Hunting for Caracas

by Anthony Fox

  A view of suffocating beauty.

  That was all outside the grounds of the hilltop villa. The tall pine trees around the perimeter of the villa swayed lazily in the wind as if hungover and dehydrated, reminding him of a collection of Ibiza Sunday brunchers after a particularly wild rave.

  Any visual beauty surrounding the young man on the rooftop was rudely and constantly interrupted, however, by the blunt sounds of construction, as is so often the way in modern times. The toxic smell of diesel filling the air, leaving a dirty, metallic taste at the back of his throat.

  For the boy on the roof – Chunky Phil was his name – knew the sounds and general disturbance of the construction site on a plot of land a quarter mile away were welcomed by his boss, who stood on the edge of a pit in the garden below, preparing to torture three people. Chunky Phil was happy to be up here and used as a lookout. It meant he could look elsewhere than the pit below, was in fact expected to look everywhere else but the pit, in search of anyone attempting to approach the property.

  It meant he wasn’t forced to watch.

  The roof that Chunky Phil was stood on was part of a white villa that looked like it’d been stolen from the Hollywood hills of LA. The building was owned through a third party by a large shell company that ensured the property and its surroundings were always empty.

  With the villa came three acres of unused land. At the back of the house a small part of that land was dug into a deep rectangular pit initially intended to become a swimming pool. Who knew, one day it may still get finished. As of this moment it only had mosaic tiles of various shades of green on one-third of its surface area, the rest still covered in smooth, set clay the colour of burnt, well, anything.

  Partially filling the pool/pit, instead of water there were three men and one woman. Two of the men and the woman were sat in patio chairs in a line all facing the same direction. Their feet and hands were tied to the chair with ropes so tight that at the ankles and wrists the ropes were stained with blood. Each had a gag tied around their mouths. All three were sweating profusely. The woman and one of the men had wet themselves, their trousers dark with moisture and emitting an unpleasant smell in the heat.

  ***

  Stood to one side of the three chairs was a black man with a muscular build and short, unkempt dreadlocks. He was wearing a black vest and a pair of multicoloured board shorts. This man’s name was Frank. He stood still and waiting with the three people in the chairs. Frank’s lips curled back. He moved his top and bottom teeth rapidly back and forth against each other over and over again. The sounds of the construction site not too far away were dull in the pit, but it did mean only Frank could hear the faint sawing noise his teeth made as they moved against each other. Frank had become accustomed to doing this to prepare himself. He knew it was odd, but the action was a manifestation of the stress, like having a nervous twitch, but severely heightened. He suddenly stopped the action and closed his mouth, clenching his jaw, as Mr Proud became visible at the top of the pit.

  Mr Proud used the step ladder to descend into the pit, moving carefully as he carried something in his left hand. Scattered around the top edge of the pit were seven of Mr Proud’s gang. Barely old enough to be considered adults, they stood lazily in the sun with automatic handguns held by their sides. All were dressed similarly to Frank, in vests and shorts. They were all a little too thin and a little too restless. Many had a set of yellow teeth and gaps between them.

  Back in the pit Mr Proud reached the bottom of the stepladder and turned to the three people tied to the chairs. This simple action made the three of them squeak and shift heavily in their seats.

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ said Mr Proud in that agitated voice of his. ‘I couldn’t find my cleaver.’ As he said this he raised his left hand so they could all see the meat cleaver he was carrying. It was a big, heavy knife that looked like a toy in Mr Proud’s hand. Frank knew even those stood at the top of the pit could see it was also completely filthy. Old blood had congealed and turned brown, with only the top half of the knife still showing the glint of metal. If someone was cut with the knife, then even if they survived the wound they would surely die from disease. Mr Proud always made a point of keeping the knife sharp, but never too sharp.

  ‘My job would be a lot easier if I were physically intimidating, wouldn’t you agree?’

  It was unclear exactly who Mr Proud was aiming this question at, and no one responded.

