Black Coke

by James Grenton

  ‘Yeah, well.’

  ‘Look, Nate.’ Caitlin fixed him with her big sister stare. ‘You need to look for another job.’

  ‘We’ve had this conversation before.’

  ‘You’re their best agent, for heaven’s sake. Look at what you did last year with the Mexicans. Yet they still won’t give you that promotion.’

  ‘Maybe they will if I impress them today.’

  ‘I don’t understand why you do this.’

  Nathan took a bite from his toast. ‘You would if you’d seen what I saw in Colombia.’

  ‘That’s Colombia’s problem.’

  ‘It is our problem, Caitlin. It’s, it’s…’ Nathan sighed. Last thing he needed was another argument with Caitlin. ‘Can we talk about something else? Like, what are you doing today?’

  ‘Got a meeting with the marketing department for the new bath lotion.’

  ‘That red stuff that stinks?’

  She laughed. ‘You don’t have a clue, do you?’

  ‘Enough to know what smells nice and what doesn’t.’

  ‘Well, I won’t be giving you that for Christmas.’ She turned back to her crosswords, then looked up. ‘Before I forget, there’s a message from Sandra on the answer phone.’

  Nathan took a sip of coffee. Sandra had also left him half a dozen messages on his mobile. But he had no intention of ringing her back. Now wasn’t the right time for a relationship.

  ‘You will call her back, won’t you?’ Caitlin said.

  ‘Not my type.’

  ‘Who is your type?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘Okay, forget Sandra. What about Anna? She’s fit. She’s funny. And she’ll be at the dinner on Friday. I think she likes you.’

  ‘I need to work on my methods chapter on Friday.’

  ‘Oh, hell. Why do I bother? Laura’s not gonna come back, you know. She sure made that clear.’

  ‘For God’s sake.’ Nathan pushed his plate away and stomped into his bedroom. Caitlin could be so annoying. He sat on the bed and sighed. Yet she was right. He was mid-thirties and still no stable life on the horizon. Laura had wanted to settle down. He hadn’t. Anything that restricted his freedom made him nervous.

  He looked through his wardrobe, trying to identify his suit among the crumpled mess of jeans and t-shirts. He found it tucked away in the corner, but it was all wrinkled. He chucked it back in. He didn’t have time to iron it out. The board would just have to accept him as he was.

  He picked up his laptop from his desk and dumped it into his rucksack. It hit something with a clonk. He dug his hand deep and pulled out the black cube he’d found in Colombia. It was so smooth, the angles so sharp, the colour so vivid. It reflected no light. Was it made of dyed wood? Or some kind of light volcanic stone? Maybe he should have given it to the lab techies along with the powder and leaves? Then again, how would they know what it was? They were chemists, not geologists.

  He put the cube on his desk and looked around his tiny bedroom. Criminology textbooks were stacked in piles on the carpet. The desk overflowed with sheets of paper covered in scribbled notes. His shelves were jammed with more books. His bed had muddy clothes from his trip to Colombia strewn all over it.

  He picked up a print-out of his report to the board and went back into the lounge. Caitlin was fiddling with a pack of Prozac. She popped one and downed it with a glass of orange juice.

  ‘I’m only trying to help,’ she said.

  ‘How did the counselling go last week?’

  ‘It went okay.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘That it’ll take time.’

  ‘But Dad died two years ago.’

  Tears welled in her eyes. ‘I know.’

  ‘It’s okay.’ Nathan reached across the table and touched her hand. ‘You can live here as long as you like. That’s what brothers are for.’

  Caitlin leaned forward to hug him, but knocked over his mug, splashing the remains of his coffee on his hands and the newspaper.

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’ Nathan wiped his hands on a tea-towel. He pushed the newspaper to one side and cleaned the table with a sponge.

  Caitlin dried her eyes. She picked up a large envelope from the chair next to her.

  ‘This came for you while you were away,’ she said.

  Nathan slashed it open with a knife. It was a colourful brochure about the London School of Economics’s Mannheim Centre for Criminology. The covering letter was addressed to Nathan.

  ‘They’re inviting me to apply for a lectureship. They must have heard about my—’ He looked up. ‘You didn’t, did you?’

  ‘Didn’t what?’

  ‘Send them my CV.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Nathan sighed.

  ‘You’re all I’ve got left, Nate.’

  ‘We’ll talk about it later.’ Nathan looked at the clock. ‘Oh, damn.’ He grabbed his leather jacket from behind the kitchen door. ‘See you later.’

  ‘No suit?’

  ‘No time.’

  ‘Stick up for yourself this time,’ Caitlin called after him as he closed the front door and raced down the stone steps that led to Caledonian Road.

  Chapter 7

  North London, UK

  5 April 2011

  Nathan rushed down the street, trying to remember where he’d parked his battered grey Fiesta amid the row of cars stuck bumper to bumper. He stepped over a pool of vomit outside a pub, then walked round a pile of rubbish outside a corner shop.

