Black Coke

by James Grenton

  He shrugged. He had more pressing worries at the moment. George’s behaviour was so blatant it was as if he thought he was above suspicion. Nathan remembered something one of his colleagues had whispered with a sly smile at George’s welcome drinks. About George leaving Colombia ‘under a cloud’ in the early nineties. Nathan had ignored it as just one of the many malicious rumours that always seemed to follow senior law enforcement officials throughout their career. Maybe he needed to dig around some more.

  He arrived at Leicester Square. Children were running around, chasing pigeons. Dreadlocked Rastafarians banged on bongos. Tourists huddled at cafe tables, sipping sparkling mineral water and espressos. Nathan slumped into a chair at an outside terrace and turned up his collar against the cold. He rubbed the fatigue from his eyes and smoothed out his crinkled jacket, the fury of the past few hours still boiling inside him. He ordered a black coffee, yanked the folder from his rucksack and flicked it open to the executive summary.

  Black Coke (street name)

  Expected classification: A

  Lab results: Black Coke is a benzolmethylecgonine (cocaine) derivative made from genetically-enhanced Erythroxylon coca, the traditional coca leaf. Design involves using a cauliflower mosaic virus to insert foreign DNA into the coca plants. Following infection, the virus spreads rapidly throughout the plant’s cells and modifies them. The result is a psychoactive substance of unprecedented potency.

  Nathan speed-read the rest. The lab techies estimated the Black Coke plant could grow ten times faster than a traditional coca plant and in just about any soil. It was resistant to herbicides, making Colombia’s crop eradication programme useless. It was odourless, which meant sniffer dogs used by border police didn’t stand a chance in hell.

  Nathan skipped the chemical explanation and turned to the drug’s effects on the brain.

  Rats injected with Black Coke exhibited a fifteen-fold increase in compulsive drug-taking behaviour compared to our control group. Our hypothesis is that Black Coke affects the dopamine, serotonin and opioid neuroreceptors, although we have yet to elucidate how this takes place. This generates psychoactive symptoms similar to taking crack, heroin and methamphetamine at the same time, and then boosting that with a huge dose of steroids.

  Nathan thought back to the addicts in the crack house. They’d been more wired than any other junkies he’d ever met. He leaned back in his chair, the morning’s events fading, his investigative senses tingling.

  ‘A good read, eh?’

  Cedric was drawing an empty chair towards the table.

  ‘Rather dramatic,’ Nathan said. ‘Not like the lab guys to wax lyrical.’

  ‘I wrote the report myself.’

  ‘It’s all bullshit?’

  ‘No, no, course not. But I needed something quick to keep George out of my hair. And to back you up a bit.’

  ‘Can’t say that’s been a success.’

  ‘You can be rather gung-ho at times.’

  ‘Only when I have no choice,’ Nathan said. ‘If there’s one thing that damn special forces training taught me it was not to rush like a nutter into a hostile situation.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Look, Cedric, I knew I should’ve stopped Steve from heading out. I accept responsibility for that. But not for those lies in that email.’

  ‘I know.’ Cedric sighed. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll sort it out. Now back to this Black Coke. The lab deciphered the chemical structure. It’s like nothing they’ve ever seen before.’

  ‘Has anybody tried some?’

  Cedric shook his head. ‘Health and safety.’

  ‘How did the Front develop it? From the little I know, it’s not that easy to genetically engineer plants.’

  ‘A Cambridge geneticist, a guy called Christopher Aldridge. Disappeared a few weeks back. Then found dead in a pond two days ago. Garrotted. He was working with that Nobel prize professor. The one who claimed she’d discovered the secret to life. They developed a new form of genetic engineering.’

  ‘You reckon the Front stole the secret?’ Nathan said.

  ‘Most likely.’

  ‘What does this professor say?’

  ‘She’s dead. Fell out of her top floor window a few days ago.’

  ‘Pushed?’

  ‘Probably.’

  Nathan’s phone buzzed silently. He pulled it from his pocket. ‘It’s Caitlin. I need to take this.’ He turned away. ‘Caitlin, what is it?’

  ‘There’s this big bloke following me.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘I don’t make these things up, Nate. You should bloody well know that by now.’

  ‘Okay, okay. What does he look like?’

  ‘Slick hair. Dark skin. Nose like a pig. Pops up everywhere like a ghost.’

  ‘You sure you’re not imagining things?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Nate, I may be depressed, but I’m not paranoid. He stares at me, takes pictures of me, trying to freak me out.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Outside Angel station.’

  ‘Go home. Lock the door. I’m on my way.’

  He hung up and turned to Cedric, who was studying him carefully.

  ‘Caitlin’s got problems?’ Cedric said.

  ‘She reckons someone’s tailing her.’ Nathan stood up. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Wait.’ Cedric put his hand on Nathan’s arm. ‘I need to brief you.’

  ‘Not now.’

