Mudada

by M G Leslie

  Price stepped to his right, grabbing one of the airline’s rugs from a seat – wrapping it around his arm for some protection just as the man turned again – thrusting forward with the syringe – only to be blocked by Price’s, now protected, arm.

  Before the man could react, Price stepped forward, turned, elbowed the man in the face and grabbed the arm holding the syringe with both hands – smashing it against the aircraft’s exit door.

  The man dropped the syringe but grabbed Price around the neck with his free arm.

  Price, still focused on getting the syringe safe, kicked it under a seat before thrusting his elbow violently backwards and in to the man’s abdomen – desperate to release himself from the stranglehold that was starting to impact his breathing.

  It had no effect though – he was tougher than Price had initially realised. Then, as Price moved his elbow to try again, the man raised his leg and planted his knee firmly in Price’s back.

  Wincing from the pain, with his neck still being restrained by the man’s arm, Price fell backwards and down to the floor.

  By this time another member of the aircrew had arrived and tried to help – but he was no match. As he stepped forward, the man turned and with a single chopping blow to the crewmember’s windpipe, caused him to gasp for air and fall backwards to the ground.

  Meanwhile, Price tried to stand – only to receive a brutal kick to the back – forcing him towards the door again. Then, to Price’s astonishment, the man threw himself forward and grabbed the emergency handle on the door and tried to lift it. As Price looked up in disbelief, he could see the man was straining to open the door.

  Despite the pain in his back, Price scrambled up and thrust his arms around the man’s neck – pulling him backwards, down to the floor and on top of Price who now held him in a neck lock.

  Whilst the man was on his back, facing the ceiling, he used his hands to scramble around the floor – searching for something to grab and use as a weapon – his reach being just short of the syringe that was now lying only a couple of feet away, under a seat.

  Price knew that it would all be over if the man reached the syringe, so he increased the pressure with his arms, gradually constricting the man’s neck.

  The man realised what was happening and gave up his search – and now, with increasing panic, started to scratch at Price’s arms and kick his legs – desperate to loosen the grip. But undeterred, Price just increased the tension in his arms even further – it would be only seconds before the man would pass out.

  Then as Price felt the man start to weaken, he spoke, “Next time do your homework. Doors don’t open above twelve thousand feet.”

  The man tried to say something, but Price decided this was it – and with a short, violent movement, suddenly brought his arms closer together, breaking the man’s windpipe with an audible crack. The man’s body started to shake, but Price held his arms firmly in place. “Die you bastard,” he thought to himself as he felt the body go limp a few seconds later – after which he, coldly, pushed the man to one side and stood up – assisted by several other members of the aircrew that had arrived to help.

  As Price looked around, he could see the stewardess that had tried to help him standing against the far door, being comforted by two other stewardesses – her nose was clearly broken and her eyes were already starting to show bruising.

  “What a mess,” he thought. Then, “Better off than him though,” as he looked down at the second crewmember that had tried to help. The killer had broken his windpipe with a single blow – the bluish tint and frozen expression of terror on his face, giving away the fact that he had suffocated to death.

  Price picked up the rug that he’d used a few moments earlier for protection, and carefully placed it over the body of the dead crewmember, as the rest looked on in horror – several already quietly sobbing at the loss of their friend.

  “He was a very brave man,” said Price, in an attempt to comfort them. Then, a short while later, the Captain appeared and started to take statements from Price and the crewmembers.

  Despite Price’s explanation though, several of them viewed him with some suspicion – questioning the way he’d managed to over-power the large man so quickly – and repeatedly asking, “Did you know him? Can you think of any reason why he tried to attack you?”

  But Price feigned ignorance – just responding with statements of shock – explaining that his self-defence training was the result of a short spell in the army many years before. “It’s like riding a bike,” he said. “Once you’ve learned self-defence, it just stays with you and becomes instinctive.”

  He realised that nobody was convinced by his story, because even he had to admit, he had dealt with the killer quite efficiently – perhaps too efficiently. “Note to self,” he thought. “It might be wise to let the guy struggle a bit more next time – adds plausibility.”

  However, despite being unconvinced with the explanation, a short while later, the Captain returned to the cockpit with the syringe – now safely wrapped in aluminium foil – the container for someone’s lunch an hour or so earlier.

  Then after another, this time less eventful, visit to the bathroom to clean the sweat from his face and arms, Price relaxed back in his seat – and after several more Bloody Marys, he fell asleep for the remainder of the journey – waking up only when the plane touched down.

  Caracas sits in a valley to the north of Venezuela – separated from the Caribbean coast by a mountain range. The country’s main international gateway, Maiquetía “Simon Bolivar” International Airport, known locally, simply as Maiquetía, sits adjacent to the coast about 20 kilometres north of Caracas.

  Whilst high-rise buildings are increasingly a part of the city’s skyline, as you stand in the centre and look up, you can still see the hills in the distance – the lush greenery on one side where the wealthy inhabitants live, and the less salubrious areas spreading across the slopes of the other hills – largely shanty towns, known locally as Barrios.

