‘Relax, mon. It’s all fine.’ He tried to wink, but found it difficult to coordinate. ‘The Lord’s on our side.’
‘What do we do now?’
‘Let’s go pick up the boys.’ Elijah dropped the mike next to the radio. ‘We got a job to do.’
Chapter 27
Bogotá, Colombia
11 April 2011
‘Aren’t you just being irresponsible?’ said Sylvia Lituni, the permed and heavily made-up anchorwoman. She had bright green eyes and a matching green suit with eighties-style shoulder pads. She fixed Lucia with the intensity of the medusa about to turn her captive to stone. A raft of scents oozed from her, filling the Caracol TV news set like a beauty salon.
Lucia looked around, wishing she was somewhere else. The cameraman, the sound engineer, the news director—all of them seemed to be holding their breath.
She launched in. ‘Plan Colombia’s a disaster.
Fumigation wipes out legal as well as illegal crops and causes environmental devastation. The barrios are overflowing with jobless peasants. Front 154 gets stronger every day and is now massacring whole villages. Yet neither the Americans, the British, nor our government are showing any change of strategy. Quite the opposite. It’s all gung-ho, shoot-em-up, Rambo-style tough talk. That’s what I call irresponsible.’
‘If you legalised cocaine, everybody would be taking it,’ Sylvia said. ‘We’d have a national epidemic. An international pandemic.’
‘Ha! We already do. Look, legalisation would mean the end of our civil war. No cash for the Front, the rebels, the cartels.’ Lucia paused. ‘Or the government, for that matter.’
There was an audible intake of breath in the studio.
‘I’m not sure you should put the Front and the government in the same boat.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong.’ Lucia smiled, then realised she was coming across as too smug. She grabbed a sheet of paper from in front of her. ‘Here’s an article in the New York Times. It says, and I quote, that “Front 154’s rise to power has been enabled by an implicit collusion with certain elements within state agencies, according to a senior source from the Colombian government.”’
She picked up another paper. ‘What about this one: “The Colombian president’s new policy of full-on attack against Front 154 is being undermined by his very own secret service.”’ She looked up. ‘That was the Wall Street Journal.’ She leaned back in her chair. ‘Let’s get real. Front 154 didn’t burst onto the global scene just like that. Our own investigation into links between the Agency for Security and Intelligence and the Front has revealed that—’
Sylvia cut Lucia off with a flick of her hand. ‘Sir George Lloyd-Wanless,’ she said to the sharp-dressed man on her other side, ‘as the newly appointed British ambassador, what’s your considered view of our government’s policy on drugs and armed groups?’
Lucia groaned inwardly. As if this plastic-faced British aristocrat was going to give a considered viewpoint. She looked at Joanna, her PR manager, who was standing in a corner of the TV studio in her neat grey skirt and cream blouse, clutching a clipboard to her generous chest. Her pretty little face was scrunched into a frown. Again.
‘I’m not that new,’ George said. ‘I expect Miss Carlisla was still at nursery school at the time, so she won’t remember that I was ambassador here in the early nineties. In the days of Pablo Escobar himself.’
‘I’m guessing your tremendous experience in this area is why your government appointed you again, Sir George?’
‘Precisely.’
‘So what is your view on Front 154?’
George stared straight into the camera as though trying to hypnotise it. Dark eyes hovered above a cinder block jaw.
‘Legalisation is a despicable concept. It would give free rein to drug cartels to expand globally. Just observe the situation in the Netherlands.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Lucia cut in with a derisive laugh. ‘If we legalise, there’ll be no more drug cartels. The Front will go out of business. It’ll become a regulated and safer industry.’ She picked up another sheet of paper. ‘Listen to this: “ending drug prohibition is the only way to reduce violence in Latin America.” That was The Guardian newspaper. And what about this—’
Sylvia held up her hand again. ‘Miss Carlisla, please, let Sir George finish.’
Lucia sighed. George started again. ‘As for Front 154, the situation is under control. Fears of its influence are greatly exaggerated. Nevertheless, I’m pleased to announce that my government has approved an extra one hundred million pounds to support Colombia’s fight against drugs, terrorism, crime—and Front 154, of course. We are now the second largest donor of military aid to Colombia. This will mean more special forces training, more fumigation, more attacks on cartels, more—’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, you are so full of shit.’ Lucia slammed her fist on the desk. ‘Can’t you accept that you’ve failed? That this whole thing is a catastrophic mess?’
Silence descended. Sylvia’s eyes were wide.
Lucia stood up. She had everyone’s attention, and she intended to make the most of it. To hell with the consequences.
‘Did killing Escobar make a difference?’ she said. ‘Has fumigating half the country made a difference? Has massacring tens of thousands of campesinos made a difference? Do you take us for morons?’
