Nathan crept down the stairs. There was a door at the end of the hallway. He opened it gently. Stairs led into the basement. He flicked the light switch and went down. The basement was full of wooden crates stacked to the ceiling. There was hardly room to squeeze through them. On a table in a corner was a long flat nosed screwdriver. He pried open the side of one of the crates and peered inside.
The crate was full of SA80s, the standard assault rifle of the British infantry, with 30 round magazines. These particular SA80s were the L85A2 improved versions. Nathan knew them well.
Were George and Amonite using embassy safe houses to stash weapons destined for the Front?
Nathan put the screwdriver on the table and crept back upstairs. He glanced into the lounge. One of the men had left his bag on the desk next to the computer. Nathan looked in it: a novel, a chocolate bar, a can of Coke, some random documents, a USB key, a diary. Nathan pocketed the USB key and flicked through the diary. It was full of notes. On the back page was a list of words and letters that looked like a series of usernames and passwords.
Nathan tapped the space bar on the computer. The screen flickered to life, asking for a username and password. He typed in the first pair.
It beeped.
Error: Wrong Password.
Nathan held his breath. The men upstairs were still arguing. He typed in the next username and password. It beeped again. He went through the whole list, until he came to the last one. He typed it in and hit enter. The password box disappeared. The computer’s desktop loaded.
Bingo.
He searched through the computer’s files. It was mainly admin again: budgets, position papers, minutes of meetings, strategy documents, reports of investigations. Nathan opened the email software. The screen froze. Seconds ticked by, stretching into minutes. The voices stopped. Nathan got up, his pulse racing. The email box began to download messages. The arguing started again. Nathan skimmed the subject lines. It was the usual spam of Viagra, false Rolex watches and sex sites, interspersed with emails about upcoming meetings and conferences, although one in particular caught his eye.
From: Office of the British ambassador
To: all staff
Subject: President at gala
The Colombian president is expected to speak at a major gala this weekend. Sir George will represent the British government. Security will be tight, so please register early for attendance.
Nathan closed the email and kept scrolling through the hundreds of others. He was about to give up when an email popped into the inbox.
From: Sir George Lloyd Wanless
To: embassy security and intelligence group
Subject: Urgent
As discussed at the meeting, Octavia Glosserto’s assassin has been named as former Soca agent Nathan Kershner. The Colombian government’s Agency for Security and Intelligence has asked Interpol to put out a red notice for his prosecution. This is on top of the request made by Scotland Yard a few days ago, which wants him for the attempted murder of a British policeman and for large-scale drug smuggling. He’s armed and dangerous. Alert all validated sources. Use all means necessary. Photos attached.
Nathan was stunned. The assassin? Him? He clicked on the attachment. Photos of him with and without long hair and beard appeared on the screen.
The voices upstairs had stopped. Nathan’s hand hovered over the keyboard. Someone had gone to the bathroom. He reached for his gun, stood up. The toilet flushed, then the voices started again. Nathan glanced at his watch: 5.54pm. He scrolled down the inbox one last time and clicked on an email he hadn’t noticed before.
From: Office of the British ambassador
To: military advisory group
Subject: Go ahead
Go ahead granted for next stage of op. Lynx + Apaches arriving shortly. Location of delivery attached.
The floorboards creaked. Someone was heading out of the office upstairs. Nathan clicked on the attachment. It was a PDF of Putumayo region. He hit print.
The doorbell rang. Nathan clutched his gun.
Footsteps on the landing upstairs.
The printer whirred to life, too noisy, too slow. The paper jammed. Nathan yanked open the printer-feed and ripped out the paper. He hit print again.
The footsteps were on the stairwell, along with Rupes’s grumbling voice.
The map slid into the printer tray. Nathan grabbed it, clicked on shut down, and hid behind the door, gun in hand, pulse racing.
The front door creaked open.
‘Harry, what the bloody hell are you doing?’ Rupes said.
Nathan tensed. Harry Singleton had somehow managed to escape from the boot of the SUV.
‘Let me through,’ Harry yelled. ‘He’s in there.’
‘Who?’
‘Nathan Kershner, you moron. He pulled a gun on me.’
‘What?’
Nathan leapt out from behind the door and rammed past a grey-haired Rupes and a battered Harry standing in the doorway. He jumped down the steps to the courtyard. A gun’s sound suppressor spat behind him. Concrete exploded from the compound’s wall as a bullet ricocheted away. He felt a sharp pain in his left arm. He stumbled, dropped his gun, steadied himself and kept running. The front gate opened and a guard peered round, clutching his rifle. Nathan whipped out the other gun from his inside pocket and shoved it in the guard’s surprised face.
‘Get out of the fucking way!’ he shouted.
