Black Coke (18 page)

Lucia stood up. She had everyone’s attention, and she intended to make the most of it. To hell with the consequences.

‘Did killing Escobar make a difference?’ she said. ‘Has fumigating half the country made a difference? Has massacring tens of thousands of campesinos made a difference? Do you take us for morons?’

Lucia paused for breath. George’s eyes narrowed to slits. Joanna was deathly pale. Sylvia looked like she was about to have a heart attack.

‘Drugs are a scourge,’ George said, his voice menacingly low. ‘They have to be stamped out by any means. And it’s not a bunch of liberal hippy activists that’s going to get us out of this mess.’

‘You fool.’ Lucia jabbed her finger at George. ‘Do you really think you can—’

Sylvia raised both hands. ‘Thank you to both our guests for this lively debate.’ She turned to Lucia. ‘Sit down.’

Lucia stopped talking, her sense of momentum lost. Joanna was nodding her head furiously.

‘I said sit down,’ Sylvia repeated.

Lucia dropped into her chair, fuming. George smirked.

Sylvia turned to face the camera. ‘And now for some sport.’

Lucia ripped off her microphone and stormed away from the news set.

‘Don’t think we’ll be sending you to do that again,’ Joanna said as she emerged from the edge of the TV studio, her long blonde hair and slim body drawing appreciative looks from the camera crew. ‘The board’s going to go ballistic.’

‘I don’t care what the board says.’

‘Don’t lose it on camera,’ Joanna continued with a scowl. ‘It makes viewers switch to the other side of the argument.’

‘But that guy was such an idiot.’

‘You need to stay calm and considered. You need to sound like the voice of reason, not some crazy, drug-loving, commie-voting, guerrilla-kissing, peasant-hugging subversive.’

‘Was that how I sounded?’

‘You know that’s how you sounded.’

One of the TV crew tapped Joanna on the shoulder and pulled her away a few paces. Probably to chat her up, Lucia thought with a hint of jealousy.

Lucia looked round. George was striding towards her, a furious look on his tanned face. She turned away, but too late.

‘Don’t think you’ll get away with this,’ he said in a hushed tone. ‘Your pathetic little campaign may be riding a sudden wave of success, but it won’t last.’

‘Oh yeah? And who says?’

‘Someone who’s much more powerful than your pretty little head can ever imagine.’

‘Is that a threat?’

‘Take it as a gentle warning.’

Lucia jabbed George’s large chest with her index finger, making him step back in surprise. ‘Now you listen to me, mister. I don’t give a shit about your powerful friends and all your dick-waving tough talk on drugs. Go and tell your government that they can go fuck themselves. The drug war’s lost. Now get over it.’

‘It’s not my government you should be worried about, young lady. Take my advice. Back off before it’s too late.’ He spun on his heels and marched off like a soldier at a military rally.

‘What was all that about?’ Joanna said as she turned back towards Lucia. ‘You chatting up the enemy?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘What did he want?’

‘Just saying goodbye.’

‘Yet another bigwig you’ve offended?’ She handed Lucia her leather jacket. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here before you cause another scene.’

Acton Town, UK
12 April 2011

N
athan let the door to the hotel room slam shut behind him. He flicked a switch. A ceiling bulb buzzed to life, casting a yellow glow that struggled to light up the centre of the room. He dropped his rucksack onto the bed, where it landed with a thud as though it had hit a slab of concrete. The room reeked of stale sweat like the changing rooms to his local boxing gym after a two hour sparring session. The bedsheets were crumpled, greasy and stained. The walls were splattered with graffiti, mementos to the hordes of young backpackers who had used this basement cell on the south-west side of London as a stepping stone to greater adventures.

Nathan checked the window. It was glazed and cracked with vertical bars across, staring onto a grey brick wall. A sliver of light slipped through from street level above, illuminating specks of dust that danced in the cold air of the room with an eerie ginger glimmer. A jet plane roared past overhead. Heathrow airport wasn’t far.

He curled up on the bed. He shoved his rucksack against the wall and used it as a pillow. If only he could sleep and forget about everything…

He shook his head. He dialled Cedric’s emergency number again.

It rang and rang.

He headed for the bathroom. He scrubbed his hands in the brown water of the washbasin. They still smelt of blood.

Caitlin’s blood.

An image of her seared through his brain. She was lying there, her throat gashed, chest mutilated, blood seeping out, dripping onto the floor.

He sat on the edge of the bed. He tried to let the storm in his mind settle. Amonite had tailed him to the British Library, but hadn’t tried to kill him. Why? Was she just trying to frighten him off?

He lay back. With each deep breath, he tried to let go of his thoughts, to relax his body, to take control of his emotions. But they were too strong. He hardly knew whether he was furious, despairing, sad, or all three at the same time. He’d felt like this before, after the death of his two army mates in Sierra Leone. Except that this was worse. They’d been soldiers. They knew what to expect.

He sat up and went to the shower. A trickle of water spluttered out. He grabbed a thin bar of soap from the side of the sink and scrubbed his body until the skin went red. As he was drying himself, a plan began to form in his mind. He pulled on his shirt and trousers, then reached for the phone, his hands still trembling.

‘Manuel?’

‘Nathan. Why’ve you not been in touch?’

‘I’m coming back. Will you be around?’

‘In Bogotá. I’ve got meetings with the campesino movement.’

‘How long you there for?’

‘Two days. Then back to Putumayo.’

‘Okay,’ Nathan said. ‘I’ll meet you in Bogotá.’