Lucia paused for breath. George’s eyes narrowed to slits. Joanna was deathly pale. Sylvia looked like she was about to have a heart attack.
‘Drugs are a scourge,’ George said, his voice menacingly low. ‘They have to be stamped out by any means. And it’s not a bunch of liberal hippy activists that’s going to get us out of this mess.’
‘You fool.’ Lucia jabbed her finger at George. ‘Do you really think you can—’
Sylvia raised both hands. ‘Thank you to both our guests for this lively debate.’ She turned to Lucia. ‘Sit down.’
Lucia stopped talking, her sense of momentum lost. Joanna was nodding her head furiously.
‘I said sit down,’ Sylvia repeated.
Lucia dropped into her chair, fuming. George smirked.
Sylvia turned to face the camera. ‘And now for some sport.’
Lucia ripped off her microphone and stormed away from the news set.
‘Don’t think we’ll be sending you to do that again,’ Joanna said as she emerged from the edge of the TV studio, her long blonde hair and slim body drawing appreciative looks from the camera crew. ‘The board’s going to go ballistic.’
‘I don’t care what the board says.’
‘Don’t lose it on camera,’ Joanna continued with a scowl. ‘It makes viewers switch to the other side of the argument.’
‘But that guy was such an idiot.’
‘You need to stay calm and considered. You need to sound like the voice of reason, not some crazy, drug-loving, commie-voting, guerrilla-kissing, peasant-hugging subversive.’
‘Was that how I sounded?’
‘You know that’s how you sounded.’
One of the TV crew tapped Joanna on the shoulder and pulled her away a few paces. Probably to chat her up, Lucia thought with a hint of jealousy.
Lucia looked round. George was striding towards her, a furious look on his tanned face. She turned away, but too late.
‘Don’t think you’ll get away with this,’ he said in a hushed tone. ‘Your pathetic little campaign may be riding a sudden wave of success, but it won’t last.’
‘Oh yeah? And who says?’
‘Someone who’s much more powerful than your pretty little head can ever imagine.’
‘Is that a threat?’
‘Take it as a gentle warning.’
Lucia jabbed George’s large chest with her index finger, making him step back in surprise. ‘Now you listen to me, mister. I don’t give a shit about your powerful friends and all your dick-waving tough talk on drugs. Go and tell your government that they can go fuck themselves. The drug war’s lost. No
w get over it.’
‘It’s not my government you should be worried about, young lady. Take my advice. Back off before it’s too late.’ He spun on his heels and marched off like a soldier at a military rally.
‘What was all that about?’ Joanna said as she turned back towards Lucia. ‘You chatting up the enemy?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘What did he want?’
‘Just saying goodbye.’
‘Yet another bigwig you’ve offended?’ She handed Lucia her leather jacket. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here before you cause another scene.’
Chapter 28
Acton Town, UK
12 April 2011
Nathan let the door to the hotel room slam shut behind him. He flicked a switch. A ceiling bulb buzzed to life, casting a yellow glow that struggled to light up the centre of the room. He dropped his rucksack onto the bed, where it landed with a thud as though it had hit a slab of concrete. The room reeked of stale sweat like the changing rooms to his local boxing gym after a two hour sparring session. The bedsheets were crumpled, greasy and stained. The walls were splattered with graffiti, mementos to the hordes of young backpackers who had used this basement cell on the south-west side of London as a stepping stone to greater adventures.
Nathan checked the window. It was glazed and cracked with vertical bars across, staring onto a grey brick wall. A sliver of light slipped through from street level above, illuminating specks of dust that danced in the cold air of the room with an eerie ginger glimmer. A jet plane roared past overhead. Heathrow airport wasn’t far.
He curled up on the bed. He shoved his rucksack against the wall and used it as a pillow. If only he could sleep and forget about everything…
He shook his head. He dialled Cedric’s emergency number again.
It rang and rang.
He headed for the bathroom. He scrubbed his hands in the brown water of the washbasin. They still smelt of blood.
Caitlin’s blood.
An image of her seared through his brain. She was lying there, her throat gashed, chest mutilated, blood seeping out, dripping onto the floor.
He sat on the edge of the bed. He tried to let the storm in his mind settle. Amonite had tailed him to the British Library, but hadn’t tried to kill him. Why? Was she just trying to frighten him off?
He lay back. With each deep breath, he tried to let go of his thoughts, to relax his body, to take control of his emotions. But they were too strong. He hardly knew whether he was furious, despairing, sad, or all three at the same time. He’d felt like this before, after the death of his two army mates in Sierra Leone. Except that this was worse. They’d been soldiers. They knew what to expect.
