They were heading for the compound that an informer had told them housed Amonite and Don Camplones. They pulled up outside, its nine-foot high whitewashed walls, nibbled with bullet holes, staring down at them. It looked uninhabited. It was deathly quiet. The sky darkened, became black. The special forces guys became smaller and smaller, until they vanished in a blink. The walls of the compound loomed higher and higher, towering over Nathan, who was filled with dread. He wanted to run, but his shoes were stuck to the ground. He realised he’d fallen into a trap, that Amonite was going to appear any second, that the torture and pain was about to begin.
He screamed.
He sat up in bed, sweating, his heart racing. He ripped off his shirt, fumbled for the bottle of water on his desk and gulped it down. He glanced at his bedside clock: 11.12am.
The door to the bedroom burst open.
‘What the hell was that?’ Caitlin said.
Nathan couldn’t answer. He waited for his breathing to settle.
‘What happened yesterday, Nathan? You looked like you’d seen a ghost.’
Nathan shook his head. He didn’t want to talk about it.
‘You’ve slept nearly 24 hours.’ Caitlin leaned against the wall. ‘You must’ve been shattered.’
Nathan lay back in bed and closed his eyes. He heard Caitlin sigh and leave the room. He rolled over onto his side and switched on his mobile. No messages. He got up and stumbled into the shower, then got dressed and went into the kitchen. He still felt fuzzy and drained, so he made himself a strong cup of coffee and fried egg on toast.
‘Caitlin?’
No reply.
He peered into the entrance area. Her coat and handbag weren’t in their usual place. She must have gone out for the day. He chomped his food while listening to the radio. The news was all about the Middle East, where riots were spreading from country to country. It looked like the Front was no longer in the headlines. There was a passing mention about a police investigation into gunfights in North London crack houses, but that was it.
He rang up the hospital and managed to get through to Steve’s girlfriend. She was slightly more coherent today. Steve was in a coma but had survived the critical hours. He’d live, although it would take him weeks, if not months, to fully recover.
Nathan wondered whether to call Cedric. No, that could wait. He needed more time to rest, and anyway, it was Sunday today. He tried to push the events of the crack house out of his mind. He felt too guilty about it. He should never have let Steve take them there. There’d be lots of explanations to give back at Soca.
He needed to keep his mind busy. He went back to his bedroom and went online to search for information on Jamaica’s drugs trade—anything that might give a clue or even just background information. The BBC website had a story about the Jamaican yardies—a slang name originally given to the inhabitants of the government yards in Kingston’s Trenchtown—launching a pitched battle against a crack gang from North London a few weeks ago over distribution of drugs.
A crack gang from North London?
Was that Tony’s gang?
Had Amonite been involved?
There was very little other news about it, just the same story rehashed in different versions across the numerous news websites. Journalists weren’t great at investigations these days. They just recycled the same old stuff over and over again.
He came across a report on crime, violence and development in the Caribbean by the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime and the World Bank. It admitted that the strongest explanation for the high and rising levels of crime and violence in the region was narcotics trafficking. That seemed pretty obvious. Nathan had been to Kingston once before as part of a Soca training course. He’d seen the vast mansions of the drug dons that littered the rising slopes of the Blue Mountains around the city. He’d visited the crime-ridden slum of Tivoli Gardens where each morning sunrise revealed a few more corpses lying in the road, victims of the gang wars over drugs. He’d spoken to the overwhelmed and demoralised police forces, incapable and often unwilling to intervene.
He started reading up on Colombia, which everyone was trumpeting as a major success in the war on drugs. There was an article with a quote from the UNODC director from the previous June saying that the Colombian government’s strategy of combining security and development was paying off. They’d seized 200 tons of cocaine in 2009, which they claimed was a significant achievement. Just a month ago, the International Narcotics Control Board dropped Colombia from its list of countries requiring special observation, saying that it had made significant progress. The UN claimed that large scale eradication had led to a reduction in coca cultivation of 58 per cent in Colombia between 2000 and 2009. But there were conflicting reports over cocaine production, some saying it was dropping, others saying it was surging. Crime was on the rise in the cities, fuelled by an increase in domestic consumption of cocaine.
Nathan put his head in his hands. The futility of it all was depressing. The Front’s rapid growth was a clear indication that Colombia’s drugs strategy was a failure. Yet there was no news recognising that. Just more scaremongering from the authorities.
He leant back in his chair.
Up until this year, he’d been convinced that fighting drugs was the right thing to do. So what had changed?
He got up and went for a walk in the local park near Caledonian Road tube station. A few alcoholics skulked around the benches, shouting at each other and waving their bottles of booze around. A sudden movement caught his attention. A tall man in a leather jacket turned away.