The guard stumbled back. Nathan slipped through the gate and barged past the guards, keeping his gun pointed at them. Then he dashed across the road just before a bus went past, blocking the line of sight between him and the compound. He leapt over a fence into a park, ripping his shirt on the fence’s iron spikes. He raced across the park, slipping in mud, jumping to his feet, emerging on the other side next to another busy road. He ran along it and headed north, lungs bursting, legs aching, temples pounding.
He slowed to a walk and found a deserted side street. He leaned against a wall, breathing heavily, head spinning. His arm was wet. He looked down.
His left shirt sleeve was covered in blood.
Chapter 66
Bogotá, Colombia
14 April 2011
Lucia was watching the president announce a new set of anti-terrorism measures against Front 154 on the late evening news when Nathan burst into the apartment. His face was plastered with dried blood and dirt. His short hair was caked brown. His shirt was in tatters. She ran towards him, slamming the door shut behind him then clasping his hands. She pulled him towards the sofa and lay him down. A lump appeared in her throat.
‘Your arm,’ she said. ‘What happened?’
Nathan’s eyes were closed. His left arm hung off the side of the sofa. Blood dripped to the floor tiles. Lucia’s medical training took over and she rolled up his sleeve. It was a bullet wound, but the bullet had just left a deep graze. She rushed to the bathroom and brought back towels and tissues. She began treating the wound, checking his pulse, scanning his body for breakages, making sure there was no other damage. Despite the dirt and the blood, he had a wonderfully fit body, the muscles rippling with strength.
Lucia bottled away a gush of excitement. Her feelings for Nathan surprised her, shocked her, even alarmed her, as though they weren’t hers, but like a form of possession, threatening to take over her mind, her body, her spirit.
His lips moved, but made no sound.
She leaned closer. ‘What was that?’
‘I… have… to… go…’
‘Not in this state.’
‘No.’ Nathan gripped her hand. ‘Manuel’s waiting.’
‘You need to recover.’
His eyes flashed with a mad look she hadn’t seen before.
‘Let go.’ Lucia tried to tug her hand away. ‘You’re hurting me.’
His grip tightened even more.
‘Nathan, let go!’
He pulled her towards him. She tried to struggle free. Then a flicker of realisation came into this eyes and
he let go. Lucia pulled back and rubbed her hand.
‘I’m sorry.’ He fell back into the sofa. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Get some rest while I sort things out.’
But he was already asleep.
Lucia spent the rest of the day tending to Nathan’s wound. She bought a first aid kit from a local chemist store on the same street as the apartment hotel and cleaned him up. He woke up around 2am, just when she was gazing at him, admiring his now clean face. His eyelids fluttered open. Fear crossed his face. He jumped into a sitting position, hands poised. Then he recognised Lucia and relaxed.
‘Feel better?’ she said, leaning forward to hold his right hand.
He didn’t pull away. He just nodded, his gaze taking in his surroundings.
‘We need to go to a doctor tomorrow,’ she said.
‘Out of the question.’
‘What happened?’
He shook his head as though trying to clear it of unwanted thoughts. Then he looked straight at her, as though seeing her for the first time.
‘You look gorgeous,’ he said, pulling her closer.
She blushed, but didn’t resist. Desire swelled inside her. His left hand curled round her neck as he pulled her closer. Her fingers stroked his chest. She kissed him, at first tentatively, then passionately, enjoying the warm, sweet taste of his mouth. The desire became so strong she felt like she was about to burst. She realised she’d wanted to do this from the first time she’d seen him. Her fingers fumbled with his belt as he undid her blouse. His hands were all over her, exploring every outline of her body, filling her with excitement. They traced the curve of her back, down to the swell of her hips. They slipped round to the front.
‘No!’ Lucia pushed Nathan away. ‘I can’t do this.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
‘But—’
‘It’s not your fault.’ She buttoned up her blouse, hardly daring glance up. ‘It’s me, I’m not, I can’t… I’m really sorry.’
She looked up. For a second, she thought she saw a flicker of anguish, of sadness, of pain in his eyes. But then a shutter went down and his face was impassive and cold, gazing right through her as though she wasn’t there.
Lucia slipped off the bed and stumbled into the lounge. A yearning tore through her insides like a landslide after a flood. She slumped onto the sofa and stared blankly at the images of destroyed cars, weeping women and flashing blue lights that flowed silently across the TV screen. She wanted to go back, to give herself to him, to enjoy that promise of release and happiness she’d barely glimpsed before pushing it away.
The news ticker announced that another series of car bombs had blasted the capital in a wave of terror unseen since the days of Pablo Escobar. Dozens had died, scores more were injured. Front 154 in a video on YouTube had claimed responsibility.
Feeling alone, shameful, and so indescribably heavy inside, Lucia curled up on the sofa, put her head in her hands and burst into tears.