  ‘I guess that’s why I carry this ridiculously big knife around with me. Like a kind of eighties horror villain. I’m so unoriginal.’

  Not particularly tall and with an average build, Mr Proud moved with a mild restlessness similar to the men that followed him. Only his was more controlled, like a snake that was always ready to strike.

  ‘I’m sure you’ve guessed by the simple fact you are still breathing that I have some questions for you.’ He came forward so he was just a few steps from the three prisoners.

  In one corner the woman whimpered, and he turned to her, his expression dropping. ‘Are you paying ATTENTION?’ Mr Proud yelled at the woman suddenly.

  All three captives whimpered and twisted against their bonds. Everyone watched to see if it was determined the woman was paying enough attention.

  To the side Frank tensed as an uncomfortable silence engulfed the air. Secretly Frank was praying Mr Proud held it together long enough to interrogate these people, and then they could leave. He’d known Mr Proud a long time, and as with all situations involving the man, he knew the likelihood of him holding it together was decidedly fifty-fifty.

  Mr Proud took a few steps forward so he was now stood in between the man in the middle and the woman to one side. The other man tied to a chair on the far side seemed to have been momentarily forgotten.

  Suddenly, still stood in between the man and woman, he turned to face the man seated in the middle. ‘NOW. I have questions. But I know how these things go. You hold out as long as you can. Maybe you lie, maybe you tell me what you think I want to hear, but it all comes down to one thing, and that is no matter how much I threaten you and wave this ridiculous knife around, you still have this little voice in your head that says, “There’s still a chance. Maybe I can get away. Maybe someone will save me,”’

  ‘The problem is most people, even in a situation as hopeless as yours, can never truly face the fact that their position is hopeless. Simply because it’s never happened before,’ said Mr Proud, giving a wide grin to the man tied to the chair in the middle of the pit. Then he took one step and lazily sank the meat cleaver into the wrist of the woman tied up to the side of him.

  ‘So let’s eliminate that problem,’ he added.

  There was a horrible crunch. Everyone looked shocked. Even Mr Proud seemed momentarily surprised by what he’d done. The woman stared wide-eyed at the meat cleaver that partially separated her hand from her arm, then she began to scream.

  Mr Proud raised his knife and beheld it as fresh blood marked the end of the blade. It appeared the blade had gone three-quarters of the way through the woman’s wrist. This was why Mr Proud didn’t sharpen his knife too much, and why he didn’t clean the blade. It meant there was never a completely clean cut, and therefore the experience was infinitely more painful. Tears drowned the woman’s eyes and she rocked in her heavy chair so violently it looked like she might tip over.

  Then Mr Proud lost it.

  He brought the cleaver down again, the knife making contact with the woman’s arm a little higher than the first cut. Flesh parted and bone crunched. Blood ran. Mr Proud raised his meat cleaver and then brought it down on the woman’s arm again. Then he let out a noise that sounded like a war cry as he wildly hacked away at the woman’s arm, the knife sinking into her limb again and again and again.

  At that point everyone turned away. Blood, bone and tissue flew in all directions, a lot of it landing either on Mr Proud himself or on the man tied to the chair immediately next to him. The two other captives turned their head
s to the side and vomited into their gags. Frank turned around. ‘Oh, Jesus,’ he said to himself. He heard more than one of the gang members puking.

  They all turned their heads, but no one could escape the woman’s noises. For there is no noise like the scream of a person who wishes they were dead.

  Clearly Mr Proud felt as if she wasn’t paying him enough attention.

  54

  Somewhere near Feldkirch, Austria.

  Matthews sat up in bed, the iPod in his hand. For once he wasn’t listening to it, but instead recalling the last conversation he ever had with Rudy.

  ‘I would ask you to reconsider,’ Rudy said.

  Age did little to diminish his height right up until the end. At seventy-five and six feet two, the curvature in his spine was noticeable, but slight. His skin, however, was brown and leathery from too much sun and wind, and everything about him was long and thin. His long, bald head looked like a dried prune.

