Black Coke

by James Grenton

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘It’s the Front’s base in Bogotá.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because it fits in with my other investigations,’ Manuel said, lowering his voice. ‘I haven’t been sitting around doing nothing while you’ve been away, Nathan. I’ve been speaking to other campesinos and organising the resistance. Everyone tells me the Front has a place in Bogotá. Until now, nobody knew where it was.’

  Nathan studied the map. This seemed too easy.

  He put it in his pocket and stood up. ‘I’m going to check it out.’

  Half an hour later, Nathan was in the bathroom of the hotel room, shaving his beard off. It made him too recognisable. The Front would be looking for a Brit looking like a hippy. He gathered all the hair from the basin and put it in the bin. Then he plugged in the clippers he’d bought from a shop down the road and shaved his head to a number two cut. He checked himself in the mirror. He looked ten years younger.

  He went into the lounge, which had a plush leather sofa in front of a wide-screen TV hanging on the wall. They’d moved hotel again, this time to an apartment hotel in Quinta Camacho, an area of northern Bogotá that Lucia said was one of the safest. There was more room for all three of them here. And changing location frequently was always a good idea.

  Nathan was putting on the new dark brown leather jacket Lucia had bought him when there was a double knock on the front door, then a pause, then another double knock. He opened the door a crack. Lucia was in a denim blouse and cream trousers, her olive skin glowing in the light of the corridor.

  Her eyes opened wide when she saw him. She smiled. ‘Wow. You all set?’ She slid past him and shut the door behind her. She placed a plastic bag full of food on the wooden dining table.

  Nathan nodded, peeling his gaze from her figure.

  ‘You hungry?’ She pulled out a bread ring. ‘These pandebonos are good. Typically Colombian. Corn flour, cassava, cheese and eggs. You should try.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘What about this empanada?’ She rummaged through her bag and pulled out a stuffed pastry. ‘This one’s got chicken and rice inside it. I used to love empanadas when I was a kid. That’s all I ate. Breakfast, lunch and dinner. Drove mum and dad crazy. Here, have it.’

  ‘I’m alright, thanks.’

  ‘You’re not eating.’

  ‘I don’t work well on a full stomach.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  She stared at the empanada. Then she dumped it back in the bag and sat on the edge of the sofa, looking at her hands.

  ‘You sure this is a good idea?’ she said.

  ‘If Manuel’s right, then I have to go there.’

  He wanted to pull Lucia close and kiss her. He pushed the feeling away. She glanced up. Something flickered in her eyes.

  ‘Why can’t he go instead?’ she said.

  Nathan checked his Glock.

  ‘Nathan?’

  ‘This is my job. Manuel’s got other stuff to do with the campesinos.’

  ‘You agents are so…’ She turned away, wiped her eyes. ‘You’re just like the ASI.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Soca, the ASI, the DEA. You’re all the same.’

  ‘What you talking about?’

  ‘You just don’t get it, do you?’ she shouted.

  Nathan zipped up his jacket. He had no time for this.

  ‘If I’m not back by morning, stick with Manuel and get out of the country.’

  ‘Nathan, are you listening to me?’

  ‘Here’s the number for Cedric Belville.’ Nathan scribbled a number on a notepad on the desk. ‘Ring him as a last resort.’

  Lucia got up. ‘Nathan.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t—’

  Nathan shook his head and left the apartment.

  Chapter 64

  Bogotá, Colombia

  14 April 2011

  Nathan strolled past the high stone walls of the compound. A black armoured SUV with tinted windows drove up to the front gate, where two armed guards with wraparound sunglasses checked the underside for bombs using a mirror on a pole. After scrutinising the credentials of the driver and the passenger, they waved the car in, then lit up cigarettes and leaned against the wall, chatting. Their heads turned as two young women strolled past in tight mini-skirts.

  Nathan caught a glimpse of the inside of the compound: the entrance to the building was straight ahead, in front of which was an empty parking lot. The ground was gravel. The gates swung shut before he could see any further. He kept on walking at the same pace, pretending to be a tourist on a walkabout.

  He headed for a nearby cafe and ordered a double espresso. He pulled out the map and checked it again. He was definitely in the right place. But the compound looked more like an official government building than a hidden base for Front 154. Had Manuel got it wrong? Or was the Front even more powerful than he’d imagined?

  The only way to find out was to get in. He stared at the compound. There was no way he could climb over the ten foot high walls and the barbed wire, while evading the CCTV and the guards. He felt like heading back to see Manuel and Lucia to figure out a new plan.

  Lucia…

  His mind drifted back to her outburst in the hotel room. She was a fiery type, but had he detected a hint of concern? Was that why she’d got angry? Or was it just his wishful thinking? How could any woman, especially such a bright and beautiful one as Lucia, be interested in a messed-up, lonely, emotionally confused man like him?

