The motorbike was drawing close on the driver’s side. Another glint of metal.
‘Head down!’ Nathan pushed the driver’s nape just as the front left window shattered. He grabbed the wheel and twisted it. The bike swerved away, narrowly missing a white car.
‘Madre de dios.’ The driver clutched the wheel.
‘Do as I say. You’ll be fine.’ Nathan yanked open the glove compartment. ‘You have a gun?’
The driver shook his head. In front of them, the traffic was slowing. The motorbike had dropped back.
A series of gunshots. The rear window exploded. Glass rained onto the back seat. The driver yelled. The motorbike was next to them, the sunlight gleaming off the sicarios’ black helmets. Scarface was fiddling with his gun.
Nathan yanked the steering wheel. The cab swerved into the motorbike. Metal scraped against metal. Nathan turned the wheel some more. The motorbike tried to veer off, but Nathan was pushing it towards the middle of the motorway.
The traffic was slowing down fast. The cab driver hit the brake. Nathan spun the wheel again. The taxi rammed into the bike, which skidded and collapsed onto its side. The taxi crashed into the vehicle in front. Nathan’s shoulder smashed into the dashboard. Next to him, the driver slammed his head against the steering wheel.
Horns blared. People shouted. Nathan shook the confusion from his mind. He kicked the taxi door open. The motorbike was lying on its side, its motor smoking and engine revving. Its driver was face down on the tarmac, a large piece of bone sticking out from one of his legs. Scarface was struggling to his feet, his hand still clutching the gun. He saw Nathan.
He took aim.
Nathan ducked behind the taxi. A bullet whizzed past. He crawled forward and hid behind another car. Then he ducked down and sprinted through the traffic jam.
He glanced round. A flash of red: Scarface’s shirt. Nathan jumped behind a truck. He heard a shout. He sprinted down the side of the motorway. Gunshots. Bits of tarmac spat up at his feet. Nathan raced on, past passengers and drivers in cars who stared ahead, trying to ignore him. More gunshots, but further away.
Nathan’s head was spinning. He kept running. He jumped over a barrier into a side road, through rows of apartment blocks. His chest hurt. The adrenaline kept him going. He ran and ran, for what felt like hours. He brought up the map of Bogotá he’d memorised earlier and followed its grid-like structure in the direction of the centre. Eventually, he slowed to a walk, glancing around him. Passers-by eyed him suspiciously.
The reality of the situation hit him hard. He was deep in enemy territory without any of the back-up that Soca could have provided through its links with the US Drug Enforcement Administration and other law enforcement agencies. The Front probably had spies everywhere: on the streets, in the police, maybe even within Manuel’s campesino movement. Amonite was taking no chances. She’d already sent assassins to kill him. Which meant that someone within Soca had found out he was coming and told her.
George’s arrogant face appeared in his mind. Nathan had no evidence to show that George was the culprit, just a gut feeling. But all too often, his gut feeling was correct.
He took another turn. He was on a road with orange, pink and blue houses leading up to the mountain. It was deserted. He kept going through quiet side streets and busy main roads, past high rises and shopping centres, until he reached La Candelaria, the revitalised old colonial part of Bogotá.
The sun was setting as he walked up narrow cobblestoned streets, past groups of tourists gazing up at rows of yellow houses with orange and black doors and carved wooden balconies. He stumbled into a small hotel and rang the bell on the reception desk.
‘Sí, señor?’ A sleepy looking young man in a green suit emerged from a doorway behind the desk.
Nathan booked himself a room, paying in advance. He collapsed onto the creaky bed without taking his shoes off. He rolled onto his back. He’d left his rucksack, with all his clothes and other gear, in the taxi. He patted his travel belt under his trousers. At least he had his money, passport and credit card. He reached for his phone in his jacket. He dialled Manuel’s number.
A gruff voice answered. ‘Sí?’
‘Manuel?’
‘Nathan. At last. Where are you?’
‘Where can we meet?’
‘In one hour. Catedral Primada.’
‘Okay, and Manuel?’
‘Yes?’
‘Make sure you’re not being followed.’
Chapter 32
Bogotá, Colombia
12 April 2011
A shrill, metallic beeping woke Nathan up. He sat up, his mind groggy. He hit the off switch for his phone’s alarm. He’d slept thirty minutes. He rolled out of bed and checked his shoulder in the cracked bathroom mirror. Badly bruised, like a smudged tattoo. But nothing broken.
He headed out of his hotel, into the street, which was as hectic and confused as his brain. Fumes erupted from cars honking bumper to bumper. Mopeds weaved through tight gaps in the traffic that opened and closed like the metal jaws of a deadly trap. Nathan stumbled on a street vendor tucked in a doorway and bought an arepa: a corn pancake overflowing with ham, cheese and eggs.
