Black Coke (20 page)

‘Is good rule.’ The cab driver pointed. ‘To stop sicarios
.
You know what sicario is?’ The taxi overtook a battered van that was spewing out fumes. ‘Sicario is assassin. Travel often on motorbike and shoot people in cars. Bang bang! Many dead. So government tell motorbike drivers to put number on back to show they not sicario
.
’

‘You think it works?’

The driver grinned. ‘Not as many dead now.’

Nathan lent back into his seat and wiped his brow.

‘Tired, mister?’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘I bring you to nice hotel. I get bueno price for you.’

Nathan shrugged, suddenly feeling a bit more relaxed and sociable. ‘Sure.’

‘You like Arsenal?’

Nathan was about to reply when the rev of a motorbike engine sliced through the hum of the traffic. He spun round. The black motorbike was fifty metres behind, and gaining fast.

‘Colombians love football,’ the driver said. ‘You know Mario Yepes? He is captain of… hey, what you—’

Nathan was climbing into the front passenger seat.

‘You crazy?’

‘Hit the gas,’ Nathan said as he settled next to the driver.

The driver glanced in the rear-view mirror. His eyes opened wide. ‘Hijo de puta,’ he muttered as he pressed the accelerator. They surged past a large lorry that was rumbling along the middle lane.

The black motorbike was twenty metres away. Its engine roared. Other vehicles tried to move away, as though realising what was about to happen. Next to Nathan, the driver was releasing a steady string of curses in Spanish. Nathan was tense, alert, glancing over his shoulder. The motorbike was next to their rear bumper on Nathan’s side. There was a glint of metal. Nathan grabbed the steering wheel with his left hand.

‘Hey, you—’ the driver shouted.

Nathan turned the wheel towards him. The cab swerved to the right, but the bike pulled back just in time.

‘Keep going,’ Nathan told the driver, whose face was dripping with sweat.

The motorbike was drawing close on the driver’s side. Another glint of metal.

‘Head down!’ Nathan pushed the driver’s nape just as the front left window shattered. He grabbed the wheel and twisted it. The bike swerved away, narrowly missing a white car.

‘Madre de dios.’ The driver clutched the wheel.

‘Do as I say. You’ll be fine.’ Nathan yanked open the glove compartment. ‘You have a gun?’

The driver shook his head. In front of them, the traffic was slowing. The motorbike had dropped back.

A series of gunshots. The rear window exploded. Glass rained onto the back seat. The driver yelled. The motorbike was next to them, the sunlight gleaming off the sicarios’ black helmets. Scarface was fiddling with his gun.

Nathan yanked the steering wheel. The cab swerved into the motorbike. Metal scraped against metal. Nathan turned the wheel some more. The motorbike tried to veer off, but Nathan was pushing it towards the middle of the motorway.

The traffic was slowing down fast. The cab driver hit the brake. Nathan spun the wheel again. The taxi rammed into the bike, which skidded and collapsed onto its side. The taxi crashed into the vehicle in front. Nathan’s shoulder smashed into the dashboard. Next to him, the driver slammed his head against the steering wheel.

Horns blared. People shouted. Nathan shook the confusion from his mind. He kicked the taxi door open. The motorbike was lying on its side, its motor smoking and engine revving. Its driver was face down on the tarmac, a large piece of bone sticking out from one of his legs. Scarface was struggling to his feet, his hand still clutching the gun. He saw Nathan.

He took aim.

Nathan ducked behind the taxi. A bullet whizzed past. He crawled forward and hid behind another car. Then he ducked down and sprinted through the traffic jam.

He glanced round. A flash of red: Scarface’s shirt. Nathan jumped behind a truck. He heard a shout. He sprinted down the side of the motorway. Gunshots. Bits of tarmac spat up at his feet. Nathan raced on, past passengers and drivers in cars who stared ahead, trying to ignore him. More gunshots, but further away.

Nathan’s head was spinning. He kept running. He jumped over a barrier into a side road, through rows of apartment blocks. His chest hurt. The adrenaline kept him going. He ran and ran, for what felt like hours. He brought up the map of Bogotá he’d memorised earlier and followed its grid-like structure in the direction of the centre. Eventually, he slowed to a walk, glancing around him. Passers-by eyed him suspiciously.

The reality of the situation hit him hard. He was deep in enemy territory without any of the back-up that Soca could have provided through its links with the US Drug Enforcement Administration and other law enforcement agencies. The Front probably had spies everywhere: on the streets, in the police, maybe even within Manuel’s campesino movement. Amonite was taking no chances. She’d already sent assassins to kill him. Which meant that someone within Soca had found out he was coming and told her.

George’s arrogant face appeared in his mind. Nathan had no evidence to show that George was the culprit, just a gut feeling. But all too often, his gut feeling was correct.

He took another turn. He was on a road with orange, pink and blue houses leading up to the mountain. It was deserted. He kept going through quiet side streets and busy main roads, past high rises and shopping centres, until he reached La Candelaria, the revitalised old colonial part of Bogotá.

The sun was setting as he walked up narrow cobblestoned streets, past groups of tourists gazing up at rows of yellow houses with orange and black doors and carved wooden balconies. He stumbled into a small hotel and rang the bell on the reception desk.

‘Sí, señor?’ A sleepy looking young man in a green suit emerged from a doorway behind the desk.

Nathan booked himself a room, paying in advance. He collapsed onto the creaky bed without taking his shoes off. He rolled onto his back. He’d left his rucksack, with all his clothes and other gear, in the taxi. He patted his travel belt under his trousers. At least he had his money, passport and credit card. He reached for his phone in his jacket. He dialled Manuel’s number.

A gruff voice answered. ‘Sí?’

‘Manuel?’

‘Nathan. At last. Where are you?’