Was it his nerves making him paranoid?
He went back to the flat. Caitlin was still not home. He cooked himself a plate of spaghetti bolognese and sat in front of the TV, watching a mindless action movie. Caitlin stumbled in at 10pm, half drunk, and went straight to her bedroom.
Next morning, Nathan was listening to the Radio 4 news at breakfast. He hadn’t slept particularly well again, his mind thinking about Steve and preparing what he’d tell Cedric today.
‘Police are investigating the spate of violence that erupted in a series of crack houses in North London on Friday night and the early hours of Saturday morning,’ the newsreader was saying. ‘A policeman is in a critical state and a suspected drug dealer is dead, according to an anonymous source who spoke to the BBC.’
The mug of coffee stopped half-way to Nathan’s mouth.
‘Fingers are being pointed at an undercover agent from the Serious Organised Crime Agency for setting up a high-risk operation that backfired.’
Nathan slammed the mug back on the table, spilling coffee everywhere.
‘This will add to existing pressure on Soca to—’
‘Hi Nathan.’
Caitlin had appeared in the doorway.
Nathan turned up the volume on the radio, but the news had moved onto the next item. He pushed past her without saying a word. He grabbed his bag, his keys and jacket.
‘What’s wrong?’ Caitlin said. ‘I wasn’t that drunk last night.’
He left the flat without saying a word. As he headed for his car, his mind boiled with fury and indignation.
Who the hell had leaked the news to the BBC?
And how dare they say it was all his fault.
Chapter 20
Central London, UK
11 April 2011
Nathan rushed up the stairway and through the double doors onto the second floor of Soca. Eyes lifted from computer terminals and gawked at him as he stormed through the rows of desks towards Cedric’s room in the far corner.
Florence, Cedric’s secretary, flicked out the palm of her hand like a traffic warden.
‘He’s busy,’ she said without looking up from her desk, which guarded the entrance to Cedric’s office. She looked like a peacock in her purple dress, lash of red lipstick and bony beak of a nose.
Nathan stepped forward. He had no time for this.
Florence shot up. ‘He’s just been on the phone with Ge
orge.’
‘Let me through.’
‘He’s not in a good mood.’
‘Nor am I.’ Nathan weaved past her.
‘Hey. You can’t—’
Nathan flung the door open.
Cedric was standing in front of a white board next to his desk. He swivelled round, black marker pen in hand, eyebrow raised. His tie was loose and his sleeves rolled up. He had a stubble on his chubby face and dark flabby bags under his eyes.
‘What the hell’s going on, Cedric?’ Nathan said.
‘And good morning to you too.’ Cedric gestured to Florence, who was huffing and puffing in the doorway. ‘It’s okay, Flo. I’ll deal with it.’
She backed out. Nathan gave a reverse kick that banged the door shut so hard the wall vibrated.
‘Did you hear the radio?’
‘Nathan, have a seat.’
‘No.’
‘Lower your voice. Let’s discuss this reasonably.’
‘You were the anonymous source blaming me.’ Nathan jabbed a finger. ‘And you’re telling me to be reasonable?’
‘You sure you don’t want to sit down?’ Cedric tugged off his tie and threw it onto the back of his leather chair. ‘You look knackered.’
Nathan stayed standing.
Cedric shrugged. ‘Would you like a cuppa?’ He walked over to a coffee machine on a small table in a corner. ‘My wife got me this contraption for my birthday last week. Fifty-five already. Would you imagine that? Shame you weren’t around for the party. You’d have enjoyed it.’ He fiddled around with the buttons. ‘Can’t for the life of me figure out how this works, though. Ah, here you go.’
Steam erupted from the machine like from a volcano.
Cedric backed off. ‘Hmm. That’s not right.’ He touched another button. The machine gurgled.
Nathan felt the anger seeping away from him. Cedric had a way of defusing situations that was annoyingly effective at times.
‘Here, let me do it,’ Nathan said.
‘Ah, thanks.’
‘We’ve got the same one at home.’
Nathan poured two cups of coffee. He handed one to Cedric, who went to sit at his desk. He looked at Nathan over the rim of the mug. Nathan sank into the armchair and rubbed his eyes.
‘How’s Caitlin?’
‘Fine.’
They stared at each other.
‘The anonymous source wasn’t me,’ Cedric said eventually.
‘So who then?
Cedric shrugged. ‘Tell me what happened.’
Nathan recounted the events surrounding Tony’s death. Cedric looked away, as though deep in thought.
‘Nathan, I’m sorry about all this.’
