by Matthew Hall
‘I told them you were ill. You shouldn’t work today. You need to rest.’
‘I’ve made up my mind, Sarah. My involvement with this project is over … You must do as you wish.’
‘What will you do? They’re not going to let you –’ She stopped mid-sentence as Kennedy came to a sudden halt. His breathing was laboured. He staggered as if about to faint. Bellman caught and steadied him. She called out to the guard standing outside their quarters, who jogged over to help.
Bellman entered the laboratory alone. Kennedy was sleeping, having received a large dose of intravenous antibiotics for a suspected infection. She had been able to tell Holst that he was delirious and to take no notice of his outburst. She would handle the remainder of the work. The first batch of nanoparticles was nearly complete. They would be ready for their first human trials in forty-eight hours.
She sat at her computer and brought up the lines of genetic code that would be programmed into the targeting mechanism. This sequence of several thousand letters would be chemically translated into the biological equivalent of a weapons guidance system that could distinguish and lock on to a handful of cells amidst the billions that made up the human body.
But what if the code didn’t work? What if she could jam a spanner in the wheel that would slow their progress and buy them time to find a way out?
Dare she try?
Bellman glanced over her shoulder. There was no one at the door. She was alone with her conscience. For the first time in her life she decided to be brave.
45
On either side of the road people were emerging from their shacks to go to work on the land or to catch one of the overcrowded minivans that shuttled from these outlying parts into the city. Riley and Fallon ducked down beneath the Pontiac’s windows and Black drove with a cap pulled low over his eyes, but the car was being noticed. The shots would have been heard. Questions would be asked. By seven a.m. the police and army would have learned about the brown Pontiac that had driven by earlier. The new reality was that they were anonymous no longer.
The immediate dilemma was how best to use their brief window of opportunity, the hour or two before the bodies were found and the dots were joined. The first option was to stick to the original plan of holing up in the bush in the hope of being able to drive in to Charallave unnoticed in the early hours of the following morning. The second was to steal another vehicle, transfer their gear, then hide. Despite the risk involved in committing yet another crime, Black was inclining towards the second course of action when one of their two burner phones rang.
Riley fished it out of his pocket and handed it forward between the seats.
‘Hello.’
‘Good morning, Mr Black.’ It was Colonel Silva. He couldn’t have sounded more cheerful. ‘I trust you received your goods?’
‘Yes, we have them. Then your driver received a bullet from a pair of Policía Militar who ran him off the road at the top of the hill. We understood you were a reliable man, Colonel.’
There was no reply.
‘Hello?’
‘He’s dead?’ the Colonel said, a rising note of panic in his voice.
‘Afraid so.’
‘They were waiting for him?’
‘Looked that way. So either they’re on to you, or your man made an elementary mistake, like making the drop-off in a vehicle he borrowed without permission. One with a tracker. Send a boy to do a man’s job …’
‘The Military Police? You’re sure?’
‘Two of them. The good news is they’ll no longer be a burden on the Venezuelan taxpayer.’
Colonel Silva didn’t appreciate the joke. ‘This is not good news, Mr Black. Our country may be broken but our military is not. If those arms are seized, I need your assurance that my name will not be mentioned.’
‘That’s a big ask –’
Their conversation was interrupted by a sudden commotion: a woman’s voice calling out in panic accompanied by the sound of violent banging, like fists pounding on a door.
The call ended with no further exchange.
Black checked the time. It was six forty-seven a.m. He handed the phone back to Riley. ‘Sounds like Colonel Silva just got paid a visit by what passes for the law around here,’ he said with measured understatement. ‘I had a feeling he was pushing his luck.’
‘He’ll talk,’ Fallon said.
‘No doubt. So, do we take our chances on the road or persuade Buganov to fly today? My vote’s for the Russian.’
‘Fuck it. If I’m going to get shot at, I’d rather do it in style,’ Riley said. ‘I’m with you.’
‘Roger that,’ Fallon said with less enthusiasm.
