by Ryan, Chris
Soon, another delicious smell was mingling with the perfume: fresh, home-grown coffee. It was odd, but this woman was reminding me strongly of Tracy. Her colouring was quite different, and her legs weren’t so long, but there was something about her movements and mannerisms that was familiar and enticing. I realized I was watching her with more than just professional interest. I gave myself a sharp mental bollocking. Hands off! For one thing, Tracy had been fantastic in taking on both my house and my child. For another, I knew that any involvement with a member of the embassy staff might lead to serious complications – especially as I was still on a warning order from the Regiment, and needed to play everything straight.
In a couple of minutes Tony arrived, and I introduced him. As Luisa organized cups and saucers, she asked questions about our journey up, and we answered politely. But all the time I was thinking, ‘There’s something going on here. It was that one word which had tipped me off: the way she’d referred to the Rupert simply as ‘Peter’. In a flash of intuition I felt certain he was humping her. Why else would she refer to him in that familiar way, by his first name only? That was why he’d suddenly cancelled his second visit to the camp: he’d got straight into a legover engagement and was having too good a time in Bogotá.
I wondered if I ought to have a word with him straight away, tell him to screw the nut. This was his first team job. In the past, plenty of jobs had been ruined by one guy not being able to keep his pecker in his pants. I realized though that if I said anything, it might lead to a major confrontation to the detriment of the team. Already there was an atmosphere between us, and any criticism from me would be bound to make it worse.
As Luisa came back carrying the cups, I got a look at her left hand. No rings. I slipped a look at Tony. He was fancying her something torrid, but he hadn’t heard what I had.
‘Milk?’ she asked.
‘Thanks.’
‘Sugar?’
‘No, thank you.’
I stirred my cup and said innocently, ‘Have you been out here long?’
‘Most of my life.’ She gave that dazzling smile again. ‘My family settled here at the beginning of the century. They were Spanish. Then, in the fifties, my father came from England, married my mother, and settled down here. So I’m half Spanish, but have an English surname. And no “o” in my Luisa.’
‘How are comms with the UK?’ I asked.
‘They’re terrific now,’ she answered. ‘The telephone used to be terrible. The lines were always jammed, and if you did get through, the interference was impossible. But with satellites, it’s fantastic. We can talk to London as if it were next door. And of course your own satellite phone is incredible.’
We made small talk for a few minutes. Then we heard movement outside, and a solid, stocky man appeared in the doorway, holding a sheaf of papers. He was in his early forties, I guessed, overweight, with neck bulging over collar and gut over waistband.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I’m John Palmer, Defence Attaché.’
Black was with him, and all four of us went into Palmer’s office. There was nothing difficult to discuss. I reported that everything was going fine down at the camp; apart from the odd attack of gut-rot, all our guys were well and enjoying themselves. There was no friction with the natives. On the contrary, the locals were friendly. Our trainees were responding well to a bit of pressure and would make up into a reasonable BG team. I could see no particular problems coming up.
The news from the other end was less promising. The DA revealed that diplomatic relations between Britain and Colombia were under strain, after the arrest of a Colombian student at Essex University on charges of drug-smuggling. There had been verbal fisticuffs between the two governments, and threats to expel embassy staff at both ends. All this made our own position precarious; it was therefore essential that we did nothing to make the ill-feeling worse.
‘Of course, your presence in the country is entirely unofficial,’ the DA told me. ‘Things might get very difficult if the media reported that you were here.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I told him. ‘Nobody’s planning to sell his story to the Espectador. Our lads are all fairly sensible.’ Privately I was thinking, What sort of a prick is this? What’s he trying to tell me?
After half an hour of rather uneasy chat, we pulled out. As we were leaving, Luisa gave me a card with all the embassy phone numbers on it, including an emergency number, a home number for herself, and one for Major J.R. Palmer, Defence Attaché. On our way out Tony said, as a parting shot, ‘No chance of your keeping us company at supper, I suppose? Show us the sights a bit?’