  ‘When I left, you let me go with your blessing,’ Matthews remembered replying. And he remembered rubbing the scar on his neck. The scar Caracas gave him after they tracked the assassin to a hut in China. Caracas beat him then. Got away. Matthews felt old. He felt tired, by all of it. He’d retired immediately.

  ‘I wouldn’t ask you to come back if I felt there were any other option. Caracas must be stopped.’

  He’s just doing this to draw me back in, Matthews thought at the time. ‘You don’t need me. The others are with you, aren’t they?’

  ‘There never was anyone as good as you, my boy,’ Rudy said.

  My boy.

  I knew Rudy would never let me walk away. There probably isn’t even any threat. Caracas probably isn’t even involved. Rudy’s just trying to scare me into going back to him. Well, it won’t work.

  Matthews couldn’t remember now why he was so angry.

  He rubbed the scar on his neck. ‘I can’t, I’m out.’ And Matthews hung up the phone. Just like that.

  ***

  After his birth, Oliver Matthews’ mother suffered from postnatal depression that unfortunately went initially unnoticed. That is, until she committed suicide, then her doctors picked up on all the signs that were there from the beginning. It left baby Oliver to be looked after by his father, an ambitious journalist for BBC world news. It wasn’t an ideal way to raise a child as a single parent, but having to provide for his son alone, Matthews’ father felt more compelled than ever to succeed.

  Aged seven, Matthews found himself sitting in a puddle of muddy water behind a charred Israeli tank. Living in the safe zone of Beersheba at the time, partly because it gave journalists good access to the Gaza strip and partly because Matthews’ father was a fan of the football team Hapoel Be’er Sheva, they were taken from their home when a section of the city was raided by a cell claiming to be part of the PLO. The cell were attempting to reclaim a mosque. They left Matthews’ father swinging by his neck from a rope roughly twenty feet away from his son. A squadron of Israeli soldiers and a group of Palestinian soldiers were involved in a gunfight and when it finished, Oliver Matthews was too afraid to move.

  When Rudy found him, completely by chance, two days later, the boy was starved, dehydrated, shivering with hypothermia and close to death. Matthews was covered in other people’s blood and had intense cramp through his legs. For two whole days he simply turned his head away and cried for his father to come and get him.

  Rudy took him in. Each day since had given Matthews safe shelter. Rudy fed him and gave him enough water to drink. Then came the reading and writing lessons, basic mathematics and geography, history and biology, but there had also been language skills, map reading, weapons training, advanced close-combat lessons and urban survival drills.

  As he grew into a man, Matthews travelled the world, carrying out the work Rudy gave him, becoming a close part of his private protection team. Rudy’s goal was always to do good in this world, yet good often comes at a price. Matthews was certainly not the only one to work for Rudy over the years, but the two became as close as father and son. Rudy gave orders, but he’d never, not once, asked Matthews for anything.

  Then one day, after more than four decades together, Matthews finally decided he’d seen as much pain and death as he could take, so he made his first real decision without Rudy since their meeting. He summoned the courage to retire and walk away.

  But Rudy called asking for help to stop Caracas again. Matthews wanted just one small piece of his own life for himself. He just wanted to get away from it all and be alone and find a nice, quiet, peaceful place. He refused Rudy. He put the phone down on Rudy. Just like that. And he would never again get the chance to talk to the man who rescued him all those years ago.

  55

  Berwang, Autria.

  They were still cleaning the mess up when Luque arrived. Chunky Phil spotted the car first. Which he should have, Frank thought. After all, he was the lookout. From the rooftop Chunky Phil had an uninterrupted three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the surrounding area, and he was looking everywhere except for the pit that was once planned to become a swimming pool.

  In fact Chunky Phil shouted to Frank that he spotted two cars approaching, one some distance ahead of the other. The first one Frank expected. It belonged to a man called Stam. Stam was Greek and scary as hell, Frank knew, and was the one who paid Mr Proud to torture the three people in the pit. Frank’s understanding was that the three people had originally approached Stam, attempting to broker a deal.