‘Where can we meet?’

‘In one hour. Catedral Primada.’

‘Okay, and Manuel?’

‘Yes?’

‘Make sure you’re not being followed.’

Bogotá, Colombia
12 April 2011

A
shrill, metallic beeping woke Nathan up. He sat up, his mind groggy. He hit the off switch for his phone’s alarm. He’d slept thirty minutes. He rolled out of bed and checked his shoulder in the cracked bathroom mirror. Badly bruised, like a smudged tattoo. But nothing broken.

He headed out of his hotel, into the street, which was as hectic and confused as his brain. Fumes erupted from cars honking bumper to bumper. Mopeds weaved through tight gaps in the traffic that opened and closed like the metal jaws of a deadly trap. Nathan stumbled on a street vendor tucked in a doorway and bought an arepa: a corn pancake overflowing with ham, cheese and eggs.

He chomped his way to Plaza de Bolívar, in the touristy centre of the colonial sector. Historic stone buildings towered over the large pedestrianised square. On the east side was the Catedral Primada, the overcast evening sky swallowing the sharp spires on the two baroque towers as though they’d been smeared out by a divine painter.

Nathan scanned the square. Just tourists and scattered Colombians out for an end-of-day stroll. No furtive glance. No sudden turning away. No unnatural break in the pattern of movement.

A siren. Nathan flinched. Armed cops in black riot gear with visored helmets tumbled out of a grey armoured truck and took position in a corner of the square. They ignored Nathan as he strolled past. Lighting slashed at the clouds. Raindrops, thick and warm and greasy, attacked the stone pavings as though trying to beat them into submission. The pedestrians scattered. The cops bundled back into their truck. Nathan ran into the cathedral. He brushed the soaked hair from his eyes. Rows of gold-adorned pillars led to a central altar crammed with candelabra and diamond-encrusted crosses.

Manuel was sitting on a wooden pew near the front pillar, his arm slung over the side and his head twisted round to face the entrance. The black patch on his eye gave him a sinister look. Nathan slumped into the pew in front of him.

‘Perfect weather for a day out,’ Nathan said without turning round.

‘What’s going on?’

Nathan removed his jacket and brushed the water off.

‘So?’ Manuel said.

‘I’m not who you think.’

‘I thought not.’

‘I need your help.’

‘Who are you then?’

Nathan put his jacket back on. He shivered. Telling Manuel wasn’t going to be easy.

‘I can’t help you if you don’t say who you are,’ Manuel said.

‘I work for the British government.’

‘MI6?’

‘The Serious Organised Crime Agency.’

‘Drugs?’

Nathan nodded. Manuel said nothing.

Nathan turned round. ‘I had no choice.’

Manuel was staring at him so intensely he could have driven a hole through him with his gaze. Nathan was starting to think that meeting him had been a bad idea.

‘D’you remember that talk we had when you first arrived in my village?’ Manuel said. ‘When you asked what motivated us? Trust and loyalty.’

‘You can trust me.’

‘You hid the truth.’

‘It was necessary.’

Manuel frowned.

‘I’m sorry.’ Nathan got up to leave. ‘I thought you’d understand.’

Manuel grabbed his hand. ‘Sit down.’

Nathan lowered himself back into the pew.

‘Tell me everything,’ Manuel said, his voice softer.

Nathan glanced around. A young, crying mother was kneeling in prayer at a pew on the far end of the row, while her two small children played in the aisle. An old man with a red scarf round his head was snoring in a corner. A couple was holding hands and lighting a candle. None were in earshot.

He took a deep breath. He’d spent weeks in the jungle with Manuel, yet still felt he didn’t really know him. Could he trust him? Could he trust anybody anymore? Yet what options did he have?

As though reading his thoughts, Manuel said, ‘You can trust me. You saved my life. I’m forever indebted to you. Don’t forget that.’

‘Okay.’ Nathan told Manuel about his investigation into the Front, his findings about the Black Coke, Amonite Victor, George Lloyd-Wanless, Caitlin’s murder, and Scarface. When he’d finished, he leaned back and stared at the huge cross of Christ hanging from the ceiling. The nails in the hands and feet. The blood dripping from the crown of thorns. The expression of intense pain.

Such a religious yet brutal country.

Manuel said nothing for a long time. Nathan looked round. Manuel was staring down at the palms of his hands as though trying to read the past in them. He pursed his lips over and over, then he spoke.

‘You’re one of us now,’ he said. He put his hand on Nathan’s shoulder and looked at him with a gentle glint in his good eye. ‘Do you realise that?’

Nathan didn’t reply.

‘You’ve suffered at the hands of the Front and Anglo-American imperialism,’ Manuel continued. ‘You know what it’s like to lose a loved one.’

Nathan suppressed the tears that threatened to well up inside him.

Manuel clasped Nathan’s shoulder. ‘I will help you.’

Minutes later, they were walking through the cobbled and moss-covered winding backstreets of Bogotá, which dripped and steamed from the receding downpour. Vast brownish puddles gleamed in the gloomy light.

‘I have to find the Front headquarters,’ Nathan told Manuel. ‘That’s where Amonite will be.’

‘Nobody knows where they are. I’ve already asked.’

‘But they must be in Colombia, no?’

‘Putumayo’s most likely. Could be Medellín too. The Front has a strong network there.’ Manuel tossed a few coins to the grimy street children tugging at his shirt. ‘Just last week the mayor of Medellín was gunned down at a political rally in front of hundreds of people. He’d made the mistake of criticising the Front in public.’

‘What about the smugglers. How are we going to stop them?’

Manuel hesitated, as though making up his mind about something. ‘I’ve heard there’s a Jamaican drug don, Elijah Evans, who’s linked to the Front.’

‘The Jamaican mid-point?’

‘Could be.’