  The caffeine tingled him back to reality. The compound was his only lead at the moment. He needed to get in through stealth. He paid for his coffee and walked up to a tourist shop to buy a disposal camera. Then he leaned against a wall, scanning the street. He didn’t have to wait long. Another black armoured SUV joined the slow-moving traffic further down.

  This was his chance.

  Just as the SUV drew closer, Nathan stepped to the edge of the curb and put the camera to his eye. The SUV skidded to a halt. The passenger door burst open. A burly man in a black suit, with close-cropped hair and wraparound sunglasses, stepped out.

  ‘Hey, what do you think you’re doing, amigo?’ he shouted in Spanish with a strong British accent. ‘Give me that camera.’

  ‘I’m awfully sorry.’ Nathan spoke in English and spread his hands. ‘I was just taking pictures to show the missus back home.’

  ‘I don’t give a damn.’ The man reached out to grab the camera. ‘Give me that or I’ll kick your teeth through the back of—’

  Nathan grabbed the man’s hand. He twisted it so hard he heard the man’s wrist crack. In the same movement, Nathan stepped sideways and brought the back of his other hand down in a chopping motion against the man’s neck. Nathan stopped him from falling. He plunged his hand under the man’s jacket and whipped out a gun. Then he let the man fall to the floor and poked the gun through the open door into the car.

  ‘Don’t move,’ Nathan said to the wide-eyed driver who was reaching into his jacket.

  The driver nodded. Nathan glanced into the back of the car. It was empty.

  ‘Give me your gun,’ Nathan said.

  The driver reached slowly into his jacket and handed over a pistol.

  Nathan gestured with his gun. ‘Now get out.’

  The driver stepped out of the car. Pedestrians were giving them a wide berth. Colombians had learnt long ago not to interfere with car jackings, even in broad daylight.

  Nathan opened the boot. He waved his gun at the driver.

  ‘Pick up your mate. Put him in the back.’

  The driver came round, lifted his colleague and dumped him in the boot. Nathan rummaged in the unconscious man’s jacket and pulled out a wallet and keys. He put the sunglasses on his nose. He slammed the boot shut.

  ‘Get back in,’ he said.

  Once in the car, Nathan pointed the gun at the driver’s groin.

  ‘Drive around. Don’t mess with me. Got it?’

  The
driver nodded. He was a young man with a sharp nose and blue eyes. Sweat streamed down his forehead onto his grey suit.

  ‘You’re that man, aren’t you?’

  ‘Hit the gas,’ Nathan said.

  ‘You are, aren’t you? They showed us your pictures.’

  ‘Get a move on before I get really pissed off.’

  ‘Oh, my God. Don’t kill me. Please. I’ve got two boys and a wife.’

  ‘Look, mate.’ Nathan prodded the man in the ribs with his gun. ‘Shut the fuck up and get driving.’

  The car crawled forward then accelerated into the traffic. Nathan flicked through the wallet until he found what he was looking for: an ID card. It was from the British embassy, which meant that the compound was some kind of embassy safe house. The unconscious man’s name was Harry Singleton, probably some lowly agent who had been sent on assignment to Colombia to get experience in the field before coming back to some random desk job back at MI6 in London.

  The driver was glancing at Nathan. His left hand was no longer on the steering wheel. Nathan pointed his weapon at the driver’s temple. He leaned forwards and grabbed the knife that was hidden down the side of the seat.

  ‘Don’t try to be a hero,’ Nathan said, chucking the knife onto the back seat.

  The driver kept his gaze on the road ahead. They were heading through a rough part of Bogotá, with crumbling shacks and gangs hanging around street corners. Children in rags were playing with dustbins, pushing them over and rolling them around. A skinny dog was searching through a pile of rubbish, chewing abandoned food.

  ‘Turn back,’ Nathan said.

  ‘To where?’

  ‘To the compound.’

  A few minutes later, they passed an empty side street.

  ‘Stop here,’ Nathan said. The driver hit the brake. ‘Reverse into there.’

  ‘Look, mister, I’m just a driver. I don’t know anything about the Front.’

  ‘Whoever mentioned the Front? I said reverse the car. That’s better.’ Nathan waved the gun. ‘Now get out.’

  The driver staggered out from one side. Nathan jumped out from the other. He whirled round and pointed the gun at the driver over the front of the car.

  ‘Get in the boot.’

  ‘Please, mister—’

  Nathan marched round. He whacked the driver on the back of the head, caught him, and bundled him, unconscious, into the boot next to his colleague.

  Then he got into the driver’s seat and headed for the compound.

  Chapter 65

  Bogotá, Colombia

  14 April 2011

  Nathan slowed down as he approached the gates of the compound. He rolled down his window. The guard puffed smoke from the corner of his mouth and thrust out his hand like a doorman waiting for a tip.

  ‘Identificación, por favor.’

  Nathan handed the ID card through the open window.