  Stam reached the house, pulled his car in the driveway and met Frank. Frank led Stam to Mr Proud.

  Of the three prisoners tortured, Stam was told the woman died due to injuries sustained during interrogation. A second prisoner died by choking on his own vomit while his mouth was gagged (perhaps intentionally, although this thought was not conveyed to Stam). The third prisoner told them everything they wanted to know plus much more besides, then he died as well. Mr Proud didn’t elaborate on how.

  Stam had just finished receiving the information gathered from the prisoner when Frank heard the second car arrive.

  He didn’t recognise the car, but along with just about everyone else he recognised Luque as he pulled up a safe distance before the house and stepped out. Stam and Luque briefly crossed paths and stared at each other coolly, then Stam took his leave.

  Luque seemed tired from the drive and said he was busy, so they got right down to business. Luque didn’t jump down into the pit, instead waiting for Mr Proud to get out. As Mr Proud did so the last of the body parts were swept up by one of Mr Proud’s crew, the pit was emptied of people, and Frank turned on the hose and swilled out the mess.

  Over the noise he heard Luque tell Mr Proud there was a new job for him. Luque explained something about the trace on a phone and gave Mr Proud a location. He described a man he and Caracas wanted dead, and offered Mr Proud a photograph taken from a recording.

  Then Luque told Mr Proud how dangerous Caracas believed this man to be.

  With that in mind Mr Proud asked how many men Luque thought he should take.

  ‘All of them.’

  Mr Proud laughed openly, no doubt at the thought of all that effort for just one man, then he realised Luque wasn’t joking.

  The last piece of business Frank heard was to add that a young woman was caught on security cameras fleeing a scene with the targeted man. Luque explained the girl may well still be with the man, as they had been unable to locate her, and he offered another photograph and told them that the CCTV footage suggested the girl had an injured leg.

  If she was still with the man it would be nice to take her alive so Luque could question her before killing her himself. If taking her alive was not possible then so be it, but she couldn’t be allowed to get away. However, the man they were after was far too dangerous for such games, and must be killed on sight and without hesitation. They were to bring Caracas his head.

  Mr Proud smiled and his eyes flashed behind the glasses. He added that this man they’re afte
r might finally be a person he’ll enjoy killing.

  Frank turned off the hose and headed for the three wheel barrows, ready to bury the bodies.

  56

  Somewhere near Feldkirch, Austria.

  Inside the bedroom Grandad stood at Matthews’ side, both of them looking over the evidence on the wall. Everything Matthews collected from Luque’s barn had been in the back of the car when Grandad found it. The contents of the metal bin and the two files had spilled all over the backseat, but Grandad collected everything and saved it at the apartment. It was the first thing Matthews asked about when he woke up. The second was whether Grandad had found his iPod.

  Matthews was out of bed for the first time since arriving at the apartment, his body recovering quickly now, and he sat slumped in a wheelchair by Grandad’s side.

  ‘But I thought this is going to tell us where Caracas is hiding?’

  ‘No. I think Caracas is using Luque to plan another hit. Luque didn’t leave us much, but we already know a lot.’

  They managed to piece together enough of the evidence from the barn to get a link to a Fernando Silva who, a quick internet search revealed, was French and known in the press as ‘Doctor Silva’ due to one PhD in economics and another in political science. He was currently the Minister of Economics and Finance for France, as well as seeming to be quite a celebrity figure, perhaps in part due to his charming smile and chiselled features.

  Reports said that Doctor Silva was working hard to continuously build the European Union, despite Brexit and a series of other blows to its future, and planned to bring more countries in. In addition he was working with EU and commonwealth leaders in the hope of building a global free trade agreement, something reporters referred to as ‘his baby’. Mocked by many for what were called fairy-tale ideas, it seemed Doctor Silva remained undeterred in his work.