He chomped his way to Plaza de Bolívar, in the touristy centre of the colonial sector. Historic stone buildings towered over the large pedestrianised square. On the east side was the Catedral Primada, the overcast evening sky swallowing the sharp spires on the two baroque towers as though they’d been smeared out by a divine painter.
Nathan scanned the square. Just tourists and scattered Colombians out for an end-of-day stroll. No furtive glance. No sudden turning away. No unnatural break in the pattern of movement.
A siren. Nathan flinched. Armed cops in black riot gear with visored helmets tumbled out of a grey armoured truck and took position in a corner of the square. They ignored Nathan as he strolled past. Lighting slashed at the clouds. Raindrops, thick and warm and greasy, attacked the stone pavings as though trying to beat them into submission. The pedestrians scattered. The cops bundled back into their truck. Nathan ran into the cathedral. He brushed the soaked hair from his eyes. Rows of gold-adorned pillars led to a central altar crammed with candelabra and diamond-encrusted crosses.
Manuel was sitting on a wooden pew near the front pillar, his arm slung over the side and his head twisted round to face the entrance. The black patch on his eye gave him a sinister look. Nathan slumped into the pew in front of him.
‘Perfect weather for a day out,’ Nathan said without turning round.
‘What’s going on?’
Nathan removed his jacket and brushed the water off.
‘So?’ Manuel said.
‘I’m not who you think.’
‘I thought not.’
‘I need your help.’
‘Who are you then?’
Nathan put his jacket back on. He shivered. Telling Manuel wasn’t going to be easy.
‘I can’t help you if you don’t say who you are,’ Manuel said.
‘I work for the British government.’
‘MI6?’
‘The Serious Organised Crime Agency.’
‘Drugs?’
Nathan nodded. Manuel said nothing.
Nathan turned round. ‘I had no choice.’
Manuel was staring at him so intensely he could have driven a hole through him with his gaze. Nathan was starting to think that meeting him had been a bad idea.
‘D’you remember that talk we had when you first arrived in my village?’ Manuel said. ‘When you asked what motivated us? Trust and loyalty.’
‘You can trust me.’
‘You hid the truth.’
‘It was necessary.’
Manuel frowned.
‘I’m sorry.’ Nathan got up to leave. ‘I thought you’d understand.’
Manuel grabbed his hand. ‘Sit down.’
Nathan lowered himself back into the pew.
‘Tell me everything,’ Manuel said, his voice softer.
&
nbsp; Nathan glanced around. A young, crying mother was kneeling in prayer at a pew on the far end of the row, while her two small children played in the aisle. An old man with a red scarf round his head was snoring in a corner. A couple was holding hands and lighting a candle. None were in earshot.
He took a deep breath. He’d spent weeks in the jungle with Manuel, yet still felt he didn’t really know him. Could he trust him? Could he trust anybody anymore? Yet what options did he have?
As though reading his thoughts, Manuel said, ‘You can trust me. You saved my life. I’m forever indebted to you. Don’t forget that.’
‘Okay.’ Nathan told Manuel about his investigation into the Front, his findings about the Black Coke, Amonite Victor, George Lloyd-Wanless, Caitlin’s murder, and Scarface. When he’d finished, he leaned back and stared at the huge cross of Christ hanging from the ceiling. The nails in the hands and feet. The blood dripping from the crown of thorns. The expression of intense pain.
Such a religious yet brutal country.
Manuel said nothing for a long time. Nathan looked round. Manuel was staring down at the palms of his hands as though trying to read the past in them. He pursed his lips over and over, then he spoke.
‘You’re one of us now,’ he said. He put his hand on Nathan’s shoulder and looked at him with a gentle glint in his good eye. ‘Do you realise that?’
Nathan didn’t reply.
‘You’ve suffered at the hands of the Front and Anglo-American imperialism,’ Manuel continued. ‘You know what it’s like to lose a loved one.’
Nathan suppressed the tears that threatened to well up inside him.
Manuel clasped Nathan’s shoulder. ‘I will help you.’
Minutes later, they were walking through the cobbled and moss-covered winding backstreets of Bogotá, which dripped and steamed from the receding downpour. Vast brownish puddles gleamed in the gloomy light.
‘I have to find the Front headquarters,’ Nathan told Manuel. ‘That’s where Amonite will be.’
‘Nobody knows where they are. I’ve already asked.’
‘But they must be in Colombia, no?’
‘Putumayo’s most likely. Could be Medellín too. The Front has a strong network there.’ Manuel tossed a few coins to the grimy street children tugging at his shirt. ‘Just last week the mayor of Medellín was gunned down at a political rally in front of hundreds of people. He’d made the mistake of criticising the Front in public.’
‘What about the smugglers. How are we going to stop them?’
Manuel hesitated, as though making up his mind about something. ‘I’ve heard there’s a Jamaican drug don, Elijah Evans, who’s linked to the Front.’
‘The Jamaican mid-point?’
‘Could be.’
‘How d’you know?’
‘My campesino friends have a few contacts in Haiti. They know him.’