‘Is Amonite the boss?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But you know more than you’re willing to tell me, don’t you?’
‘I can’t really explain at the moment.’
Nathan shook his head wearily. ‘Has the mission to Colombia been approved?’
‘I’m working on it. You have to trust me.’
‘Does George want another failed investigation?’
‘I’m not sure he thinks in those terms. He’s a politician. A careerist. Quite the opposite to you.’
A thought struck Nathan. ‘Was he the anonymous source?’
‘I wouldn’t dare speculate.’
Cedric glanced at his computer. He raised a finger. ‘Just a sec.’ His eyebrows furrowed and his face darkened as he read something on his screen.
Nathan sipped his coffee and looked around the office. It was bland and functional, with no windows, just grey walls and the desk. No family pictures, no children’s drawings, no awards. Typical of Cedric’s self-effaced manner. The white board had a spidergram scribbled on it, with names of key crime bosses circled and linked to each other by lines like a web.
‘Good to see you’re using my mapping technique.’ Nathan pointed. ‘Amonite not up there?’
Cedric shook his head.
‘Why not?’
Cedric looked past Nathan and was about to say something when Nathan spoke over him: ‘I can’t believe you’re letting George walk all over you like this.’
‘Did someone mention my name?’ said a clipped voice behind them.
Nathan spun round. There, in the doorway, was Sir George, tall, straight-backed, shark-eyed, smirking.
‘Well, well, well.’ He glided towards them. ‘It’s our star agent. I hear you’ve been causing trouble again.’
Nathan picked up a paper clip from the desk and fiddled with it. He felt like punching the smirk right through George’s smug face. George bent closer, revealing wrinkles on his forehead that even the rumoured face-lifts couldn’t hide.
‘What do you have to say in your defence?’ he said.
‘I didn’t realise I was on trial.’
George turned to Cedric. ‘Have you told him?’
‘Told me what?’ Nathan looked from one to the other.
‘Tell him, Cedric.’
‘I’m really sorry, Nathan.’ Cedric’s shoulders sagged. ‘You’re suspended.’
‘What?’
‘We’re investigating your responsibility in the attempted murder of Steve Willinston,’ George said with a triumphant smile.
Cedric twisted the computer screen round and pointed to an email entitled: ‘Nathan Kershner investigation.’ There was a long list of bullet points with phrases such as ‘errors of judgement’ and ‘disciplinary measures’ in bold and underlined.
Nathan felt like he’d been whacked in the stomach. Weeks of fatigue mixed with anger and shock, tightening his throat, drying his mouth, clouding his mind. Suddenly, he felt certain that George had leaked the news to the BBC. He gritted his teeth in frustration.
George was speaking to Cedric: ‘I want this investigation into Mr Kershner to be a top priority.’
Cedric stammered a reply. Nathan reached over to the keyboard and scrolled through the email, trying to focus on the words.
According to reports from Islington police station, Nathan Kershner and Steve Willinston were seen arguing over whether to storm the crack house that very night. Mr Willinston wanted to wait for the next day, but Mr Kershner was persistent. He was putting undue pressure on Mr Willinston, who eventually relented and reluctantly went with Mr Kershner.
‘What the hell’s this?’ Nathan said.
George turned to Nathan. ‘You stay out of this.’
‘It’s a pack of lies.’
‘Nathan, please,’ Cedric said, his eyes pleading.
‘It’s bullshit. I’m telling you, it’s the complete opposite to what happened.’
‘Keep your dog on a leash and come to see me later,’ George snapped at Cedric. Then he spun on his heels and marched out of the office, the door easing shut behind him. Nathan got up to go after him.
‘Stay here,’ Cedric said. ‘You’ll just get into more trouble.’
Nathan turned to face him. ‘I just explained to you what really happened. You have to believe me.’
They looked at each other. A bead of sweat trickled down Cedric’s cheek.
‘Meet me on Leicester Square in an hour,’ Cedric said, pulling a file of papers from the top drawer of his desk. ‘And read this.’
On the cover sheet were two words.
Black Coke.
Chapter 21
Central London, UK
11 April 2011
‘Nate?’ It was a message from Caitlin. ‘Where are you? Can you call me, please?’
Nathan dialled back, but went straight onto Caitlin’s voicemail. He pressed ahead through the winding pathways of St James’s Park. Children were chucking pebbles into a pond, screeching with delight as the ducks quacked back. Their tired mother uttered half-hearted reprimands from a bench nearby, next to a passed-out tramp clutching a half empty bottle of red wine.
Caitlin was probably organising his love life again.
Black Coke Page 10