A cloud crossed Lucia’s face, then she shrugged.
‘Here’s a new phone for you.’ Manuel tossed Nathan a mobile. He headed for the door, then turned back to face Nathan. ‘I’m going to go back to see them. I’ll tell them everything’s set and that you’re coming over. Give me an hour’s head start, just to be on the safe side, then get a cab to Ciudad Bolivar.’
‘Any specific address?’ Nathan said.
‘I’ll ring you.’
Manuel left the room. Nathan looked at Lucia. She was turned away, staring out of the window again, fiddling with the curtain string. He began packing the weapons back in his bag, checking them a final time. There was a rustling behind him. He turned round. Lucia had closed the curtains. She stood there, staring at him, arms by her side. Her lips were trembling and her neck was flushed. He wanted to kiss her, to comfort her, to tell her everything would be alright. But he knew she was angry, probably at being left behind. He didn’t wanted to get into an argument with her. Not now.
He picked up the bag.
‘Nathan?’
He slung the bag over his shoulder.
‘Nathan!’
Her voice was louder this time.
He headed for the door.
Chapter 70
Bogotá, Colombia
15 April 2011
Amonite was lying on her bed, on the verge of an orgasm, when someone knocked at her hotel door.
‘Who is it?’ she shouted.
‘It’s George.’
‘Just a minute.’
Fucking asshole. Trust him to turn up at the wrong time. She closed her laptop, threw on her combat trousers and green shirt and strode towards the door.
‘What is it?’ she said as she flung the door open.
George was standing there, looking grave. He was wearing a pin-striped blue suit with a matching silk tie, an outfit probably worth thousands of dollars from what she’d found out about his expensive tastes. Behind him were two bodyguards in grey suits.
‘We need to talk,’ he said.
‘Have a seat.’
George nodded to the bodyguards, who took position outside the hotel room. Then he marched in as though he owned the place, the door easing shut behind him. He plonked himself on the armchair near the window and looked around.
‘You should get yourself your own apartment,’ he said.
‘I’m never here.’
George pursed his lips. ‘El Patrón’s been breathing down my neck.’
‘Oh?’
‘He wants Nathan Kershner dead asap.’
‘Don’t we all.’
‘He knew about Kershner’s break-in to the embassy house.’
Amonite said nothing. El Patrón had been furious when she’d told him about the incident at the embassy house. She’d blamed George, of course. But El Patrón had made it clear that the three embassy agents would have to be punished, which suited Amonite fine. She’d taken a strong disliking to that posh Englishman called Rupes.
‘He’s stepping up the car bombs,’ George was saying.
‘I’ve noticed.’
‘What have you been telling him?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’t play games with me, Amonite.’
‘Games?’
George’s eyes became as narrow as horizontal arrow slits. He stared at her, barely blinking, as though trying to read her mind. She knew he hated her, ever since that day when El Patrón had ordered them to work together.
‘Has the shipment landed?’ he said at last.
‘Yep.’
‘Why have we not heard anything?’
‘It’ll come.’
A bead of sweat appeared on George’s smooth forehead.
‘You never told me how you became associated with El Patrón,’ he said.
‘You never asked.’
‘How did you?’
‘In Mexico. Last year. His men got me out of there.’
‘Everyone thought the police executed you and Don Camplones.’
‘The don died. El Patrón found someone to take my place.’
George wiped his forehead. His hands were trembling slightly. Suddenly, Amonite realised that George was even more scared of her than she’d been of him.
‘And you?’ she said, trying not to smirk as the reality of the situation sank in. ‘How did you meet him?’
‘A long time ago.’ George rubbed his chin. ‘I don’t know why, but he trusts you. So I’d like you to speak to him. Tell him we’re on the case with Nathan Kershner, that the Black Coke’s going down fine, that everything’s running splendidly. Okay?’
‘Sure, George, sure.’
‘He wanted to know about plans for the gala.’
‘Single gunman. Escape route’s set. The ASI’s fully on board.’
‘Good. That president’s starting to seriously annoy me. I don’t trust him one bit.’
‘You think he’s definitely turning on us?’
‘I’m sure of it. All this tough talk on drugs, more troops on the street, all that’s bollocks. You heard that journo at the press conference. President Caviedas agrees with the Mexican president. He’s up to something. I’m sure of it.’
‘What’s that then?’
George blinked, as though realising he was saying too much. ‘When are you shifting those guns from the safe house?’
‘They’re already on their way to Putumayo.’
‘Wonderful.’ George stood up, visibly relieved. ‘Right. So, I’d better get going.’