Again she nearly killed him with that smile, ‘That would be wonderful,’ she said. ‘But as it happens we’ve got a reception on here. I’m on duty. That puts me out, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh well – not to worry. Another time, perhaps.’
Black came down in the lift with us, and on the way I said, ‘I presume you’re invited to the party tonight.’
The light was rather dim, but I’m sure he blushed. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I am.’
We’d decided not to piss about leaving the tower separately. As we started walking, Tony didn’t make any comment for a moment, but then he said, ‘He’s screwing her.’
‘I wondered if I should say something to him. He could fuck up the whole operation.’
‘How did he get into the Regiment?’ Tony asked.
‘They must have been short of officers when he came along.’
It was the prospect of belly-dancing that made Tony and I choose the Four Seasons restaurant: authentic Colombian food, and a bit of entertainment thrown in. By seven-thirty we were definitely hungry, so we called up one of the black-and-yellow taxis and rode it into town. The other guys had long since disappeared like water into sand. I predicted that Mel, for one, would come back shit-faced and minus his wallet.
Our own idea was probably much the same as everyone else’s: to have a good meal, suss out the belly-dancing and then head on for some of the hotter nightspots. Unfortunately it didn’t work out.
The restaurant was fine. A couple of photos in the window had been unpromising – the dancer, Carmencita, looked more like a Michelin ad than a great seducer – but we had a beer in the bar, and then chose a table beside the small dance floor. We both had the same main course – tamales, maize pancakes with a terrific, spicy filling of chopped meat and vegetables. The filling was delicious, but so hot that we needed several more drinks to swill it down, and we hit the Carlsberg Specials.
We were just sitting back anticipating that action might soon start up, when the thunderbolt struck. Our table gave us a good view of everyone who came in and out, but I wasn’t paying much attention. A party of four men sat down at the table next to ours. Then, looking straight past Tony, over his left shoulder, I froze.
‘Hey!’ Tony was leaning forward. ‘What’s the matter? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I have. Let’s get the hell out of here.’
Forcing myself to move my hand casually, I signalled a passing waiter and made motions for him to write out our bill. But when I picked up my glass to finish the beer, my hand was shaking – because there, barely ten feet away, sat Declan Farrell.
‘What is it?’ said Tony. ‘You look real sick. You’ve gone white as paint.’
‘Talk in Spanish,’ I muttered. ‘Talk about football. Anything.’
He looked at me as though I was crazy, but he started in. I hardly heard what he was saying, because I was desperately trying to collect my wits. It’s OK, I kept telling myself. You’re in no danger, because Farrell has never seen you. He’s never set eyes on you. He hasn’t a clue what you look like. If you don’t do anything crazy, he can’t possibly pick you out. Reason told me that Tony and I were not particularly conspicuous. Plenty of other people in the restaurant were dressed like us in casual shirts and jeans. Farrell, in contrast, was wearing a smart lightweight jacket and tie. One of his companions was the same; the o
ther two had leather jackets and open-necked shirts. Without letting my eyes linger on them, I tried to assess who was who. All were dark haired, Farrell as dark as any. I guessed the second tie-wearer, who had pale skin, was Irish, and the other two Colombian.
With Tony still making the odd remark in Spanish, I got out my wallet and pushed it across the table. ‘You pay,’ I muttered. ‘I’m going to use the phone.’
The telephone was round a corner and in a kind of cupboard on the way to the gents – private enough, provided nobody walked past. The equipment was modern, with one slot for cards and another for coins. I brought out a handful of change and surveyed it. The rate of exchange was about 1,000 pesos to the pound. A 100-peso coin seemed about right for a local call, so I lifted the receiver, fed one in and dialled Luisa’s office number. I reckoned the reception would still be in progress, and I just hoped it was going on within earshot.
The number rang and rang, ten, twenty, thirty times, before at last someone answered, a man. ‘¿Digame?’
‘Captain Black, por favor.’
‘¿Quién?