  He glanced at his watch: 8.45am.

  Damn. He couldn’t afford to be late.

  Maybe the car was on the next road. He’d been too preoccupied by his report into the Front investigation when he got home last night. He sprinted down a side street. There it was: between a large blue Ford and a bright red Renault. He ripped up the parking ticket that was stuck under the windscreen wiper and slipped into the driver’s seat.

  He twisted round the rearview mirror to glance at himself. Caitlin assured him that her girlfriends found him attractive, with his chiselled face, sharp nose and brown eyes. He doubted they’d think the same if they saw him now, looking more like a grizzly bear with his curly black hair and beard. But at least he was clean.

  He drove through King’s Cross, then got stuck in traffic around Euston station. He switched on the radio. A female newsreader was going over the latest skirmish in Iraq. Five civilians and a British soldier had died when an improvised explosive device went off in Baghdad. Nathan cringed. Too many bad memories. He was about to turn the radio off when the newsreader moved onto the next item.

  ‘Following a shooting last night in an East London pub, police are concerned by the recent arrival in the UK of Front 154, a gang with a reputation for extreme violence.’ Nathan cranked up the volume. ‘Front 154 is believed to have emerged from Buen Pastor prison in Medellín, Colombia. The gang is said to have taken its name from cell number 154, where it used to meet.’

  The traffic rumbled forward. The newsreader had a guest on the line.

  ‘Sir George Lloyd-Wanless, as chairman of the Serious Organised Crime Agency, how do you respond to accusations that Soca is not taking the threat of Front 154 seriously enough?’

  ‘Nonsense. Anyway, who’s the accuser?’

  ‘I…I can’t reveal my sources.’

  ‘Then don’t make unsubstantiated accusations, young lady.’

  ‘It was someone high up in Soca.’ The newsreader paused. ‘What are you doing to stop the Front?’

  ‘We’re setting up a special unit. Reporting to me.’

  ‘What will it do?’

  ‘I can’t reveal that for reasons of national security.’

  Nathan shook his head in disbelief. He’d only met George once, at an office party last year, when he’d just been appointed chairman. He’d come across as old-style British, a former army general used to ordering others around with his posh accent, not debating with them. George’s welcome speech had been
all about showing off his own accomplishments: his military successes in the Falklands War, his time as British ambassador to Colombia in the late eighties and early nineties where he claimed to have just about single-handedly brought down Pablo Escobar and the Medellín cartel, his work in the Secret Intelligence Service, tracking down Al Qaeda. A pompous, self-obsessed, but ruthlessly powerful careerist, just about everyone at Soca had concluded with dismay.

  The newsreader was struggling on. ‘Did you find out who was behind that shooting last night in the East End?’

  ‘We have our leads.’

  ‘What about rumours the Front has developed a new strain of genetically engineered cocaine?’

  ‘Who told you this?’ George snapped. ‘The same source?’

  ‘Erm, I can’t reveal that.’

  ‘Preposterous. The best labs in the world would take years to genetically modify coca plants successfully.’

  ‘Who’s the boss of Front 154?’ the newsreader said.

  ‘I can’t reveal that, either.’

  Nathan’s mobile rang. He turned the radio off.

  ‘Hi, Cedric.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Stuck in traffic listening to George talk crap on the radio.’

  ‘Get a move on. They’re early.’

  Nathan hung up and sped down the bus lane, his mind racing. Nobody knew who controlled the Front. The ex-convicts may have set it up, but they didn’t have the organisational skills to manage such a fast growing network. It had to be someone much more powerful. Nathan had argued the case many times within Soca, but nobody yet had backed his theory. Amonite Victor was clearly involved, but there had to be other, more influential people backing her. As for the genetic modification of cocaine, the lab would soon confirm whether that was the case. He desperately hoped George was right, but he suspected not.

  Nathan parked the car in a side street near St James’s Park tube station. He raced across the road, past the rotating sign outside New Scotland Yard, to the Soca offices.

  He took a deep breath and walked in.

  Chapter 8

  Central London, UK

  5 April 2011

  Nathan burst through the double doors of the board room bang on 9.30am. He froze, his breathing heavy and his forehead sweaty from sprinting up five flights of stairs.

  Six grey-haired heads turned round in surprise.

  Nathan slid into the black leather chair in front of him. He mumbled a hello.

  The six men turned away. They were all former chiefs of the police and intelligence services, gossiping like old boys at a reunion. They were suited up in fine shirts and jackets, with gold cuff links and fancy ties. Each had a set of papers—probably Nathan’s report—and a bottle of mineral water in front of them on the oak table.

  ‘Ahem.’

  The men stopped talking as abruptly as if someone had whacked them with a cricket bat. Awkward expressions swept the room. Nathan swivelled round in his chair.