Chapter 67
Miami, USA
15 April 2011
Elijah held his breath as the police boat sliced through the waves towards him, the evening sun glinting off its white hull. A cop was standing at the front of the deck, gazing into a pair of binoculars pointed right at him. Behind the cop, the Miami skyrise glittered against the clear blue sky.
‘Deliver me from my enemies, O God,’ Elijah muttered to himself. ‘Psalm 59 verse 1.’
The boat glided up to Elijah’s yacht. The cop jumped on board and tied both boats together with a rope. He was a thin guy, with a neatly trimmed moustache, close cropped hair and mirrored sunglasses. Another cop, short and burly with an assault rifle, stayed on the police boat, eyes on Elijah.
Elijah cursed. He was barely an hour away from safely delivering the goods to his Jamaican contacts north of Miami. There was no way a bunch of cops was going to stop him now.
‘What brings you here?’ the first cop said as he strode over to Elijah.
‘Good to meet you, officer… Jones.’ Elijah glanced up from the name badge and held out a hand.
Jones ignored it. ‘Answer my question.’
‘I’m a tourist.’
‘Going where?’
‘Miami.’
‘Ship papers, passport, visa?’
‘I’ll just fetch them.’ Elijah said, wondering how he could lie his way through this one.
‘I’ll have a look around.’
‘Be my guest.’
Elijah descended into the cabin, taking each step one by one because of the pain in his knees and hips. He pretended to search around, loudly opening and closing a few drawers and shuffling papers, then came back up.
‘I’m very embarrassed, Officer Jones, but I can’t seem to find my papers.’
‘No papers, no entry.’
Elijah cursed inwardly again. Damn cops. So inflexible. Too bad for them. He went back into the cabin and plucked his gun from under the bed. He wasn’t a violent man, but the cops had brought it on themselves, just as Patrice had. He heard a shout. He stuffed the gun in the top drawer of the desk and hobbled back out.
‘Hey.’ Jones was studying the cabin wall. ‘What’s this?’
‘What’s what?’
‘This hole.’
‘Oh, that.’ Elijah tried to smile. ‘One of the harpoons went off by accident. Nothing serious.’
Jones shrugged and turned away. Elijah glanced at the hole, checking there was no dried blood left around it. He was glad he’d scrubbed it hard in a moment of lucidity earlier on after throwing Patrice’s body overboard.
‘Hey.’ Jones was leaning over the side of the boat. ‘What’s down there?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Stuck to the hull. What is it?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Elijah leaned over the boat, his thoughts racing. Did the goddamn cop have such excellent eyesight that he could see the packages stuck underwater to the outer hull?
‘That there.’ Jones pointed.
Elijah repressed a sigh of relief. It was a piece of debris that had somehow got attached to the boat.
‘Just something from the sea, I guess.’
‘Yeah, alright.’ Jones turned round. ‘What’s wrong with your eyes?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Those black spots.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Don’t look healthy to me.’ Jones put his hands in his pockets. ‘So, the papers?’
Maybe a bribe would work. Then Elijah remembered that he was in the USA, not Jamaica.
‘Would you like to come and search the cabin yourself, officer?’ Elijah said.
‘I don’t think so, buddy. Hey, is that your radio? Why’s it all smashed up?’ He leaned closer. ‘Are those bullet holes?’ Jones straightened up and put his right palm on his holster. ‘Move back, buddy. You ain’t no tourist.’
‘Please, no.’ Elijah spread his hands. ‘I have a confession.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Jones smirked. ‘This ain’t the Catholic church.’
‘I work for the DEA.’
‘Look.’ Jones pointed at his forehead. ‘Does it say asshole?’
‘You can check. Call Special Agent Amonite Victor at DEA Bogotá.’
‘So what you doing in these parts?’
‘I’m undercover, tracking drug smugglers from Colombia.’
‘Smugglers, eh?’
‘Check with Agent Victor.’
Jones studied Elijah suspiciously. Fortunately for Elijah, Jones didn’t seem the brightest type. He hopped back onto his boat and chatted with his colleague. Elijah’s palms were sweaty. He was glad he’d stayed off the Black Coke for the past few hours. He thought about heading downstairs, picking up the gun.
‘Get over here,’ Jones said, waving Elijah over. ‘No funny moves.’
Elijah’s heart sank. They were going to arrest him. He was doomed.
‘Go with Al.’ Jones jabbed a thumb at his colleague. ‘He’ll get through to the DEA for you.
’
Al disappeared into the cabin. Jones studied the yacht. Elijah stepped across, wondering how he was going to trick Al.
‘Say, your boat’s real low in the water,’ Jones said. ‘Look there. Well below the line. What you got in—’
Before he could finish, Elijah rammed into him.
‘Hey, whaddya—’ Jones shouted, trying to shove him away.
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