He sat up and went to the shower. A trickle of water spluttered out. He grabbed a thin bar of soap from the side of the sink and scrubbed his body until the skin went red. As he was drying himself, a plan began to form in his mind. He pulled on his shirt and trousers, then reached for the phone, his hands still trembling.
‘Manuel?’
‘Nathan. Why’ve you not been in touch?’
‘I’m coming back. Will you be around?’
‘In Bogotá. I’ve got meetings with the campesino movement.’
‘How long you there for?’
‘Two days. Then back to Putumayo.’
‘Okay,’ Nathan said. ‘I’ll meet you in Bogotá.’
‘Something wrong?’
A lump appeared in Nathan’s throat.
‘Nathan?’
‘Everything’s fine. Just need to check a few things. That’s why I’m coming back.’
‘There’s someone I want you to see. She can help.’
‘Who?’
‘I can’t say on the phone. Ring me when you get here.’
Nathan hung up. He looked at his watch: 1.30am. He set his alarm for 6.30am. He doubted he’d be able to sleep, but any rest would be good for him.
His phone buzzed.
‘Nathan? It’s Cedric. Where the hell are you?’
‘She’s dead.’
‘What happened?’
‘Garrotted. Sliced up. Like an animal.’
‘Nathan, listen to me.’
‘I failed, Cedric. I failed real bad.’
‘Stop it!’ Cedric’s voice had an icy edge to it. ‘You’re losing it again.’
‘I’m going after them.’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Don’t tell me what to do. Not now. Not ever again.’
‘Come into the office. We’ll sort it out.’
‘No.’
‘I’ll protect you.’
‘Ha! You expect me to believe that, with George throwing his weight around?’
‘I’m dealing with George. But you need to come in.’
A migraine tore through Nathan’s brain like a machete hacking a tree trunk. His eyes lost focus.
‘Nathan, you have to trust me. Scotland Yard’s after you.’
‘Why?’
‘I shouldn’t be saying this.’
‘Tell me.’
‘The assault on Steve. They’ve made you a suspect.’
‘George, the bastard.’
‘There’s something else, Nathan. They’ve found Caitlin’s body. They’re saying you did it.’
Nathan hurled the phone across the room. It shattered against the wall, bits of it flying everywhere. He collapsed back onto the bed. He closed his eyes. Everything was spinning. His stomach was churning. His brain felt like it was being put through a meat grinder. Deep, angry sobs wracked his body. He’d never forgive himself for this.
He forced himself to sit up. He had to think clearly, to dig back into the special forces training, to pool that with everything he knew about criminal psychology, about the psychopathic mind of Amonite Victor, and turn it to his advantage.
He went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. He gathered the pieces of his phone and flushed the SIM card down the toilet. Then he picked up his rucksack, paid at reception and headed out into the cold.
Chapter 29
Bogotá, Colombia
12 April 2011
The board members sitting around the table stared at Lucia with expressions ranging from mild disbelief to outright astonishment. Octavia Glosserto was frowning so much her eyebrows were touching just above her beaky nose, making her look like a pixie. A very overweight one.
Lucia tried not to giggle. Either that, or she’d scream in frustration. The only one who wasn’t glaring at her was Max Narding, the plump and baby-faced treasurer, who was gently dozing off.
‘What did you want me to say?’ Lucia said in order to break the uncomfortable silence.
‘Why you had to go in guns blazing is beyond me.’ Octavia gave a sigh that sounded like a balloon emptying itself of air. ‘It’s a PR disaster.’
‘Oh, come on. Let’s not exaggerate.’
‘Joanna’s showed me the emails. Our supporters aren’t happy, to say the least.’ Octavia unfolded her reading glasses and placed them on the tip of her nose, where they balanced precariously. She pulled out a piece of paper from her black leather briefcase.
‘Listen to this one,’ she said. ‘It’s from Vera Abramo, the wife of that multi-millionaire IT geek.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Dear Octavia, I was disappointed by the Caracol TV debate last night, with all that swearing and shouting. Not something I want to be associated with. I’m sorry, but I’m bowing out.’
Octavia threw the piece of paper across the table with a grunt of disgust. The five other board members watched it float a few inches into the air and settle like an autumn leaf.
Nobody said a word.
‘Just for the record: her last donation was half a million US dollars,’ Octavia said at last. ‘And there are more emails where that came from.’
‘I know Vera,’ Lucia said. ‘I can convince her to change her mind.’
‘That’s out of the question.’
Lucia sighed. There was no point arguing. The ‘
superwoman of Colombia’s media world’, as the New York Times once described Octavia, was known for being stubborn.
Lucia tried to appear contrite. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘You’re not sorry. You never are.’
‘I am this time.’
‘What came over you?’
‘Nothing.’
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