‘Captain Black.’
‘No conocer.’
‘Major Palmer, then.’
‘Momento.’
He put down the receiver, and through it I could hear faint party noises. My mind was in overdrive. Farrell being watched in Ballyconvil because he was into drugs. Farrell staggering home to his outhouse with heavy suitcases. Farrell now in Bogotá. Morrison’s story was that the PIRA was into Colombia in a big way. I’d known they had been taking percentages from dealers on the street in Belfast, but this was another league: their involvement could be world-wide, and might increase their power to buy weapons to a fantastic degree.
At last someone came to the phone.
‘Palmer here. Who’s that?’
‘Geordie Sharp.’
‘Who?’
I repeated my name.
‘Sorry, old boy. I don’t think I know you.’
Jesus! I thought. The guy’s half-pissed. Taking care to keep my voice even, I said, ‘We met this afternoon. Can I speak to Peter Black, please?’
‘Good God yes, I know who you are. The SAS chappie. Up from the savannah. What did you want?’
‘To speak to Peter Black. Urgently.’
‘Black? Black? I’m not sure I can find him. Can’t I deal with it? What time is it? Where are you, anyway?’
‘Please . . . find . . . him!’ I ground the words out as if I was speaking to a child.
‘Oh, all right. Hang on then.’
The telephone began to beep. Feverishly I dredged up more coins and stuffed a couple into the slot. Somebody came along the passage and went past me: none of the Farrell party. I waited, shifting from one foot to the other, and hoping to hell that Black was more sober than the DA.
At last he came on the line. ‘Yes?’ he said. ‘What’s happening, Geordie? Have you got a problem?’
‘Yes. A big one. The PIRA are in town.’
‘Are you trying to take the piss out of me?’
‘No I’m not. It’s Farrell.’
‘Bloody hell!’
‘He’s with some Colombians.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Where I’m speaking from. It’s a restaurant called the Four Seasons. On Carrera 15, 84-22.’
‘I know it. Bloody hell!’
‘Exactly.’
‘Who are you with?’
‘Tony Lopez.’
‘You’d better get out of there.’
‘Don’t worry. We’re on our way back to the hotel.’
‘OK. Where are the rest of the lads?’
‘Christ knows. They’ve gone on the piss all over town.’
‘You can’t get them back?’
‘Not a chance.’
‘I want you all out of Bogotá as soon as possible.’
‘Well, we can’t go before tomorrow.’
‘That’ll have to do.’
‘Will you alert Hereford about this?’
‘Of course.’
‘Great. I’ll see you back at the hotel.’
I returned to our table slowly, loitering to see if I could overhear any conversation from our neighbours. Sure enough, one of Farrell’s companions was speaking with an Ulster accent. ‘That’ll be fine,’ was all I got, but the ‘fine’ came out as fayeen.
Tony had already settled the bill. ‘Everything all right?’ he asked.
‘No. Let’s get a taxi.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Back to the hotel.’
‘Don’t you want to walk?’
‘Not now.’
‘What about the belly-dancer?’
‘She can stuff herself.’
Knowing Farrell, I felt sure he would have dickers out on the street, watching his arse for him, and I didn’t want one of them to spot me. Even in the taxi I thought it safer not to talk, in case the driver was a plant and could understand English. Not until we were back in our hotel room could I enlighten Tony about what had happened.
‘Sure it was him?’ he asked.
‘Absolutely. One hundred per cent. I’d know him anywhere. He was the big guy right behind you.’
‘You should have stuck a knife in his back there and then.’
‘We would have been lynched.’
‘What in hell’s he doing here?’
‘He’s got to be trying to set up some big drugs deal. Or buying weapons. Or both. Both probably.’
‘You don’t think it’s something to do with the fact that our guys are out here?’
‘Can’t be. There’s no way he could know about us.’
‘Well, what do we do?’
‘Black said he’d come round here to make a plan.’