  Originally found only in the hills, the Barrios have expanded in recent years and now snake their way through the city itself – sadly, increasing crime levels to an all time high.

  Price, however, was booked in to the InterContinental hotel in the Las Mercedes district of Caracas – an area known for its restaurants and nightlife – and, he hoped, a relatively safe and discreet place for a meeting.

  It was a warm humid evening as Price walked along the Avenida Principal De Las Mercedes – the main thoroughfare that cuts straight through the centre of the district.

  Lined with all manner of restaurants and bars for just about every conceivable cuisine, the road was bustling with traffic and tourists alike. However, whilst presenting a casual appearance to passers-by, Price recalled the foreign office notes he'd used as a pre-travel briefing, and reminded himself not to relax. Caracas has one of the highest murder rates in the world and, indeed, for a time it held the undesirable number one spot. So as he turned in to a side-road, Calle Londres, smiling to himself about the name, Price casually reached in to his pocket and checked his pistol – it was resting comfortably in his chinos in case something happened.

  After another couple of turns and a short walk, he saw the Canaima Grill and Restaurant – a large, imposing building set just back from the road.

  “Canaima,” he thought, “I remember that place,” and then recalled a holiday where he’d flown in to the town of Canaima – the muddy red soil that formed the makeshift runway – set in dense rainforest from where he’d made the two hour journey by boat to visit one of the country’s truly amazing sights – the Angel Falls – which at nearly a kilometre high, are the highest waterfalls in the world.

  As he walked to the entrance, immediately feeling the cold air from the building’s air-conditioning pass through the grand opening, Price looked around. The décor was of a rustic style – with sturdy dark timber being used for all the tables and chairs, as well as the large beams that formed part of the pi
tched roof as well as the floor and the supporting structure of the building itself.

  Price couldn’t help himself – it was second nature – so, as he was shown to a table, he noted the position of the kitchen, fire exits, staff members and other customers. He only started to even slightly relax when he saw a familiar face – the former head of MI6 in the Philippines and now their man in Venezuela, who stood up to greet him.

  The two men smiled and made small talk whilst the waiter took their drinks order, then Price said, "Pete, this is a bit of a change from Manila?"

  "I like it here,” Pete replied, “Fantastic steaks for a start.”

  “Not like the ones in the Philippines then – which I seem to recall were either tough or fatty.”

  “No – the steaks here are some of the best in the world.”

  “But you didn’t move just for the steaks.”

  “No of course not. I needed a new challenge – and it was this or the middle east. Because, whilst the Philippines has it’s problems – these days, they’re mostly the result of natural disasters or the inherent corruption you find in less developed countries. Although, I would stress – it’s getting better. Whereas the middle east, as you know, is getting more complicated by the day. And then there’s here.”

  “Often forgotten about these days,” Price interrupted.

  “Exactly my friend – exactly. The world is so focused on the immediate threat emanating from the middle east, the drugs trafficking has become, if anything easier – and if we don’t address it, we’re just creating a long term problem for ourselves – and that’s my role – to prevent that.”

  Price was pleased to hear Pete speak. For a brief moment he had wondered if Pete had taken an easy assignment. But the more he listened, the more reassured he became – his friend was, as always, taking his role in defending the United Kingdom’s security, seriously.

  “But aside from the steaks, you need to be careful,” Pete continued. “They don't take prisoners here. It's not like in the films where you get caught, locked up and escape. If you get in to trouble here they'll shoot you in the head and dump your body in a trashcan – or just leave it where it drops. So, I’m sorry to start a little negatively – but please, whilst you are here, it’s great to see you again, but do be careful my friend."

  Price just smiled – he'd done his research and knew what to expect. So in a calm voice, he simply said, "Tell me about Merida. Tell me everything you know."

  "It's a small city in the Venezuelan Andes, next to the Sierra Nevada. Actually, it’s a bit of a tourist destination these days because it has the longest and highest cable car in the world – in fact you should go on it whilst you're there – it's a remarkable sight looking down at the town from fifteen thousand feet."

  "We’ll have to see,” Price replied noncommittally – just as the waiter arrived to take their orders.

  Price just looked at Pete and said, “You’re the wine expert – I’ll leave that to you if you don’t mind,” then he looked up at the waiter and said, “But for my main course I’ll have the 12oz Ribeye – medium please – I hear you have some of the best steaks in the world.”

  Pete completed their orders, then as the wine was served he continued speaking to Price in a lower tone. “You’ll be visiting a house that sits at the top of a small hill at the edge of Merida. Imagine a small country road, lined with topical trees and banana plants – a fairly steep incline that after a mile or two takes you to what looks like an Alpine holiday home. Made from a combination of dark timber and white-washed brick-work, it’s absolutely stunning and it’s where a certain, José Mancilla lives."

  “Mancilla,” Price repeated.

  “Yes – actually, I believe it’s of Italian origin – refers to someone with a birthmark or blot, which is quite apt where he’s concerned as he has a bloody great mole just above his right eye.”

