blue ink covered in mud and blood. Nathan rubbed it clean with his shirt sleeve.
It was a tattoo: I V IV.
Nathan rummaged through the dead man’s front pockets: a knife, a wire saw, a survival kit. He heaved him over. A wallet in the back pocket contained a card with a photo. Underneath it were the letters ASI then an ID number.
This was irrefutable evidence.
Nathan scanned the clearing. To his left was an open trapdoor next to a hole in the ground. He pulled a torch from his rucksack. A ladder led into a small, rectangular room with concrete walls. Nathan stepped down. It was dark and murky. He gagged at the stench of rot and death. A severely disfigured corpse was crumpled in a corner, ants feasting on its entrails. Next to it was a wooden table laden with basins full of soaking leaves. Around them were spatulas and plastic bottles with pink and yellow liquids that Nathan guessed were kerosene and sulphuric acid.
An underground lab: this was where the paste made from mashed and soaked coca leaves was turned into cocaine. Bricks of compact black powder were neatly stacked to the ceiling in one corner. Each one had a white sticker with a logo of a black beetle. On another wooden table was a clay bowl brimming with small zip lock bags of the black powder.
Black cocaine?
He dropped a zip lock bag into his shirt pocket. He flicked on the flashgun on his camera and took more pictures. The corpse was clutching something in its hand. It was a black cube, about two inches across. It was hard as stone, yet had the texture of wood. It was light, but felt dense. Nathan tapped it against the table: a solid thump, so not hollow. Nathan shoved the cube into his bag. He scaled the ladder and kicked the trapdoor shut. He jogged towards Manuel.
‘Manuel?’
No answer.
‘Manuel. You there?’
Still nothing.
Nathan searched around in ever widening circles. Had Manuel decided to leave him behind? Nathan froze. The incessant racket of the rainforest had stopped. A chopper was approaching. He dived into the undergrowth. He attached the 70-300mm zoom lens to his camera and switched on the image stabiliser.
A Lynx helicopter descended, scattering debris as its blades stuttered to a standstill. Two armed men leapt out, scanning the clearing for danger. They were dressed in black combats and boots, with ammo belts and wraparound sunglasses. One of them spoke into a radio handset. They stood there, waiting. Nathan thought of crawling back into the undergrowth and escaping, but something told him he should stay. The helicopter had landed for a reason, and it didn’t look like they were searching for survivors.
A few minutes later, a shadow emerged from the rainforest.
Nathan zoomed the lens to the full 300mm.
The blood pounded through his temples.
It was a woman. Or at least, it had once been a woman, with a face like a truck, a neck rippling with muscles and a brawny body nearly bursting through an all-khaki combat outfit plastered with mud. Her hair was cut army-style, nearly bald, and the skin on her face looked grimy and leathery. Her eyes, set deep into her skull, were black and glowed with vicious intensity, as though she could see through people just with the strength of her stare.
Amonite Victor.
The Butcher of Juárez.
Alive.
How could that be? Mesmerised, Nathan followed her with the camera as she trudged towards the chopper, an M-16 dangling from her hand. Her rolling swagger triggered memories. He was back in Mexico, trapped, scared, desperate, in that dark underground dungeon under the drugs complex. She was towering over him, grinning, chain in hand, ready to strike him again until he passed out in pain.
He shook himself back to reality. Amonite was studying the destruction around her with a smug sneer. A man hopped out of the chopper. He was tall and skinny, with pasty skin and a tangled mass of dark hair. A scar zigzagged down his right cheek. He was dressed in a blue shirt and jeans and had a Beretta at his belt.
Nathan pressed the button on his camera. They’d never believe him back home if he didn’t return with photographic evidence of Amonite. But nothing happened. He pressed again. Still nothing. Dirt had jammed it. He tried to clean it with his sleeve.
He glanced up. Amonite and the other guy were walking straight towards him. Nathan slowly unslung his rifle. If he shot Amonite and Scarface first, he could escape before the guards responded. They stopped next to the body of the dead man with the tattoo. Amonite put her hand to her ear-piece and spoke into her collar. Nathan pointed his rifle, but the two guards were trotting over. They grabbed the body and hauled it back to the helicopter. Scarface lifted the trapdoor. He disappeared down the hole with Amonite.
Nathan toyed with the idea of trapping them underground. It was risky. The guards i
n the chopper would notice, unless he managed to disarm them first. He shrugged the idea away when Amonite and Scarface climbed out of the hole moments later. His main objective was to find out what was going on and get out of here alive. A one man assault on Amonite and her team could surely end in his death.
Amonite spoke into her collar again. The two guards ran over, disappeared into the hole, then emerged with sacks of the black powder. Within minutes, a large pile was stacked next to the hole. The two guards loaded the bags into the chopper as Amonite and Scarface continued their heated discussion. They trooped back to the chopper and hauled themselves into the back. The rotor blades kicked off with a whir, soon creating a maelstrom of leaves and dirt. Seconds later, they’d taken off.
Black Coke Page 2