Black never came. Tony and I had arrived back in the hotel at 9.30, and by ten I was getting worried – the embassy was only five minutes’ drive away. By 10.30 I knew something had gone seriously wrong.
The hotel had no phones in the bedrooms; the only thing to do was to call from the one in the foyer. Luckily, by then, there was nobody about.
I put 100 pesos in the slot and dialled. Again there was a long wait, and at last a Spanish voice. I handed the receiver to Tony. He listened, then said, ‘Momento,’ and put his hand over the mouthpiece.
‘They all went down to the restaurant.’
‘Who?’
‘The DA, Black and the woman.’
‘All together?’
‘Apparently.’
‘What time?’
‘Immediately after you’d called.’
‘Jesus! What the hell were they doing?’
Tony shook his head. ‘Maybe they wanted to check Farrell out.’
‘They must have been crazy. You know what? I believe they’ve been lifted.’
Tony took his hand off the phone and said, ‘Momento, por favor.’
‘We need to call Hereford,’ I said. ‘Immediately. We can’t do it from here. We need the secure comms in the embassy. Ask if we can go in and use them.’
Tony began to parley, but the guy on the other end – the night caretaker – said he couldn’t admit us without permission from the duty officer. Eventually, after a lot of haggling, Tony got the name of the second secretary, and his home number.
I took back the receiver and dialled again. By then it was after eleven. Probably the guy had gone to bed. But no – the call was answered immediately.
‘Egerton,’ said a crisp, youngish voice.
I apologized for disturbing him, then launched into an explanation, keeping everything as short as possible. Instead of asking stupid questions or prevaricating, he said, ‘I’ll meet you in the foyer of the embassy tower in ten minutes.’
‘Thank God,’ I said to Tony. ‘Somebody’s on the ball.’
Egerton. The name seemed vaguely familiar. I’d heard it before, but for the moment I couldn’t place it.
Again I didn’t fancy walking. I felt as if the black spirit of Ulster had followed me five
thousand miles across the ocean and now infested the streets of the Colombian capital. So I got the night porter to call up a taxi, and asked Tony to stay where he was, in case the missing party turned up after all.
‘Sure,’ he agreed. ‘But know what? First I’ll take a cab back to the restaurant, just to make sure they didn’t go in and have a meal.’
‘If Farrell’s still there, he’ll see you.’
‘I’ll pretend I lost something, OK? I lost a book. My guide book to Bogotá. May be I left it there?’
‘Take it easy, then, and call me at the embassy.’
Bill Egerton was tall, thin, bespectacled, and in his early thirties, a scholarly-looking fellow with a long, pale indoor face, but wonderfully quick to grasp the point.
‘Yes,’ he agreed immediately. ‘You’d better call Hereford. England’s five hours ahead of us, so it’s 4.15 a.m. over there. Is that all right?’
‘It’ll have to be.’
I was carrying the camp emergency number in my wallet, and I knew the orderly officer would be on duty in the guardroom. The call had hardly gone through before it was answered. Reception was perfect, and by a stroke of luck I recognized the voice.
‘Chalky? It’s Geordie Sharp.’
‘Fucking hell! I wasn’t expecting you just now.’
‘Well, listen. We’re in the shit. Who’s the duty officer?’
‘It’s Bob Keeling.’
‘OK. I need to speak to him.’
‘Now? It’s half past four in the morning.’
‘I know. This is urgent.’
‘OK. I’ll wake him up.’
I waited a minute. In the pause I saw the guardroom, with all the lists pinned on the notice board and the bunches of keys on their hooks. Then, close at hand, I heard another phone ring. Egerton picked it up, said a few words and put it down. ‘Your American colleague’s checked the restaurant. They aren’t there. The other party’s gone as well.’
‘Thanks.’
The secure circuit came alive again.
‘Yes?’ Bob Keeling sounded sleepy and slow.
‘Geordie Sharp in Bogotá. There’s been a lift. Two British diplomats and our own Rupert, Peter Black.’
‘Say that again.’
I repeated it.