  “Well at least he should be easy to spot,” said Price, before smiling and adding, “No pun intended obviously.”

  "Quite.”

  “So he’s the man in the CS Research computer files," Price continued – not really to Pete – more to himself whilst thinking aloud.

  "The very same. He's the man you're after. GCHQ confirm he has regular contact with someone in the UK over secure links that are still proving challenging to break. And that says a lot – because these people are no amateurs."

  "So the security will be brutal I suppose?"

  Pete smiled this time, "There have a lot of armed guards – yes. But there's also a lot of technology. Ideally you'd want to go in with either a diversion or a cover of some kind. You’re not going to be able to break in undetected. And by the way – we're booked on flights in two days time."

  "So how do I get in?" Price asked with a quizzical expression.

  "Well – it’s complicated – you see, we’ve known about these people for some time now – although, we didn’t link them to your Africa issue – we just had them labelled as producers of drugs. So in order to gather intelligence, a company was set up in Caracas that helps them with their packaging and shipping."

  “Woah, hang on one second,” Price interrupted, “You’re saying we, as in,” then he lowered his voice, “The Firm, assist them in transporting their ‘product’ overseas?”

  “We do. That way we know how much is moving, where it’s going and when – then we target the distributor nearer home – not only because it’s easier from a jurisdictional perspective, but also because, if we take out these guys they’ll just set up somewhere else, which we’ll then have to find. So we may as well track it as it arrives – it limits the effort from our side.”

  “So I’m going in as someone from the shipping company?”

  “Errr, not exactly – they’d smell a rat as they don’t know you – and whilst these people are criminals – they are also professionals. So we are going to intercept a shipment of ‘product’ in order to give us a justifiable reason to send someone there.”

  “And when do we do that?” asked Price.

  “Well, you got lucky my friend – there’s a ship on route to Africa as we speak and I’ve set the wheels in motion. Earlier today, the Namibian Drug Enforcement Administration received an anonymous tip-off that a ship destined for their port of Walvis Bay contains nearly a metric ton of illegal substances. They have agreed to intercept it and confiscate the contents.”

  “How can you hide a ton?”

  “Well, they have many ingenious means of hiding this stuff. As you know, the old method was to hide it amongst containers of coffee to throw the dogs off the scent during a search. These days they have been getting more serious though. They’ve started using ships with modified hulls. They weld what you might call a ‘false hull’ on the inside of part of the ship – normally covering a space between two bracing beams that you’d never notice – often not far from an existing hatch. Providing it’s done well, you’d never notice – but it can give them a huge volume to store containers, which they pre-seal in airtight packages to avoid detection. In some extreme cases, they’ve even been known to flood these spaces with sea water, so that they guarantee the dogs can’t get the scent.”

  “And to retrieve the stuff later, I suppose they un-weld part of the new hull?”

  “That’s right,” agreed Pete, “They’ll have a specially designed area which is easy to take apart – unmarked – but known by the Captain or the person receiving the shipment at the destination.”

  “So how do you detect this stuff if you don’t know in advance?”

  “Original design drawings – assuming it’s been done well and they haven’t left the scent on the floor during the packing process – and believe me – some do – fortunately there are Muppets in the drug world, as with everywhere else,” said Pete. “But assuming it’s a professional job, that’s pretty much the only way – because they show how large each compartment should be. Then you measure the size of every compartment and see where there’s so-called, ‘missing space’.
But most of the ports haven’t got access to the original design documents – so the smugglers get away with it.”

  “OK,” said Price, wanting to move the conversation on, “So exactly when is this shipment to be intercepted?”

  “Tomorrow morning in the early hours. It arrives in Namibia around 4am their time – and there will be an armed team waiting for it. Our man in Namibia will then put a call through to Mancilla’s people in Merida. He’ll say that there must have been a leak in communications – giving us an excuse to send someone in.”

  “But not me?” asked Price.

  “No, we’ll use someone they know – one of my team – they know him as Aarón Garcia. He’ll go in to get an idea of the lay of the land – how many guards are hanging around and the security in place.”

  “I thought you said they know him – hasn’t he been in there before?”

  Pete went to reply, but Price interrupted and continued, “I’m not comfortable with this Pete. Isn’t there anyone we could turn and get the information for me that way? Or any emails or conversations we can intercept? There must be something we can do with all this technology we have?”

  Pete shook his head, “Absolutely no chance at all. As I say, they are also extremely advanced and there’s nobody we can turn. And even if we get hold of someone by force, I doubt if they’d talk – this man Mancilla puts the fear of God in to his people – they’d die before giving up information.

  No, this really is the only way. But don’t worry – our man in Namibia will watch the shipment being intercepted and will make the call. He’s very reliable – he works in the management office at the port – he’s the office manager in fact. All he does is keep an eye out for us and report on shipments arriving and departing.”

  “So who collects the shipments? I imagine they won’t be very happy when the Namibia DEA show up?”