Black leaned back in his seat and pushed his foot to the floor. The old Pontiac responded with a pleasing growl. He couldn’t help but smile. Finn would have enjoyed this. He would have called it a perfect day.
Instead of turning west to pick up Highway 1, which would have taken them due south to Charallave, Black chose instead to head east, looping round to come at his destination from a counter-intuitive angle. Anything to stay a step ahead. He crossed the hills on minor roads carved out of the rock, some of them little more than glorified cart tracks, making his way towards the small town of Santa Teresa del Tuy. There they stopped for fuel at a one-pump gas station and bought pineapple juice and cheese-filled corn breads the locals called arepas from a toothless old woman trading from a handcart. Her eyes lit up at the sight of American dollar bills. She snatched them in bony fingers and tucked them into the folds of her clothes.
Black continued on his circuitous route, skirting the centre of town and heading south-west to the larger settlement of San Francisco de Yare, from where he turned north on to the Autopista Charallave–Ocumare. A few miles from the edge of the city of Charallave itself, they pulled over into a truck stop. Riley and Fallon climbed out to smoke and stretch their legs. Black visited a foul-smelling urinal before returning to the car and dialling Buganov’s number. Waiting for the call to connect, he glanced across to the trucker’s diner. A row of customers were sitting on high stools facing out of the window. They were eating sausage and drinking coffee chased down with shots of brandy, racing each other to a heart attack.
Buganov answered with a Russian ‘Da?’ He sounded as if he’d been woken from a coma.
‘Buganov, it’s Black. There’s been a change of plan. We need to fly today.’
‘Not possible. I told you. Plane not fixed until tomorrow.’
‘I have money. How long will it take?’
‘Parts. Hoses. Hydraulic hoses. They arrive today. I have to fit them.’
‘How many hoses?’
‘What does it matter how many hoses?’
‘How many?’
‘Two.’
‘And how many hoses on your plane? I’m guessing a lot more than two. So improvise. How soon can you be ready?’
‘You’re a crazy man. Forget it. Zavtra.’ Tomorrow.
He rang off.
Fallon wandered over with Riley. ‘Problem?’
‘Two worn hoses. He’s waiting for replacements.’
‘What kind of pussy is he?’ Riley said.
Black stared out at the highway with the feeling that he was at a crossroads at which he couldn’t afford to take a wrong turn. He was tempted to change his mind and head south, as far away from people and trouble as they could get. The furthest they could travel by road was Buena Vista, some 1,200 miles away, but that still left a huge distance across largely uninhabited country to Platanal. That meant they would have to find a plane to hire at one of the small airstrips serving the southern settlements. It was possible, but in order to risk a long highway journey they would need to steal another vehicle as a matter of urgency and in broad daylight. Success would then depend on making it to Buena Vista without a breakdown or being stopped by a bored cop in search of a bribe. The odds were against them.
Riley and Fallon finished their cigarettes and climbed back into their seats.
‘Second thoughts?’ Riley said.
Black’s phone interrupted. He checked the screen. It was Towers.
‘Hold on.’ He took the call. ‘Freddy?’
‘Where are you?’
‘I doubt you’d know it.’
‘Did you get your equipment?’
‘Yes. I’ll spare you the details.’
‘Bad news, I’m afraid.’
Black felt an unpleasant sensation in his stomach.
‘Just had a call from my pal in ’6. Apparently Cordero called him about thirty minutes ago in a blind panic. He was en route to our Embassy in Caracas. He’d been tipped off by a mutual friend that his colleague, Colonel Silva, has been detained on suspicion of theft of military ordnance.’
‘I suspected as much.’
‘Well, now Cordero’s threatening to rat us out unless he’s granted asylum and safe passage. He’ll be given a fair hearing, but we’ll have to deny everything, of course. What you’d call a right royal fuck-up.’
‘Quite,’ Black said, resisting the temptation to add his own description.
‘What about your transport south?’