Nathan studied Manuel carefully. He wasn’t revealing everything he knew. Should he push him further?
As though reading his thoughts, Manuel said: ‘We’re working with the Haitians. They’re on our side.’
‘Meaning?’
‘You’ll see.’
‘What about that person you want me to meet?’
‘Lucia Carlisla.’
‘Never heard of her.’
‘Runs CAF.’ Manuel lowered his voice. ‘Colombians Against the Front.’
‘Some kind of campaign?’
‘Just kicking off here.’ Manuel dodged an overflowing dustbin. ‘Strong connections in the media and finance. A formidable woman, and not just because of her looks.’
‘And on the Front’s hit list, I guess.’
‘Come in here.’ Manuel pulled Nathan into a small internet cafe tucked between two vegetable shops. Kids with headphones were glued to screens, playing shoot-em-ups and shouting to each other. Manuel spoke to the attendant then took a seat at the furthest computer terminal. He patted a chair next to him. Nathan sat down.
Manuel accessed the website for Caracol TV. A few clicks and a newsreel started. Manuel plugged in headphones and handed them to Nathan.
‘I can’t believe it,’ Nathan said, pointing at the screen.
‘You know him?’
‘George Lloyd-Wanless. He’s that slimy creep I was telling you about. Is that Lucia?’
Manuel nodded. ‘Listen.’
Lucia was indeed attractive, despite her open-collared denim shirt looking markedly under-dressed compared to the business attire of the news anchor and George. Her hazel eyes were angled upwards to either side of her face, giving her an elfin look that was emphasised by her high cheek bones. Her long dark hair was tied back in a pony tail, revealing a slender neck. In a normal situation, she’d have been a stunner. But her face was twisted into such an expression of rage that Nathan found himself wondering whether any man had ever dared approach her.
He strained to understand the fast Spanish. A smile crept across his face as Lucia laid into George. By the end of the debate, Nathan felt the first glimmer of optimism in what seemed like ages.
‘Wow, what a girl!’ he said, clapping his knee with his open hand.
Customers on neighbouring computers glanced round.
Nathan lowered his voice. ‘What does she know?’
‘I expect she knows people who may know.’
Nathan stood up. ‘Then let’s find her.’
Chapter 33
Putumayo, Colombia
12 April 2011
Amonite trudged down the stone steps to the concealed entrance of the underground complex. She was glad to get out of the tropical downpour, which had turned the surrounding jungle into a maelstrom and the helicopter landing pad into a swamp. The sun was setting and her body ached from the long trip from the UK. She was getting too old for all this.
The guard at the entrance was dressed in all-black standard Front combat gear. He nodded to her and moved aside, assault rifle slung over his shoulder. Amonite swiped her card on the scanner on the right of the grey metal door, which glided open with a faint murmur. She walked down the stone corridor. Condensation dripped from the ceiling. Dim lights cast a ghostly glow at regular intervals, illuminating dark openings that led to other corridors and secret rooms. The Front had wrestled the complex from a paramilitary unit that had constructed it years ago in its fight against the rebel FARC. The paramilitaries had recruited peasants as slaves to build it, then used the complex for disappearances, torture and summary executions. Now, the Front was turning it into a major base from which to launch its operations.
But she hardly thought about any of that. She was too preoccupied by George’s message about Nathan Kershner coming to Colombia and by Dex’s failure to stop him at the airport. Nathan had already disrupted her plans once before in Mexico. There was no way she was going to let him do that again.
Amonite turned left, then right again, until she arrived at another grey metal door. It hummed open, revealing a long, well-lit room with dozens of tables and benches. Men in white coats sat hunched over test tubes, computers and other electronic equipment. Amonite didn’t know what most of it was for—after all, she’d left school aged 15 and had never studied much science—but she knew it was expensive and high tech.
She nodded to one of the scientists, who was hurrying over. He was a tall, well-built, elegant man, with angular features and sharp eyebrows, like those male models in the fashion pages of the in-flight magazines that she secretly liked to stash away. He wore a three-piece pin-striped suit, which would have looked more appropriate on Wall Street than in an underground lab in the middle of the jungle. But he looked dashing, to quote Sir George.
‘Hey, Herbert, how’s it going?’ Amonite said, crushing the man’s hand in a firm handshake.
Herbert winced. ‘We’re making good progress.’
‘The experiments?’
‘Going well, going well.’ Herbert rubbed his hand and led Amonite into a corner, next to a closed-head steel drum. ‘I’d like a word.’
Herbert glanced nervously around. ‘Can we speak in the next room?’
Amonite grunted. She followed Herbert through another door into a smaller room with a metal table and two white plastic chairs like a police interrogation cell. She sat down, but the chair was too narrow for her wide frame. She shifted uncomfortably and tried to cross her legs. The chair creaked. She straightened her legs and looked at Herbert, trying to contain her embarrassment.
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