Black Coke (23 page)

‘In his dad’s bedroom. While screwing a high-class whore linked to a drug lord.’

‘I remember that. It was all over the tabloids back home.’

They waited for the traffic to pass then crossed a street and kept climbing.

‘The dad launched an all-out war against the cartels,’ Manuel said. ‘But they blew up his hummer one morning when he was on his way to the airport. Killed him, his wife, two daughters, bodyguards, the lot.’

‘Lucia’s the only one left?’

‘Yep. An investigation found the dad was also involved in the drugs trade. Confiscated his assets.’

‘A stitch-up?’

‘In Colombia, everyone’s linked to drugs somehow or other,’ Manuel said. ‘Lucia reckoned her dad had fallen out with the secret service and that they ganged up with the cartels to murder him. She accused them live on TV. Huge scandal.’

‘And?’

‘Whole thing was buried.’

Nathan shook his head in disgust. He’d seen this happen so often. Governments spent their time trying to bury embarrassing news about the failure of the drugs war.

‘Why did she set up Colombians Against the Front?’ he said.

‘A group of concerned citizens, a pretty influential bunch, set it up. She joined as CEO last year. Nobody had heard of them until recently. Seems like Lucia’s been driving it hard.’

‘I’m amazed she’s still alive.’

‘Depends how much the Front sees her as a threat.’ Manuel stopped. ‘Her apartment’s on the next street. First red building, to the right. Third floor. Number 32.’

‘I’ll see you back here.’

‘You sure you don’t want me to go in with you? She’s a tough one.’

‘Does she know you?’ Nathan said.

‘I sent her an email about Black Coke a few days ago. No reply.’

‘Then let’s not intimidate her by both turning up. You keep digging. Meet back at the hotel.’

Nathan walked round the block. He stopped behind a tree when he had a good view of the apartment. Diagonally across from the entrance was a grey Ford with two men sitting inside it. He couldn’t make out their faces, but he was sure they were Front men.

He looked up. The lights on the third floor were off.

A woman was walking up the street. She had long dark hair, an athletic figure and wore black jeans, trainers and a leather jacket. She stopped outside the apartment block and rummaged around in her small rucksack for keys. The light of the entrance lit her face, revealing a pert, ski-jump nose, elfin features, rosebud lips.

It was Lucia.

She pulled out her keys and glanced around. As soon as she’d entered the block, Nathan headed off the other way. He jumped over a wall that led into a garden. He pushed past bins into a small street that went down the back of the apartment blocks. He found a back door leading into Lucia’s block. It was locked. His lock picking kit was in the rucksack he’d left in the taxi from the airport, so he searched around in the bins for some wires and bent them into shape. This would have to do. The lock was stiff, but in less than a minute he was inside the building.

He hid in the darkness under the stairway, peering round to check out the grey car. The men were still in it.

He headed up the stairs to Lucia’s apartment.

Bogotá, Colombia
12 April 2011

L
ucia plonked her rucksack on her dresser, scattering an assortment of make-up she’d bought two weeks ago but hadn’t dared try on yet. She switched off the flat screen TV, which was still frozen on a close-up image of Hugh Grant half way through Love, Actually. She’d fallen asleep watching it in bed last night again.

She walked to the window. A street lamp flickered to life across the road, casting an orange glow. The road was empty apart from a few parked cars.

Was that the outline of two people in one of them? Were they peering up at her apartment? Or was she being paranoid after the incident with the man in the pub?

She yanked the curtains shut. She threw herself onto the bed, her face biting the soft pillow. She punched the mattress in frustration. Then she flipped onto her back and stared at the ceiling.

Joanna and the trustees had betrayed her.

That was too bad for them. She’d start up a new NGO, handpick the trustees and impose the rules. She’d draw on her connections to raise funds. She’d campaign solely for legalisation.

A red light flashed on the answer phone on her bedside table, next to a pile of romance novels balanced like the Tower of Pisa. She hit play.

‘Hi, lovely girl.’ Rudolph’s raspy voice came through with its grating German accent. ‘I was thinking I could take you out for a burger then see a film tonight. Tarantino’s new movie has just come out. Give me a ring.’