‘We’re working on it.’
‘I thought Cordero had given you a pilot?’
‘There’s been a delay.’
‘The fact is, Leo, I can buy you an hour. Two at the most. My man will make sure the Embassy staff go through the motions, take a statement, give every impression of playing along with a harmless lunatic. But beyond that, I think we may be in difficulties.’
‘Delicately put. I appreciate it.’
‘Get out of there, Leo. As quickly as you can.’
‘Understood. Keep me posted.’ Black signed off and turned to the others.
‘We heard,’ Riley said. ‘Guess we’d better drop in on Buganov.’
Charallave was a small city of 129,000 souls named after the Charavares indigenous people who had been the area’s unfortunate inhabitants when the conquistadors arrived. Of those that weren’t slaughtered, most of the remainder had died of either smallpox or influenza. Little evidence of them or their ancient culture remained. The city was crammed into a flat plain between surrounding hills and consisted mostly of tightly packed concrete apartment buildings encircled by a highway of grand, hubristic proportions. According to the GPS, Buganov’s address was on its north-east rim, a short distance from the Autopista Francisco de Miranda and no more than two kilometres from the airport.
The traffic was light and spread thinly along the vast sweep of the Avenida Perimetral. The cars and vans were of an even older vintage than those in Caracas and looked incongruous on a highway built for the twenty-first century. Black imagined that somewhere gathering dust in a government office there were fifteen-year-old plans for a modern city, five times the size, spreading out across the surrounding countryside. Plans that had not only come to nothing but which were fast going into reverse. The signs of decay were everywhere to see. The road was breaking up at the edges and giving way to encroaching weeds. They passed an abandoned fast-food restaurant and gas station, the buildings stripped of their cladding and the windows staved in. Bored, emaciated children were kicking around in the rubble.
The scene reminded Black of just how fragile a thing civilization was. It needed money to sustain itself. Lots of money. Turn off the supply, even for a short time, and it crumbled into ruin.
They bypassed the centre of the city, continued north, then took an exit off the highway that led them into an area of scattered low-rise housing punctuated with dead areas of rubbish-strewn scrub. After a further mile they arrived outside a single-storey property set on its own and surrounded by a ten-foot wire fence. Inside the quarter-acre compound there was a storage shed constructed of rusted tin, stacks of empty wooden crates and a beaten-up white panel van painted with the words Bug Air.
They pulled up and climbed out on to the unmade road.
The gates were padlocked and metal security grilles were drawn down over the two windows at the front of the house. There was no bell or intercom. Black reached through the open driver’s window and leaned on the horn twice.
‘Plan B,’ Riley said. He clasped his hands in front of his waist. Fallon used them as a step, placed his hands on top of the locked gates and vaulted over.
Black followed suit, landing rather more heavily than the younger, lighter man.
‘I’ll keep an eye on the wagon,’ Riley said.
Black led the way to the front door and knocked loudly.
‘Mr Buganov? It’s Leo Black.’
Getting no response, he crossed to the window to the left of the door and peered through the dense mesh of the grille. Cupping his hands around his eyes to block out the peripheral light, he made out a bed and a prone figure beneath rumpled sheets.
‘Good morning, Mr Buganov. Would you be kind enough to open the door? We have business to transact.’
‘You’re a bastard,’ Buganov uttered from the darkness.
‘Surely even you would get out of bed for three thousand dollars.’
Buganov refused to stir.
‘Two minutes, or I’ll take my money elsewhere.’
He stepped back to the front door and waited.
Several minutes later, grumbling and cursing, Buganov drew back multiple bolts and opened the door. He was a man of around sixty, dressed in crumpled grey boxer shorts and a stained vest. He was bald, fat and unshaven with devilish eyes the colour of coal.
Black liked him at once.
‘Pleased to meet you.’ He offered his hand.
‘Fuck your mother.’
Buganov turned and plodded back into the darkened interior. Black and Fallon exchanged a glance and followed him inside.