  Sir George Lloyd-Wanless filled the doorway, his wavy silver hair contrasting with his deeply tanned face. A tight-fitting navy blue suit emphasised his build, as though making a point that someone his age could stay in shape. A blood-red tie, harbouring an intricate coat of arms, stood out like a wound on his chest. His gaze rested for a few seconds on each person, a disappointed general silently scolding his unruly officers.

  He marched to the seat at the head of the table. He dropped his briefcase with a loud crash on the table in front of him, knocking a bottle of water over. One of the men scrambled over to stop it rolling to the floor.

  A hand patted Nathan’s shoulder.

  ‘Nathan, welcome,’ said the gentle voice of Cedric Belville.

  Nathan relaxed as he turned round. Cedric was nodding politely to everyone as he took his seat, his short, plump body appearing even shorter next to George. His bushy eyebrows had long hairs sticking out like the antennae on those black beetles in the jungle. With his green tweed jacket and open shirt, he looked more like a university professor than the director general of the Serious Organised Crime Agency. A colleague had once said Cedric was so small and round you could’ve rolled him down a hill like a snowball.

  ‘Chairman, members of the board.’ Cedric gestured round the room. ‘Let me introduce our star agent, the man who brought down Don Camplones: Nathan Kershner.’

  Nathan flashed an embarrassed smile. The six men dipped their heads in sombre acknowledgement. George flicked open the report.

  ‘Nathan, you know who everyone is. I’ll skip the intros,’ Cedric said with a sly smirk. ‘We’ve got a packed agenda.’ He made a rolling motion with his hand. ‘Fire away.’

  Nathan moved to the far side of the room, next to the pull-down screen. He picked up the remote control for the projector. He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. He glanced down at his creased green shirt. It had coffee stains all over it.

  ‘Everyone’s read your report,’ Cedric said. ‘A summary will do to kick off.’

  ‘Okay, right.’ Nathan cleared his throat. ‘You’re all aware of the meteoric rise of Front 154. So I’ll focus here on their recent move into southern Colombia, where they’re trying to gain control of the upstream supply chain of cocaine-based drugs.’

  ‘Cocaine-based?’ said one of the directors, a large man with a grey moustache and round spectacles.

  ‘Can I get back to you on that in a moment? First some context.’ Nathan hit the on button for the projector and stepped back. A political map of Central and South America blinked onto the screen.

  ‘Front 154 operates mainly from Colombia, although we suspect it has connections elsewhere, possibly Mexico.’ He used the red laser from the remote to point to the relevant countries. ‘It’s waging a brutal war with the other drug cartels. A war it is winning.’

  Nathan clicked forward. ‘This is a small village in Putumayo, a major coca growing area controlled by narcotraffickers. A death squad attacked the village six days ago, killing all men, women and children.’

  He lingered on the photo of the village burnt to the ground in the middle of the jungle. The directors stayed stony faced. They’d seen all this kind of stuff before. George glanced at his gold watch.

  Nathan clicked again. ‘This picture shows an attack by Front 154 on a coca camp. Notice the British-made Lynx helicopters.’

  George cut in. ‘How did you secure these photographs, young man?’

  ‘It says in my report, sir. I took them.’

  ‘The Colombians have made significant progress fighting the rebels, the paramilitaries and the cartels. President Caviedas told me that himself when I met him in Bogotá last June. Yet you’re telling me that this new outfit, this Front one hundred and…and…’

  ‘One five four.’

  ‘This Front 154 springs up out of nowhere and massacres whole villages, just like that?’

  ‘It hasn’t sprung out of nowhere.’

  ‘Then who the hell runs it, for Christ’s sake?’

  ‘I have my suspicions.’

  ‘Suspicions?’ George slapped his hand flat on his briefcase. ‘I want facts. Hard. Verified. Reliable. Facts.’

  Nathan glanced at Cedric, who was looking down and fiddling with his pen. He pressed on. ‘This slide shows an underground production facility for a new, powerful cocaine-based drug. My theory is that it’s made from genetically-modified coca plants, made to resist Plan Colombia’s fumigation programme.’

  ‘How do you know?’ George said.

  ‘Because of the next slide. See this plant? The long, dark leaves. I’m convinced it’s supercoca.’

  Silence. George’s eyes thinned to two crevices in his unnaturally smooth face.

  ‘I’m calling it Black Coke,’ Nathan said, relishing the impact he was having. He switched to a slide of the bricks of compressed black powder in the underground lab. ‘If it’s allowed to grow across Colombia, we’ll face an explosion in drug production unseen since the days of Pablo Escobar.’

 
‘What does the Colombian government say?’

  ‘We didn’t speak to them.’

  George steepled his fingers. ‘But they’re our allies.’

  Nathan flicked another glance at Cedric, who was leafing through his report with a frown. Why wasn’t Cedric sticking up for him? He turned back to George.