As soon as the door closed behind George, Amonite punched the air. She felt like shouting with delight. The great Sir George Lloyd-Wanless, ruthless politician, master manipulator, corrupt diverter of Her Majesty’s resources for the cause of Front 154, was trembling at the thought of displeasing El Patrón and asking her to put in a good word. But what did he know about the Colombian president that she didn’t?
She shrugged. She’d find out eventually. She ripped off her shirt, the excitement turning into desire. She placed the laptop next to her on the bed and gazed at the images of the young El Patrón, shirt open, thin moustache below piercing eyes, his curly hair giving him a sexy boyish look. She took off her combats and lay back, touching herself. Pleasure grew inside her.
Her phone buzzed.
Unidentified caller.
Damn. She tried to ignore the buzzing, but the desire had seeped out of her. She picked up the phone.
‘Who is it?’
‘Rudolph Hoffman. I’m a private military consultant.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Dex told me to ring you. I’ve got intel about two individuals that may interest you.’
Chapter 71
Bogotá, Colombia
15 April 2011
What the hell was she thinking? Losing her temper again like a teenager? Sticking up for herself was one thing, but she had to get a grip on these outbursts.
Lucia crossed her legs, accidentally nudging the wooden coffee table.
‘Shit.’
The coffee cup tipped over, splashing all over her jeans, right into her crotch, down onto the sofa.
‘Shit. Shit. Shit.’
She ran to the kitchen, dumped the coffee cup in the sink and dabbed at the stain with a tea-towel. It was no use. She’d have to change clothes.
A few minutes later, she emerged from her bedroom in a bathrobe with a duvet draped over her shoulders. She slumped onto the sofa again, switched on the TV and scrolled through the menu for the pay-per-view films.
Thoughts about Nathan cascaded through her mind. He’d been so caring, so gentle, so loving—as though he’d known her body for years. The tough talking, hardnosed, stubborn Lucia Carlisla turning into a trembling schoolgirl at the sight of a British anti-drugs agent. Joanna would laugh.
Lucia reached for the half-empty bottle of Malbec and poured herself a large glass. Nathan had looked upset when he was about to leave the room earlier on. So why had she shouted at him? He was th
e quiet type, reserved, even distant. She’d figured that out by now. But he could at least have made some attempt at speaking to her rather than trying to walk straight out.
Footsteps in the corridor. Probably those pissheads from the neighbouring apartment they’d bumped into in the elevator.
She took a swig of wine and scrolled down to the romance section. Then she saw the time on the digital clock on the mantelpiece: 21:55. Her stomach rumbled. She switched the sound off the TV and went into the kitchen. She flung open the fridge. Eggs, cheese, tomatoes, onions, salami, butter. She scrambled the eggs and mixed in a tomato and an onion. Huevos pericos was a breakfast dish, but she was starving, and it was her favourite dish, and nobody else was here, so who cared. She was splattering butter on a toast when she heard a door closing.
Her flesh went hard.
How could anyone know? The apartment was booked in another name. They’d been extra cautious. Nobody in the hotel or the neighbourhood knew her.
She shook her head. Too nervous, too jumpy.
A click.
She pulled a kitchen knife from the rack. She crept towards the kitchen doorway. Her heartbeat pounded in her temples. The lounge was empty. The TV had switched itself off pay-per-view and onto the evening news, which was showing pictures of a government building blown apart by another bombing from Front 154.
There was nobody in the lounge.
She turned up the sound on the TV. It was that obnoxious power-dressing newsreader, Sylvia Lituni. She was speaking to a government official. Both sounded surprised at the power of Front 154 and rumours of its links to the ASI. If Sylvia had only let her finish the other day, Lucia could had told her all about it—and maybe even saved lives. The discussion switched to the president’s upcoming gala for the victims of Colombia’s civil conflict. Lucia let out a hollow laugh and switched the sound off. A gala. Such a hypocritical PR stunt for the great and the good to feel better about their disastrous policies.
An idea struck her. She pushed it away. The president would never want to see her again. She was too tainted, too high risk. Still, he’d been a good family friend. The images on the TV changed to devastated farmland in the middle of the jungle, then a close-up of a revolting black beetle. Probably another environmental disaster caused by coca fumigation.
She turned back towards the kitchen.
A footstep on the wood floor.
Lucia felt her pulse accelerate again. She crept down the corridor, past the hallway. She looked in the bathroom. It was empty. She went into her bedroom.
A hand covered her face and pulled her head back. She screamed. The sound was muffled. Another hand grabbed her arm, forcing her to drop the knife. It clanged to the floor. She was yanked backwards, into the lounge. She tried to pummel her attacker with her elbows. The grip was too strong. She twisted round, but the hand on her face tightened and stopped her from breathing. She bit it, sinking teeth deep into flesh. Still she was dragged backwards.