They entered a room which was both kitchen and general living space. There was a table and chairs, an old sofa, an antique television bracketed to the wall, a desk spilling untended papers and a shelf filled with assorted bottles. Buganov grabbed one and slumped into a seat at the table. Black and Fallon sat opposite as the Russian poured himself a shot of Pampero rum, tossed it down and reached for a packet of cigarettes. Only when both the alcohol and nicotine had reached his bloodstream did he raise his gaze and speak. Black used the intervening moments to cast his eyes around the room. Propped up on the shelf above the desk he noticed a small framed photograph of a slim, handsome young man dressed in the uniform of the Soviet Air Force.
‘Have you ever flown a plane, Mr Black?’ Buganov said.
‘No. Although I have jumped out of a few.’
‘You cannot land a plane without brakes. The consequences would be unfortunate.’
‘We can fix hoses well enough for a couple of landings,’ Fallon said. ‘Heard of duct tape?’
‘You’re a funny guy.’
‘Five thousand dollars if we take off today,’ Black said. ‘The same on our return in a week or so’s time.’
He reached under his shirt and unclipped a money belt he had retrieved from his rucksack at their last stop. He brought it out on to the table and pulled back the zipper. Buganov’s eyes fixed on the fat green wad of notes.
‘What is the nature of your business?’
‘Never mind that,’ Black said.
‘Cargo?’
‘Something that mustn’t be seen. Nor must we. Can you arrange it?’
Buganov sighed. ‘Five thousand dollars for the risk of jail? I was in jail once – in Yakutsk. Another crazy adventure just like this one. I would rather freeze to death in a cell in Siberia than boil to death in Caracas.’
‘Ten thousand for a return trip, Mr Buganov. Are you really going to turn me down?’
Buganov stared at the money and blew out a thick cloud of blue smoke.
‘Platanal. I’ve never been there.’
‘There’s an airstrip that will easily accommodate your plane.’
‘They have police. Even way out in the jungle.’
‘You’ve nothing to fear from the police,’ Fallon said. ‘We’re just th
ree adventurous tourists off for a hike in the Amazon.’
Buganov looked at his visitors with an expression of contempt tinged with reluctant admiration.
Black took out the money and pressed it into his hand. ‘Do we have a deal?’
‘You sons of whores.’ Buganov clutched it in an ape-like fist. ‘You’ll kill us all.’
46
Buganov unlocked the front gates and slid back the door on the corrugated shed. It was stacked with more empty crates, oil drums, boxes of dry goods awaiting transport, old aircraft parts and several decades’ worth of assorted junk.
‘We need to store our car in there out of sight,’ Black said.
‘You want to make a space, fine,’ Buganov said. ‘And if you want to get into the airport without being seen, you’d better find some place to hide.’ He tossed Black the keys to his panel van and shuffled back into the house, lighting another cigarette. ‘I need something to eat.’
Black lifted the roller shutter at the van’s rear to reveal a space approximately twelve feet long by eight wide. It smelled of rotting fruit and was hot as an oven. There were no obvious voids in which to hide their weapons and little scope for concealing three men in any way that would defeat even a cursory search. It left them little choice but to load the van with empty crates and hide behind them in the hope that Buganov could bluff his way through airport security.
‘Unless either of you has a better solution?’ Black said.
They shook their heads. Sometimes the obvious risk was the one to take.
From the markings on the crates Black deduced that Buganov’s regular trade was in foodstuffs and essential goods. He evidently brought fresh fruit and vegetables north from the remote plantations in the south and returned with staples and farm supplies. The mundane nature of this business was all to their advantage. They transferred their rucksacks and holdalls to several crates and, leaving a void two feet deep at the front of the van, filled the rest to the ceiling with more empty crates and boxes of rice, flour and salt. It was crude but it would have to do. Lastly, they manoeuvred the Pontiac into the empty shed, covered it with a tarpaulin, stacked boxes and aircraft parts on its roof and more crates in front of it.