‘There it is.’ Manuel pointed. They were rushing through the hills north of Bogotá. A small airstrip was up ahead, surrounded by barbed wire fencing. The sun was setting, casting a pinkish glow.
‘You’re absolutely positive the guy’s reliable?’ Nathan said.
‘We’ve had this conversation before,’ Manuel said as they pulled up to the guards at the front entrance. ‘He’s as good a pilot as they get.’
Nathan turned to Lucia, who was looking at him with wide eyes.
‘You sure you want to go ahead with your plans too?’ he said. ‘You could wait at the hotel for us to get back.’
‘I’m not going to sit around on my hands.’
‘You’ve got the details? Location, everything?’
‘Don’t worry,’ Lucia said. ‘I know what I’m doing.’
‘You’re convinced he’ll listen?’
‘Nathan, please!’
‘Alright. Let’s go for it.’
Chapter 86
Putumayo, Colombia
16 April 2011
Darkness everywhere. Just the whir of the single engine of the Cessna. The pilot was flying by instruments. No lights on the plane. No sign of the jungle below. The city had been left behind hours ago.
Nathan inhaled deeply, trying to relax his body. He slung the AK 47 over his shoulder and checked for the fifth time that everything was in place: the rucksack on his front, the parachute on his back, the ammo in his pockets. He checked the laces on his boots and the buttons on his shirt. He glanced at Manuel, who was cleaning his teeth with a twig he’d picked up at the airstrip.
Nathan leaned forwards towards the pilot. ‘How long?’
‘Five minutes.’
He went through their plan for the fifteenth time. It was simple. Find the underground complex. Break in. Blow the whole thing up. If Amonite was there, all the better. If she wasn’t there, he’d track her down, even if it meant devoting the rest of his life to the task.
‘Two minutes,’ shouted the pilot.
Nathan peered into the blackness below. For all he knew, he could be jumping into the middle of nowhere. He checked his GPS system. The coordinates were correct.
‘One minute.’ The pilot glanced round and did a thumbs up. ‘Good luck.’
Nathan opened the doorway to the plane. Wind gushed in, filling the cabin, rushing past them, roaring. Nathan clutched the side of the doorway and looked down. He’d have about 20 seconds of freefall before having to open the parachute.
The pilot was shouting. ‘Five, four, three, two, one. Jump.’
Nathan launched himself into the emptiness and began counting to twenty. He relaxed his body, feeling the wind stream past him, through his fingers and hair and round his arms and legs. He’d always loved freefall. The sense of freedom was inebriating.
Nineteen, twenty.
He opened the parachute. It jolted his shoulders. He strained his eyes to see if he could make out the jungle below. There was no moon, but enough stars to provide some visibility. Then he saw it: the wide expanse of trees rushing towards him. He hurtled into the top of the canopy. The parachute got tangled in branches. He felt something brush his legs, but no pain, fortunately. He’d seen too many friends end up with broken legs on night-time parachute missions.
Seconds later, he was hanging there, swaying from side to side. He pulled his flashlight from his pocket and shone it down. The ground was three to four metres away and covered in underbrush. He put the flashlight away and grabbed the hunting knife from his belt. He sliced the ropes of the parachute and tumbled to the ground, rolling sideways with the impact.
He lay there, listening. He was on his side, clutching his rucksack. The familiar chatter of the jungle continued, unperturbed by his arrival. He did a mental check-up of his body. Everything was still in one piece. He got to his feet and went through his rucksack, checking the equipment was okay. He reached for the GPS system and switched it on.
Nothing happened.
He shone his flashlight on it. The screen was smashed. He put it back in his rucksack and pulled out a map and compass. Once he was sure which way he was going, he put on his night vision goggles. Everything turned into shades of green. He trudged through the jungle, heading for the rendez-vous point to meet Manuel.
An hour later, he arrived close to it.
He ducked into the undergrowth.
There was flickering light ahead. The chatter of voices. Movement.
What was going on?
Chapter 87
Bogotá, Colombia
16 April 2011
‘I can’t let you in,’ the security guard said, blocking Lucia.
‘Please.’ She flashed a smile. ‘I’m telling you I lost my ticket at home.’
‘Move to the side. You’re in the way.’
More of Bogotá’s glitterati filed past her, flaunting smooth skin through revealing long dresses and dripping with diamonds and gold watches. All-white smiles glinted at the hordes of paparazzi who pressed like hungry dogs against a metal barrier just outside the Radisson Royal Hotel. A huge banner hung above the entrance with the words ‘Presidential Gala’ emblazoned on it in large gold and black letters.
Lucia pulled a wad of notes from her brand-new black handbag. The guard lifted his hands, palms up, and shook his head.
‘Señorita, please, don’t.’
‘What can I do? I need to get in there. The ambassador was expecting me ten minutes ago.’ She fluttered her eyelids. ‘You’re an intelligent and kind man. You must be able to help.’
