Black Coke

by James Grenton

  ‘And in Colombia?’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been telling you for the past half hour. Hugely powerful. Government, the army, the police.’

  The short man with long hair sat at a table in the corner and pulled a book from his pocket. Nathan felt so jumpy he nearly pounced on the man. He clasped his hands together and turned his attention back to Lucia. She was looking at him with a strange glint in her eyes.

  ‘I thought the president had cleaned up politics?’ he said.

  ‘Redeveloping the colonial quarter’s not going to turn Bogotá into Geneva overnight.’

  ‘Give me an example.’

  ‘Of?’

  ‘Amonite’s power.’

  ‘You’re not an easy one to convince, are you?’ Lucia crossed her arms. ‘A couple of days ago, a junior minister at the interior ministry said we needed a debate on drug legalisation. I’d known him for some time. A good guy in a rotten ministry.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Gunned down outside his home. Two bullets to the head.’

  ‘How do you know Amonite was behind it?’

  ‘Because the guy was one of my key sources about her links to the ASI,’ Lucia said. ‘He’d built a big file. He was about to hand it to me.’

  ‘Where is this file?’

  ‘Probably burnt to ashes, along with his house, wife and two kids. The firemen arrived too late.’ Lucia made a hollow laugh. ‘They said they got stuck in a traffic jam.’

  A police car wailed past. An armoured truck followed. Lucia didn’t even seem to notice. She was gazing into her coffee as though expecting to see the future there.

  ‘And Lloyd-Wanless?’ Nathan said. ‘How does he fit in?’

  ‘I shared a TV panel with him. A total disaster.’

  ‘I know.’ Nathan smiled. ‘I saw it.’

  Lucia’s face flushed. ‘He’s eloquent. Spews out the same old anti-drugs bullshit.’

  ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘D’you have a pen?’ Nathan asked a waiter going by. ‘Thanks.’

  He grabbed a napkin and scribbled on it, circling names and joining them with lines.

  ‘Amonite, Lloyd-Wanless, the Front, the ASI, Black Coke,’ Nathan said. ‘They’re all linked somehow or other. We know that. But something’s missing. Right here.’ He jabbed the centre of the napkin with the pen. ‘I know how these big cartels operate. I’ve studied them. There’s always a powerbase, bang in the middle.’

  ‘Could it be Lloyd-Wanless? You said he was ambassador here in the nineties. Could’ve made a few contacts. Could be him and Amonite?’

  ‘No. I’ve just told you,’ Nathan said. ‘I know Amonite. I’ve fought against her. She’s ruthless, she’s professional, she’s tough. Yet she doesn’t have the capacity to run this. Nor does Lloyd-Wanless. He’s powerful, ambitious, but he doesn’t have the resources to be the big boss here. There’s someone else.’

  ‘Who?’

  Nathan’s hand slipped to the gun inside his jacket. He tried not to stare at the long-haired man, who was fumbling around in his pockets for something.

  ‘Who?’ Lucia repeated, frowning. ‘Whatever. I’ll see you in a minute.’

  She headed for the bathroom.

  The man pulled out a wallet, left some coins on the table and exited the cafe.

  Nathan sighed with relief. He called Manuel’s number. Manuel was meant to have met them at the hotel, but hadn’t turned up. The phone rang and rang, then went onto voicemail. Nathan tried again, then hung up. He was wondering what to do next when Lucia strode back in. Her long and thick black hair curled around her slender shoulders. Her figure-hugging white t-shirt and narrow black jeans emphasised her athletic curves. The young man eating cake stared at her with such barely-concealed lust that his girlfriend had to turn his head away.

  Lucia slid gracefully back into her seat. ‘Returned to earth yet?’

  ‘Still no reply from Manuel.’

  ‘Don’t worry. He’ll turn up eventually. He knows where we’re staying.’ Lucia dropped some coins on the table and pulled her leather jacket off the back of the chair. ‘Come on. Let’s go. I know someone who can help.’

  Chapter 40

  Medellín, Colombia

  13 April 2011

  Amonite never thought the day would arrive when she’d at last meet her hero. She suppressed the urge to pinch herself as she pushed the heavy oak door into the bustling Italian restaurant. It was a sign of her growing importance within Front 154 that he’d asked her to meet with him.

  The manager waddled over and oozed a smile. He was a squat, pudgy man with receding black hair and arms that flapped around like a penguin’s. His bushy moustache shot out to either side of his face as though reinforced with steel rods.

  ‘Madame, welcome to our humble establishment.’ He bowed a little too obsequiously. ‘We are so pleased you are honouring us with your gracious presence.’

  ‘Stop the crap, Giovanni.’

  ‘Madame, I mean every word I say.’ He gestured towards the back. ‘This way, please.’

  He led her through the restaurant. Apart from a few Front heavies congregating around the bar and glancing furtively around, there were mainly well-off couples and businessmen sitting at the round tables that crowded the candle-lit room. Waiters in black bowties weaved through them with towers of dirty plates balanced on their hands.