‘Something wrong?’

A lump appeared in Nathan’s throat.

‘Nathan?’

‘Everything’s fine. Just need to check a few things. That’s why I’m coming back.’

‘There’s someone I want you to see. She can help.’

‘Who?’

‘I can’t say on the phone. Ring me when you get here.’

Nathan hung up. He looked at his watch: 1.30am. He set his alarm for 6.30am. He doubted he’d be able to sleep, but any rest would be good for him.

His phone buzzed.

‘Nathan? It’s Cedric. Where the hell are you?’

‘She’s dead.’

‘What happened?’

‘Garrotted. Sliced up. Like an animal.’

‘Nathan, listen to me.’

‘I failed, Cedric. I failed real bad.’

‘Stop it!’ Cedric’s voice had an icy edge to it. ‘You’re losing it again.’

‘I’m going after them.’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘Don’t tell me what to do. Not now. Not ever again.’

‘Come into the office. We’ll sort it out.’

‘No.’

‘I’ll protect you.’

‘Ha! You expect me to believe that, with George throwing his weight around?’

‘I’m dealing with George. But you need to come in.’

A migraine tore through Nathan’s brain like a machete hacking a tree trunk. His eyes lost focus.

‘Nathan, you have to trust me. Scotland Yard’s after you.’

‘Why?’

‘I shouldn’t be saying this.’

‘Tell me.’

‘The assault on Steve. They’ve made you a suspect.’

‘George, the bastard.’

‘There’s something else, Nathan. They’ve found Caitlin’s body. They’re saying you did it.’

Nathan hurled the phone across the room. It shattered against the wall, bits of it flying everywhere. He collapsed back onto the bed. He closed his eyes. Everything was spinning. His stomach was churning. His brain felt like it was being put through a meat grinder. Deep, angry sobs wracked his body. He’d never forgive himself for this.

He forced himself to sit up. He had to think clearly, to dig back into the special forces training, to pool that with everything he knew about criminal psychology, about the psychopathic mind of Amonite Victor, and turn it to his advantage.

He went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. He gathered the pieces of his phone and flushed the SIM card down the toilet. Then he picked up his rucksack, paid at reception and headed out into the cold.

Bogotá, Colombia
12 April 2011

T
he board members sitting around the table stared at Lucia with expressions ranging from mild disbelief to outright astonishment. Octavia Glosserto was frowning so much her eyebrows were touching just above her beaky nose, making her look like a pixie. A very overweight one.

Lucia tried not to giggle. Either that, or she’d scream in frustration. The only one who wasn’t glaring at her was Max Narding, the plump and baby-faced treasurer, who was gently dozing off.

‘What did you want me to say?’ Lucia said in order to break the uncomfortable silence.

‘Why you had to go in guns blazing is beyond me.’ Octavia gave a sigh that sounded like a balloon emptying itself of air. ‘It’s a PR disaster.’

‘Oh, come on. Let’s not exaggerate.’

‘Joanna’s showed me the emails. Our supporters aren’t happy, to say the least.’ Octavia unfolded her reading glasses and placed them on the tip of her nose, where they balanced precariously. She pulled out a piece of paper from her black leather briefcase.

‘Listen to this one,’ she said. ‘It’s from Vera Abramo, the wife of that multi-millionaire IT geek.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Dear Octavia, I was disappointed by the Caracol TV debate last night, with all that swearing and shouting. Not something I want to be associated with. I’m sorry, but I’m bowing out.’

Octavia threw the piece of paper across the table with a grunt of disgust. The five other board members watched it float a few inches into the air and settle like an autumn leaf.

Nobody said a word.

‘Just for the record: her last donation was half a million US dollars,’ Octavia said at last. ‘And there are more emails where that came from.’

‘I know Vera,’ Lucia said. ‘I can convince her to change her mind.’

‘That’s out of the question.’

Lucia sighed. There was no point arguing. The ‘superwoman of Colombia’s media world’, as the New York Times once described Octavia, was known for being stubborn.

Lucia tried to appear contrite. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You’re not sorry. You never are.’

‘I am this time.’

‘What came over you?’

‘Nothing.’

‘What do you mean, nothing?’

‘You’re getting in a strop about a few swear words, when the real issue is the evidence we’ve got about the Front’s alliance with the ASI.’ Lucia lifted a paper from the stack in front of her and waved it around. ‘This here is a statement from a coca farmer called Manuel Rosa. We got it by email two days ago. He claims there’s a new drug that’s—’

‘It’s more than a few swear words,’ Octavia cut in. ‘It’s the effect it has on our campaign.’

‘You’re not listening to me.’

‘I am listening. You’re the one who isn’t—’

Lucia hit the table with her closed fist. Max woke up with a squeal.

‘None of you are listening.’ Lucia stared at each trustee in turn. ‘Who cares about a few fucking swear words on TV? That’s not important. What is important is the need to make a clear case for drug legalisation.’

‘Whoa, stop right there.’ Octavia raised her hands. ‘Whoever said we’re calling for legalisation?’

‘Not officially, but we know it’s the only way.’

‘Do we?’ Octavia looked carefully from one trustee to the other, then back at Lucia. ‘We set up Colombians Against the Front to block Front 154, not to campaign for legalisation. We need to stick to our charitable objectives. It’s the law.’

‘The law? In Colombia? Even when we know that legalisation is the only answer to this mess? Just look at Mexico. More than 28,000 people killed in four years because of the drugs war.’

‘That’s exactly why we shouldn’t be campaigning for legalisation.’