A gag in her mouth. A hood over her head. Her hands were pulled behind her back, lashed together. She was shoved onto the sofa. She tried to get up, kicked out with her feet. A blow hit her so hard in the stomach that she fell back, gasping for breath, grunting. Her head was dizzy.
‘Where’s Kershner?’
It was a deep, rusty voice, not quite male or female. Another blow, to her chest, sent shards of pain shooting through her. Tears welled in her eyes.
That voice again: ‘Let her speak.’
Someone reached under and pulled the gag out. A blow landed on her cheek, softened by the hood. Blood mixed with saliva on her tongue. She spat it out.
‘Tell me where Kershner’s gone,’ the voice said.
Lucia shook her head. Fear had been replaced by rage.
‘Told you she was the tough type,’ the voice said.
‘Let me try.’ It was a male voice. She’d heard it somewhere before.
‘Be my guest.’
The gag was stuffed back into her mouth. She tried to scream as blows rained down. She threw herself to the floor, tried to roll away. She cried out, but nearly choked on the gag. Desperation cut through the agony. This was Colombia, where kidnappings and murder happened daily. Even if her neighbours heard her, nobody would call for help.
‘Stop!’
Another blow. This time to Lucia’s shins.
‘For fuck’s sake, Dex,’ the first voice said. ‘I said stop.’
‘Okay, okay,’ the man called Dex said. ‘She’s indeed a toughie, this little slut.’
‘Take her hood off, and the gag.’
Lucia blinked as the lights of the room blinded her. Through the haze of pain, she discerned two silhouettes towering over her. She tried to lift her hands to protect herself, but they were attached behind her back. She rolled over and started crawling away.
‘Hey, where d’you think you’re going.’ A strong pair of hands threw her back onto the sofa. Lucia kicked out, hitting her attacker in the groin.
‘Stupid bitch,’ Dex shouted, lifting a baseball bat.
The other person grabbed his arm. ‘Drop it.’
Dex struggled, then dropped the bat. He sat on the armchair across the coffee table and nursed his groin. Lucia recognised the scar zigzagging down his cheek, and nearly fainted. Dex was that man from the bar who she’d covered in beer.
She tried to focus on the person in front of her. He was tall and built like a rugby player. His face was blunt, with a stubby nose, thin lips and dark eyes that were too close together.
Then it hit her. It wasn’t a man at all.
‘Amonite Victor,’ Lucia muttered through damaged lips.
‘Hi, Lucia.’ Amonite grinned, showing bust-up teeth.
Lucia gasped for breath.
Amonite knelt next to her, hands resting on her knee. ‘Are you going to tell me where Kershner’s hiding, or do we have to use the thumbscrews?’
Lucia shook her head.
‘Just because a guy’s fucked you doesn’t mean he loves you, my dear.’
Lucia spat in Amonite’s face. The blob of saliva dribbled down her cheek and onto her lips. Amonite wiped it away with the back of her sleeve.
‘You’re gonna regret that,’ she said.
A phone rang. Dex pulled it from his pocket and checked the screen.
‘It’s that German guy,’ he said, handing the phone to Amonite.
‘We’ve found her,’ Amonite said into the phone. ‘She’s not being very cooperative.’ She listened, scratched the hairs on her chin. ‘Good idea. Bring her here.’
Amonite threw the phone back to Dex.
‘Got a buddy of yours turning up,’ she said, smirking at Lucia. ‘He’s got a little present.’
Lucia collapsed backwards onto the sofa. The German guy could only be Rudolph. He’d threatened her in the shack if she didn’t sleep with him, but she hadn’t imagined he’d turn her over to the Front. He must have tailed Nathan and her to the apartment and told Amonite their location.
Amonite made a chuckle that sounded like a pig squealing.
‘This time, my dear,’ she said, ‘I think you will talk.’
Chapter 72
Bogotá, Colombia
15 April 2011
Lucia regained consciousness, her arms and legs aching, her lips pulsing. She wiggled her fingers, trying to get the circulation through the plastic cable ties digging into her wrists. She struggled to her elbows and looked around with eyes brimming with pain.
Dex’s baseball bat was on the carpet next to the hood and gag.
She swung her legs off the sofa and sat up. She stumbled towards the bathroom. On her way there, she checked the bedrooms and kitchen. There was nobody there.
They’d beaten her senseless. But now they were gone.
Or maybe they were coming back.
She went to the bathroom, relieved herself, then staggered back. She needed to get her head together, call for help.
But who?
Her handbag was under the coffee tab
le. She knelt and turned round so she could rummage inside it with her hands. She fell over, swore, pushed herself back up and tried again. Where the hell was her phone? Not in the inside pocket, which was full of pens, coins, cards, notes and pieces of paper. Not in the side pocket, which contained her diary.
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