  Amonite followed Giovanni through a back door and down a corridor stinking of cooking. They halted in front of a bare wall painted black. Giovanni pushed a section of the wall. It slid open. Steps led down to a thick metal door, like the entry to an underground bunker. Giovanni twirled a handle and dragged the door open. He flicked on the lights.

  Amonite had heard whispers about this secret Front hideout, but she’d disregarded the rumours about its opulence. A myth used by a global drug lord to build his reputation.

  She’d been wrong.

  The room was huge and more luxurious than a Saudi sheik’s palace. Five gold chandeliers dripping with diamonds hung from the ceiling. A mix of modern and classical paintings lined the walls, each lit by their own lamp. A 15 metre table made out of solid tropical hardwood stretched out like a six-lane motorway in the centre of the room. Greek statues writhed in the corners, like grotesque apparitions casting eerie shadows on the blood-red walls.

  The door clunked shut behind her. She spun round. Giovanni had gone. She suddenly felt nervous. Was she being watched? Studied for her reactions? Was this a big test?

  She marched up to a painting, staring at the scribble in the bottom right-hand corner.

  ‘It’s a Picasso,’ said a slurred voice behind her. ‘That’s his signature.’

  Amonite froze.

  ‘El Patrón likes Picasso,’ the voice continued. ‘Although Fernando Botero is better. He’s the most Colombian of artists. To your right, my dear. Those paintings are by him.’

  She glanced sideways, her heart racing. A series of paintings showed distastefully fat people in various poses. One was of a bearded man on his knees, hands tied behind his back, red blindfold round his eyes, in a prison cell.

  ‘That one’s called Abu Ghraib. Ha! The gringos accuse El Patrón of torturing and killing, but they are no better. Botero spent 14 months only painting pictures about Americans torturing people at Abu Ghraib.’

  Amonite nodded, but didn’t dare turn round. What point was El Patrón making? Or was he off on one of his legendary rambles?

  ‘He’s from here, Botero is,’ El Patrón said. ‘A good Medellín boy. Did you know that?’

  Amonite shook her head.

  ‘The gringos. They are the enemy. They tried to destroy El Patrón. Many times. But they will never succeed.’

  Amonite closed her eyes. Hundreds of times she’d imagined meeting El Patrón in person. She’d rehearsed what she’d say, how she’d try to impress him with her confidence and loyalty. But now her mind was blank.

  ‘You can turn round, Amoni
te.’

  She turned round, slowly, head down, glimpsing polished black shoes on the footrest of a wheelchair. Her palms were as sweaty as when she had to stand before the class as a fat teenager and face the teacher’s wrath for failing yet again.

  ‘You can look up.’ El Patrón chuckled. ‘I’m not going to bite you.’

  She lifted her gaze. Then wished she hadn’t. The left half of El Patrón’s face sagged, lifeless, as though made of wax that had melted. His lips drooped, the side of his mouth stuck in a perpetual grimace. The skin of his cheeks and forehead hung loose and flabby. His left eye strayed randomly as though following a fly buzzing around the room. The right side of his face was patched up with bits of flesh and scars.

  ‘Have you lost your voice?’ he said.

  ‘Patrón…’

  ‘You were not expecting anything this bad, were you?’

  She shook her head.

  He clicked his fingers. A bodyguard materialised out of the shadow of a doorway behind him and rolled the wheelchair forward, bringing with it the stench of too much eau de Cologne.

  ‘They had to do it all in a hurry,’ El Patrón said. ‘It was that, or death.’

  A lump appeared in Amonite’s throat.

  El Patrón looked up at her with his good eye. He took her hand. He was cold and dry.

  ‘Tell everything to El Patrón,’ he said.

  Amonite took a deep breath. It was no use lying to him. He could find out everything, probably already knew everything. He was indeed testing her, making sure she was still loyal.

  ‘We’ve had a few, erm, small problems,’ she said.

  His good eye narrowed. She kept going, telling him about Herbert, the problem with the Black Coke, Nathan Kershner, Lucia Carlisla and Rev Elijah Evans.

  ‘What’s your plan?’ El Patrón asked.

  She told him.

  ‘Are you sure this Colombians Against the Front isn’t a distraction?’ El Patrón said.

  ‘They’re increasingly influential. Something has to be done about them.’

  ‘What about the Haitians? Any news?’

  ‘None yet.’

  ‘The Haitians are an unruly people,’ he said. ‘Even more difficult to control than those pesky Jamaicans. Their allegiances shift with the wind. We need to be careful about working with them.’

  ‘So why are we doing it? Why not just go with the reverend?’

  ‘To break-up the supply chain. It’s safer that way. Makes it harder to trace the source. Now, tell me about George.’

  ‘It’s his fault Kershner’s on the loose.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  He let go of her. For a moment, he seemed displeased, even angry. The good side of his face was twitching. His bad eye was rolling like a marble. He slapped his armrest. The bodyguard tugged the wheelchair back a few metres.