  ‘She’ll be fine. Sit down. I’ll keep it short.’ Cedric flicked open his briefcase and pulled out a brown folder. Nathan perched on the edge of the seat. Maybe Caitlin was over-reacting.

  ‘The ASI and the Front,’ Cedric said, spreading the folder out on the table. ‘They’re working together.’

  ‘I know that. Tell me about Amonite. How does she fit in?’

  ‘Let me finish. The ASI is providing the Front with intel on the other cartels. Where they operate, their numbers, their resources. The Front uses this to plan its attacks.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say this at my presentation?’

  ‘Because we can’t take George head on,’ Cedric said. ‘It doesn’t work. Now, about Amonite. I dug out her file from last year.’ He flipped a few pages and slid the folder towards Nathan, who skimmed it.

  Amonite was born in El Paso, in West Texas. Her parents were shopkeepers from Bogotá who had emigrated to the US. Amonite had a troubled childhood, expelled from one school after the next for aggressive behaviour, until she joined the US army, where she trained as a sniper and explosives expert. She’d been in the first Iraq War, then spent time back in Colombia in the late nineties as a military advisor in counter-narcotics before going to Afghanistan after 9/11. She’d been reprimanded a few times for brutalising prisoners, but that was commonplace in the US army.

  ‘Not much new here,’ Nathan said. ‘Although I’d forgotten she’d been kicked out of the army for drug dealing.’

  She’d moved back to the US, where they’d caught her using her Colombian connections to smuggle coke via the Mexican border. The army had expelled her quietly. She became a mercenary, criss-crossing the globe’s trouble spots—Congo, Liberia, Colombia again—before joining La Eme, the powerful Mexican mafia, which was spreading across the US and Europe with increasing brutality. Impressed by her skills, Don Camplones, La Eme’s arrogant and cruel leader, had taken Amonite on as his personal assassin.

  There was a long-lens photo of a muscular woman with longish hair and a stubby face with a short nose and sunglasses. Her Adam’s apple was way too prominent, symptomatic of a sustained addiction to anabolic steroids. She was flanked by two wide-shouldered thugs.

  ‘How did she survive the execution?’ Nathan looked up. ‘We were there. We saw the Mexican cops shoot them.’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Could Camplones also be alive? Maybe he’s the secret boss of the Front?’

  ‘That’s for you to find out.’

  Nathan lined up the papers by tapping their edges
on the table. ‘I can take these, right?’

  ‘Shred them once you’re done.’

  ‘I’d better get going.’ Nathan stood up, the tingling growing inside him. This was what he was good at: investigating international criminal networks, building a case, and taking the bastards down. ‘Am I really suspended?’

  ‘George won’t back down.’

  ‘So what do you expect me to do?’

  ‘I think you need to go back to Colombia.’

  ‘Unofficially?’

  Cedric nodded grimly. He handed Nathan a strip of paper with a phone number on it.

  ‘It’s secure,’ he said. ‘Only in absolute emergencies.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Nathan memorised the number then ripped up the piece of paper. His phone buzzed. It was Caitlin again.

  Cedric put his hand on Nathan’s arm. ‘There’s a last thing you should know.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘George…’

  ‘What about him?’ The phone stopped halfway to Nathan’s ear.

  ‘He’s just got himself re-appointed ambassador to Colombia.’

  Chapter 22

  North London, UK

  11 April 2011

  Nathan knew something was wrong as soon as he reached the landing leading to his apartment. The clay pot outside his front door was shattered. Earth and flower petals were scattered all over the corridor. Caitlin’s bike was lying on its side, its back wheel spinning.

  Nathan rushed to the door. It was locked.

  He thrust his hand into his jacket and grabbed the Browning he’d picked up at the crack house. He unlocked the door and eased it open. He stepped into the hallway. Caitlin’s shoes and scarf were strewn across the laminate flooring. Her fur coat was in a corner. Her handbag lay on the doormat with half its contents spilling out.

  Nathan peered into the kitchen. A half-eaten bowl of cereal and an empty bottle of milk were on the table. The sink overflowed with dirty dishes. He crept down the dark corridor, listening. Voices came from the living room. The door was shut. He placed his left hand on the handle.

  He burst in.

  ‘Caitlin!’

  She was lying on the sofa, eyes closed, an arm hanging down. Nathan raced to her side. He shook her.

  ‘Caitlin, please, no.’ Tears welled in his eyes. He shook her again. She didn’t budge. ‘Caitlin, oh my God, please.’

  He felt her neck. Her pulse was beating firmly. He leaned closer. She reeked of booze. He checked her body. No sign of injury.

  She stirred. ‘Mmmm?’

  ‘For God’s sake.’ Nathan tucked the gun away. ‘What the hell happened?’

  She opened bleary eyes. ‘So good to see you.’

  ‘I’ve had enough of your drinking.’

  She turned away, her back towards him. She hugged a cushion.

  ‘Caitlin, who smashed the pot?’

  ‘It was in the way.’

  Nathan pulled Caitlin’s shoulder to twist her round. She shrugged him off.