‘No ticket, no entrance.’
‘But—’
‘Please step away.’
Lucia sighed.
‘Can I help?’ said an older looking guard in a red suit who appeared next to them.
‘The señorita was just leaving,’ said the first guard.
‘The British ambassador is expecting me,’ Lucia said. ‘I’m already late, but I can’t find my ticket.’
‘Is your name on the list?’ the red guard said.
‘No, it’s not,’ the first guard said. ‘She needs to go.’
The red guard appraised Lucia up and down.
‘Come with me,’ he said, shooting a glance at the first guard that shut him up just as he was opening his mouth.
The red guard drew her to one side, behind the x-ray machine inside the marble-floored lobby.
‘Three hundred dollars,’ he said.
Lucia thrust all the bank notes into his hand. The guard stuffed them into his pocket, shrugging off the stare of his female colleague who was sitting at the x-ray machine. He pulled a visitor badge from a pile on a desk and handed it to Lucia.
‘Welcome to the first annual gala for the victims of Colombia’s civil conflict,’ he said with a slight bow of the head. ‘Now, if you’ll just step through security.’
Lucia tried not to smile smugly at the first guard, who was glaring at her. Once she’d cleared the metal detector and put her bag through the x-ray machine, Lucia followed the steady line of guests streaming up the sweeping white stone staircase to a mezzanine area where drinks were being served. Champagne glasses clinked, polite laughter rippled, furtive glances shot from side to side.
Lucia allowed herself a sigh of relief. It’d been a gamble to come here with no invitation, but it’d worked out. Now she needed to find the president. Not an easy task. His security would be extra tight this evening following all the recent bombings by Front 154.
Colombia’s former vice-president, a heavy-set man with sagging cheeks, rumbled past, a young super model on his arm. To Lucia’s left, a football player, Lucia couldn’t remember his name but she knew he was a national hero, was entertaining two female soap opera stars with tales of post-match debauchery. Behind them, three of Colombia’s leading industrialists were deep in conversation about the state of the stock market.
These were the kind of people her father used to have round his house on weekends for dinner. The great, the good, the powerful, gl
ittering with wealth and self-satisfaction, content in the knowledge that they’d controlled Colombia for decades and would continue to do so.
Lucia clenched her fists. These were the people responsible for all the damage done to her country—the massacre of peasants, the rise of the paramilitary—who secretly and sometimes not so secretly approved of the ASI’s excesses and even its alliance with the Front.
‘I’m surprised to see you here.’
Lucia spun round, eyes focusing back to reality.
‘You!’ was all she could say.
Sylvia Lituni flashed a pearl-white smile and held out a manicured hand. She looked much more attractive in her long black dress than in the power suit she’d worn on the TV set the other night, although Lucia suspected that her voluptuous curves and firm breasts were mainly the result of the surgeon’s knife.
‘I hear there’s been some trouble at CAF.’ Sylvia pulled Lucia to one side. ‘I want to help.’
‘After that fiasco the other night?’
‘I’ve heard rumours El Patrón’s back.’
‘What?’
‘Voice down.’ Sylvia looked around. ‘I’m taking a risk just being seen with you.’
‘I need to speak to the president.’
‘He’s under heavy protection.’
‘He’s the only one who can help,’ Lucia said. ‘You sure it isn’t someone else claiming to be El Patrón?’
One of the industrialists threw them a curious glance.
‘Please, Lucia, keep it down,’ Sylvia said. ‘I know the president’s chief of staff. I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Tell him to tell the president that Lucita wants to speak to him.’
‘Lucita?’
‘It’s what my father called me. The president used to visit, when they were still friends, before all the mess.’
Sylvia blinked her heavily made-up eyes, then drifted away. Lucia reached out for a glass of champagne, but went for an orange juice instead. The news about El Patrón had rattled her.
‘No champagne?’ said a warm male voice behind her.
It was the football star. He was appraising her with a raised eyebrow and a self-satisfied smile. Here was a man who expected women to throw themselves at his feet.
‘Only for special occasions.’
‘Aha! Tonight isn’t special enough?’
Lucia didn’t reply. Behind the footballer, in a corner of the bustling room, Sylvia was deep in conversation with Sir George Lloyd-Wanless.
Chapter 88
Putumayo, Colombia
16 April 2011
Nathan crawled through the underbrush, then stopped. The flickering light ahead was a fire. It messed with his night vision goggles, so he put them away. He crept forward some more, head low. Nettles stung his face. A lizard slithered over his hand. Dirt gritted between his teeth. He ignored it all, channelling the adrenaline through his veins, making his mind and vision acutely clear.