  Amonite shuffled her feet.

  El Patrón coughed once, twice. Then he crumpled over. The bodyguard rushed round to face him, whipping a see-through plastic mask out of his pocket and sticking it onto El Patrón’s mouth and nose. The coughing subsided, replaced by a deep wheezing. El Patrón pushed the bodyguard away, keeping the mask to his face with his good hand.

  ‘You know why the logo is a black beetle?’ he said between breaths.

  ‘Herbert wanted it because of those insects that are everywhere in Putumayo.’

  ‘I hear they have become serious pests. Eating crops. The farmers are complaining. Ha!’ He took another deep breath of oxygen. ‘I agreed to the logo because beetles are one of the most common species of insects. Yet they are beautifully built and strong. That’s how we want our drug to be. Do you understand?’

  Another fit of coughing overwhelmed him. He looked up, blood trickling from his nose.

  ‘Your plan meets with El Patrón’s approval,’ he whispered. ‘But there’s more that I want you to do. That junior minister, the pro legalisation one.’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘He had the ear of the president. It worries me.’ El Patrón breathed into the mask. ‘I want the Front to strike terror into the heart of Bogotá. I will communicate my instructions shortly.’

  He slapped his armrest. The bodyguard wheeled him out. Amonite stared in silence at the place where El Patrón had been. Had she just imagined all this? Part of her felt relieved: she’d heard horrific stories about what happened to people who met with El Patrón’s disapproval. But she also felt disappointed. She hadn’t expected him to be so severely disfigured and crippled.

  There was a clanking behind Amonite. Giovanni was peering round the heavy door. All of a sudden, Amonite wanted to be out of here, away from this underground palace that stank of decay. Without a word, she shoved past Giovanni. She ran up the stairs and through the restaurant, pushing over a waiter who was hurrying past. Plates crashed to the floor and smashed.

  She burst out into the street. She blinked to adjust to the early evening light. Her phone buzzed in her jacket pocket. Her heart accelerated again.

  Had El Patrón changed his mind?

  She flicked open the phone as she weaved through the traffic jam to cross the road.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘We got us a problem.’ It was Dex, his voice clipped, subdued.

  Amonite grunted, relieved. ‘Spit it out.’

  ‘It’s about that reverend.’

  ‘Did he hand it to the Haitians?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘So what’s that dumb-ass piece of shit done now?’

  ‘He’s split, Amonite, with all the Black Coke.’

  Chapter 41

  Bogotá, Colombia

  13 April 2011

  ‘You sure you don’t want to meet her?’ Lucia said as they climbed out of the yellow cab. They were next to the vast expanse of green and water that made up the Parque Simón Bolivar, in the centre of Bogotá. A young couple strolled past them, hand in hand, sparking a shot of envy inside Lucia.

  Nathan shook his head.

  Lucia paid the driver and watched the cab zoom off. She turned back to Nathan. Beneath the bushy beard and wavy hair were sharp cheekbones, a straight nose, and a piercing gaze that darted around, resting for a split second on a passer-by, then moving to another, scanning the traffic.

  A frisson of desire ran through her.

  She pursed her lips. ‘I’m sure she wouldn’t mind speaking to you.’

  ‘They may be watching her.’

  ‘Couldn’t you spot them?’

  ‘Amonite’s a pro.’

  ‘Aren’t you?’

  ‘Too risky.’

  Lucia shrugged and started walking down the path. They passed the black bust of Simón Bolivar, the Latin American liberator after whom the park was named. He was looking to his left, as though he’d just noticed something. The ever present mountains towered in the background, their tips covered by a mass of grey clouds.

  She glanced at Nathan again. His forehead was furrowed into a dark frown. His eyes were narrowed and his jaw clenched, as though driven by a fierce determination. What had happened to him to make him so angry?

  They reached the edge of the park and crossed a road. They stopped in front of a sprawling complex of pink buildings. One of them had the El Tiempo logo on the side. Traffic rushed past to their left on the Avenida El Dorado highway.

  Lucia headed for the entrance, but Nathan touched her arm. ‘You sure you can trust her?’

  ‘I’ve told you already,’ she said. ‘She’s a friend.’

  ‘She kicked you out.’

  ‘I’ll reason with her.’

  ‘She has strong political connections,’ Nathan said. ‘That makes her dangerous.’

  ‘She’s not like those people. She investigates them.’

  ‘Then why has she pulled out?’

  ‘That’s what I’m going to find out.’ Lucia took a step away. ‘Where do we meet?’

  ‘Back here. Wait, tell me your mobile number, just in case.’ He memorised it as she rattled it out. ‘Now, ge
t in there before someone spots us.’

  Lucia wanted Nathan to come with her, to stay close. She’d only met him a day before, but already she was finding herself attracted to him in a way she’d never felt with anyone before.

  She walked briskly into the building.

  Chapter 42