  ‘I’m tired,’ she said.

  ‘You are taking the piss.’ Nathan yanked off his coat and threw it on an armchair. ‘I ran two red lights because of you. For this? What would Dad have thought?’

  ‘Don’t start.’

  ‘How many have you had?’

  ‘Not many.’

  Yeah, right. Nathan had heard that one before.

  ‘Where did you go?’ he said.

  ‘The Slug.’

  ‘Why?’ Nathan said, stomping back to close the front door.

  ‘To make sure that creep wasn’t following me anymore,’ she yelled after him.

  Nathan studied the lock. No scratches or signs of tampering. He scanned the corridor leading to the neighbouring apartments. A movement caught his eye at the far corner, where the corridor made a right angle and led to another row of flats. He locked the door behind him and walked briskly down the corridor. An elderly woman laden with shopping bags was fumbling in her handbag. She eyed Nathan suspiciously. He nodded politely and went back to his apartment.

  ‘And?’ he said, as he entered the front door again. ‘Was that creep still following you?’

  ‘Not after I cycled home at full speed,’ Caitlin said. She was leaning out of the window and lighting a cigarette.

  ‘Get away from the window,’ Nathan said.

  She stumbled back, nearly tripping over. Nathan checked the street outside as he closed the window. Just kids playing in the small park across the road. He yanked the curtains shut and sat on the other end of the sofa, across from Caitlin. She kept puffing away.

  ‘My job’s dangerous, Caitlin. People could try to hurt you to get at me.’

  ‘Why the hell do you think I called?’

  ‘I want you to stay with John for a few weeks.’

  Caitlin stubbed out her cigarette in the overflowing ashtray on the coffee table. She had that stubborn look in her eyes.

  ‘I’ve just dumped him again,’ she said.

  ‘I need to go back to Colombia. I want someone to keep you safe.’

  ‘Ha! You think John’s capable of that?’

  ‘Just do as I say for once, will you?’’

  Caitlin lit up another cigarette. ‘Why don’t they send someone else?’

  ‘Can you quit asking questions?’

  ‘You’re such a pain at times.’ She lurched to her feet and tottered to the bathroom.

  Nathan went to his bedroom and sat at his desk. Maybe nobody had been following Caitlin. Maybe she’d made it all up in order to get his attention. Well, it had worked. He flicked open his laptop and found the number for Alcoholics Anonymous. He jotted it on a post-it note and left it on the side of the desk. He’d hand it to Caitlin once she’d sobered up.

  He rested his chin on his hands. Here he was, working in an organisation that was trying to stamp out illegal drugs, and yet his sister was addicted to one of the most dangerous legal drugs ever devised: alcohol. Dad, a teetotaller for most of his adult life, would have been shocked.

  Nathan plucked his travel rucksack from underneath the pile of dirty clothes in the corner of his room. It was still covered in dried mud and grime from his recent trip to Colombia. The side pockets contained all his usual travel gear: toothbrush and toothpaste, flashlight, survival tin, a Lonely Planet guide to Colombia. He rummaged around in the wardrobe for clean clothes: jeans and short sleeve t-shirts for street work, black combats and long sleeve black t-shirts for night-time activity, shirts and his half decent but crumpled suit in case he needed to attend anything more formal. He dumped them on the bed. He’d pack it all later.

  The sound of running water came from the bathroom. There was a splash and a sigh as Caitlin got into the bath.

  Nathan sat down at his desk and went into his email. There was a message from Soca ordering him to attend an interview about ‘the Steve Willinston incident’ tomorrow at 9am. He deleted it and bought himself a ticket to Bogotá via Newark leaving Heathrow airport at 9.05am the following morning. He paid with his other credit card, with the cover name of Nathan Chrorley, which matched his false passport.

  He logged onto Google. A few things were intriguing him. If Jamaica was the mid-point, how was the Front smuggling the drugs across the Caribbean? Small planes were difficult because the Drug Enforcement Administration patrolled the airs. Was it drug mules? There’d been a spate of them recently: young, desperate Jamaican women swallowed pellets of cocaine tightly wrapped in cellophane or condoms and marched through UK or US customs, terrified of being caught or of the cocaine leaking into their stomachs. Those kinds of smuggling processes took time to set up and were high risk. Nathan guessed Amonite would be looking for something more scalable in large quantities, probably a boat.

  A thought struck him. One of the academic books he’d read a couple of years ago as part of the literature review of his PhD could be useful. He loaded his Endnotes bibliography software and scrolled through his list of references. The book was called ‘Drug Smugglers on Drug Smuggling’. It
was qualitative research: interviews with drug smugglers under condition of anonymity to ask them about the latest techniques in international drug smuggling. Exactly the kind of thing that could help research his trip. It was available at the British Library, just down the road.

  Nathan glanced at his clock. It was 1.12pm. He had a few hours to kill and he couldn’t go back to Soca after being suspended. The very thought made him furious. Better to spend some time at the British Library gathering as much information as possible ahead of his trip.