He stopped behind a bush and peered round. Three men sat by a campfire in a clearing, tents to either side. Two men patrolled round it, thirty metres away, smoking cigarettes, relaxed. Nathan waited. One of the three men picked up an assault rifle, which from afar looked like one of the L85A2s he’d found in the boxes in the basement of the embassy house. The man stood up and walked towards one of the patrolling guards. They exchanged a few words, then swapped positions.
One of the men by the campfire kicked a black shape lying next to him. The shape moved. The guard laughed, kicked it again, repeatedly, viciously, then turned back to his mates. A flicker from the fire lit up the shape. It was Manuel, curled up sideways, wrists and ankles tied up, with a gag in his mouth. His face was unmoving, but his good eye was blazing.
The guards cracked open a bottle of wine. One of them pulled out a gun and put it to Manuel’s head. He shouted something to his mates, who slapped their knees and gave coarse belly laughs. He pulled a burning branch from the fire and put it close to Manuel’s face. Manuel twisted and turned. The guard threw the branch back into the fire. He stood up and kicked Manuel repeatedly in the stomach.
Nathan slung his AK 47 over his shoulder and grabbed his hunting knife. He waited, patiently, focused, his training flooding back as though he’d never left the special forces. He pushed away all emotions, any sense of empathy for the guards. He was here to rescue Manuel, find and kill Amonite, and bring down the Front. He was doing this for Caitlin, Steve, Cedric and the thousands of campesinos who had suffered at the hands of the Front. Anybody who stood in his way had to be taken down.
The guards resumed their chatter. About half an hour later, they headed for their tents, dragging Manuel with them and dumping him in the closest one. Nathan waited a while longer. It was all about the timing. The moon had appeared, casting a silver glow over the forest and tents.
The two remaining guards were standing at opposite ends of the camp. Nathan crawled forward, staying within the underbrush. He stopped every few metres, checking his surroundings, listening, ready. He was within five metres of the guards’ perimeter when he froze. One of the other men had got up from his tent. He headed straight towards Nathan, who tried to disappear into the ground. The guard unzipped his trousers. A flow of piss erupted, landing barely a couple of metres in front of Nathan.
Nathan held his breath. His hands were on the ground, ready to push up and lunge at the slightest sign that the guard had seen him. The guard zipped up and stumbled back to his tent. Nathan took a deep breath, crawled forward some more, then waited. One of the guards was pacing up and down a few metres away. The one on the far side was looking the other way.
The closest guard was three metres away and approaching.
Two metres.
One metre…
Nathan pounced. His left hand went over the guard’s mouth and tugged backwards. With his right hand, he sliced the guard’s throat with the knife. The guard let out a sigh and collapsed. Nathan kept on sawing at his throat, until he was sure the guard was dead. He dragged the body further into the undergrowth and left it there.
He crept round. The other guard was having trouble lighting a cigarette. Nathan crawled up behind him. The guard swore and threw his lighter into the forest. Then he turned round to face the fire.
And came face to face with Nathan, who plunged his knife into the man’s chest while putting his left hand on the man’s mouth. The man’s eyes opened wide. His arms lifted to grab the knife, which Nathan was twisting into his body. The man let out a muffled groan, then his knees buckled. Nathan lowered him gently to the grass.
Nathan headed for the three tents, unslinging his rifle. He was close to the first one when a head popped out. Nathan shot it twice, the gunshots disturbing the sound of the forest. The head disappeared back into the tent. Nathan peered in and fired a third shot at the man’s head. It was standard SAS procedure. Always make sure your enemy’s dead.
There was rustling in the other tents. Nathan spun round. The barrel of an assault rifle poked out of the closest one. Nathan dropped to the ground, narrowly avoiding a barrage of lead. He fired twice at the tent. The rifle fell.
The third tent, the one with Manuel inside, ripped open. A man lunged out and rolled. A smoke grenade spilled its fumes. Nathan blinked. He fired where he thought the man would end up. Then he jumped to his feet and charged through the smoke.
A shape to his left. The man was heading for the trees. Nathan raced after him. The man stumbled, then regained his balance. He twisted round and fired a wild shot at Nathan, who ducked. The trees were ten metres away. Nathan was gaining ground. The man tripped on a branch, dropping his gun. Nathan was nearly on top of him. The man spun round, a knife in his hand. Nathan pointed his rifle straight at the man’s forehead.
‘Drop the knife,’ Nathan yelled.
The man glared at Nathan.
‘I said drop the knife.’
The man lunged. Nathan fired two shots. The man crumpled backwards. Nathan stepped forward and fired a third shot to the man
’s head. He pushed away the feeling of remorse that threatened to erupt. He had to focus on the mission. He ran back to the tents. There was the sound of shallow, fast, troubled breathing. Nathan dragged Manuel out. He ripped off his gag and slashed the cable ties from his wrists and ankles.
‘What happened?’ Nathan asked.
Manuel struggled to a sitting position and rubbed his arms and legs. He stared at Nathan with his good eye wide.
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