  ‘Harry Singleton?’ The guard gave a bored glance at the card then at Nathan. Sunglasses glinted back sunglasses. ‘New here?’

  Nathan nodded.

  The guard handed back the card. He stepped back and took another long drag from his cigarette. His partner strolled round the vehicle, checking the underside with his mirror on a stick. Nathan followed him in the side mirrors, trying to look uninterested while his heartbeat doubled. He prepared himself to reverse back and escape at the slightest sign of danger.

  The second guard barked something to the first guard, who waved Nathan in. Nathan parked the SUV in a corner, on the opposite side of the car park to the other SUV. He checked the two guns in his inside jacket pockets, then stepped out of the vehicle. He walked up to the main house, trying to look relaxed. It was two stories high, with white walls and small windows with bars on them. A veranda with a red tile roof leaned off to the right side. To the left was a smaller, one-storey block with small windows with blue frames. His boots crunched on the gravel.

  Nathan walked up the stone steps to the front door. He tried the keys one by one. He dared not glance behind him, but could nearly feel the dull stares of the guards on the back of his neck. He swung open the door as though the house belonged to him. He heard the gate clang shut behind him. He entered the house, his boots sinking into the cream carpet. Everything was so British inside: the patterned wallpaper in the hallway, the carpeted staircase with oak banister, the wooden hat stand in the corner.

  He clicked the door shut behind him and stepped into the lounge. A brown leather sofa and armchairs surrounded a glass coffee table. It had half-empty mugs of tea and coffee on it. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. A grandfather clock ticked next to a large mahogany desk with a computer screen and keyboard, both with orange standby lights.

  Floorboards creaked above. Nathan ducked behind the door to the lounge, gun ready. Footsteps pattered down the stairs.

  ‘It must be in the car,’ a Scottish male voice said.

  ‘I was sure I brought it in,’ said another male voice with a posh English accent.

  ‘Or it could be back at the embassy.’

  ‘Sir Hitler won’t be too chuffed.’

  ‘Rupes, watch your mouth,’ said the Scotsman. ‘Or he’ll have you publicly hung, drawn and quartered.’

  ‘That’s precisely my point. The chap’s a maniac.’

  ‘Look, mate, I’m just saying.’

  ‘Do you have any idea what’ll happen when London finds out?’

  ‘Yeah, well, not much we can do about that.’ The footsteps got closer. ‘Maybe it’s in the lounge.’

  Nathan pinned himself against the wall behind the door. His finger curled round the trigger. He had the element of surprise on his side, so he could easily take them out. But the gunshots would alert the guards, and he’d never survive a siege.

  The side of a face appeared just beyond the door. The Scotsman looked younger than his rough voice suggested, with a three-day stubble, short hair and sideburns, and a blunt nose that looked like it’d been punched one too many times.

  ‘Nope,’ he said. ‘Must be in the car.’

  The front door opened and closed. Nathan allowed himself a quiet sigh of relief. He waited a few seconds, then darted through the doorway to the hallway and up the stairs, crouching at the top.

  There were three rooms, all with doors shut and shiny brass doorknobs. He tried the first one. Just a double bed with fat, fluffy pillows, a wooden bookcase lined with Jeffrey Archer’s full paperback collection and a glossy leather armchair in the corner. The second door opened into a huge bathroom with marble tiles, an iron bath with golden taps and a shower that looked powerful enough to wash down an elephant.

  The third room was also large and expensively furnished. It had a polished desk on one side, a chandelier similar to the one downstairs, and a glass cabinet in the corner. Framed paintings depicting British countryside landscapes adorned the walls. On the desk sat a pile of papers. They were minutes of meetings of British embassy staff with the Colombian authorities and mainly administrative stuff: legal agreements, vague policy decisions.

  He yanked open the desk’s drawers: boxes of paperclips, staplers and other stationery. He looked around again. The glass cabinet contained rows of books on various topics: Colombian law, Colombian drugs policy, even a guide to the dos and don’ts of Colombian culture.

  Where was the evidence that Manuel was convinced was here?

  The front door creaked open. The Scotsman and Rupes were arguing. Nathan left the office and sidestepped into the bedroom. The voices came up the stairs.

  ‘Just chill out,’ said the Scotsman. ‘I don’t give a damn what Amonite wants it for.’

  ‘Ha! You won’t be saying that when you’re tucked up in your cosy little cell in Pentonville Prison.’

  ‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’

  ‘You read the email, didn’t you?’ Rupes said as they reached the top of the stairs. He was breathing hard. ‘We’re moving to the next stage.’

  ‘We’re just obeying orders.’

 
‘D’you think the Foreign Secretary will believe that bollocks when he finds out? And what about all that shit in the basement?’

  The Scotsman grunted and went straight into the office.

  ‘You remember who El Patrón is, don’t you?’ Rupes shouted, following the Scotsman into the office and closing the door behind them.