Not after the fiasco of Saturday night. Rudolph had got wasted at that party organised by the British couple with the mansion with marble pillars in Bogotá’s wealthy Santa Barbara district. Why was it always the losers and drunkards who showed her any interest? Why couldn’t she find a proper man?

She fell back on the bed. The landline buzzed.

‘Lucia, it’s me, Joanna.’

‘What do you want?’

‘Your cell phone’s off.’

‘So?’ Lucia said.

‘We need to talk.’

‘Haven’t you caused enough trouble?’

‘There was nothing I could do.’

Lucia sat up. Joanna could be so spineless at times.

‘You could’ve refused,’ she said.

‘Would’ve made no difference.’

‘So you knew?’

Joanna paused. ‘I overheard Octavia speaking about it to Carlo before the meeting.’

‘You didn’t warn me?’

‘You weren’t in the mood for listening. But that’s not why I’m calling. I’m scared. There are men following me.’

Lucia chuckled. ‘Nothing new there.’

‘I’m serious. They’re standing outside my place. They keep on looking up at my window.’

‘It’s your imagination.’

‘You always say that, but this is Colombia. People get murdered every day here.’

Lucia glanced up at the picture of her late brother, Diego, hanging on the wall. He was clutching a surfboard, his eyes scrunched up against the sun, his long hair stuck to his cheeks, his overweight body covered in sand.

I’ll get them, Diego. The cartels, the secret service. I promise.

‘Aren’t you scared?’ Joanna said.

‘Not really.’ Lucia swallowed. ‘In fact, no. I’m not. Let’s meet at the usual place, in an hour.’

Lucia grabbed her coat and ran out of her apartment, the door slamming shut behind her. She considered taking the elevator, then decided to go for the stairs. It was quicker, and the elevator sometimes got jammed.

Lucia was on the second floor landing when the lights flickered out. She groped around in the dark for the timer. Everything was quiet, except for the shuffling of her feet. She swore to herself. The stand-by light on the timer was broken again. This block of flats was falling apart. If only those crooks at the secret service hadn’t stolen her father’s wealth she could be living in Santa Barbara too. She shook her head. She’d never wanted his dirty money.

A hand went over her mouth.

She tried to scream, but the hand was clamped firmly. A strong arm wrapped round her waist from behind and pulled her tight like a rope round a prisoner.

Lucia tried to kick her attacker in the shins. He pinned her against the wall. She bit the hand. It didn’t budge. She rammed her elbow backward. It hit firm flesh.

‘Calm down,’ said a deep male voice in Spanish with a heavy English accent. She felt herself being twisted round, her back to the wall, the hand still on her mouth.

‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ the man said.

The light went on.

She stared at a face and head smothered in long and wild hair. Red eyes, dark and weary and grave, locked onto hers, breathing shallow and tired.

‘I have to speak to you. In your flat. Okay?’

Lucia stared back.

‘Okay?’ he repeated.

She nodded.

He peeled his hand slowly from her mouth. Lucia tried to squeeze out.

‘We have to talk.’ He grabbed her arm. ‘It’s urgent.’

‘You’re hurting me.’

He pulled her up the stairs. ‘Come with me.’

‘Get off.’

‘Trust me. This is for your own good.’

Something about his voice, a poised assurance, made Lucia relent. They climbed the stairs. Once in the apartment, he locked the door and pointed to an armchair.

‘Sit down,’ he said.

She stayed standing.

‘Suit yourself.’ He sat on the sofa. He looked around the room, his gaze settling on the cream armchairs, the scattering of modern art posters on the wall, the shelves overflowing with all sorts of books. ‘Nice place here. Quite a big reader, I see.’

‘Who are you?’

He paused for a second, as though wondering whether to answer her question.

‘Nathan Kershner,’ he said eventually. ‘Serious Organised Crime Agency, UK.’

‘What do you want?’

‘There are two sicarios outside.’

She looked at him. There was a profound sadness to his eyes. Like the dark look she’d seen every day in the mirror for years since her family was murdered. She’d never been able to explain it to anyone else. It was the look of a person riven by grief and fury and pain and desperation and…

She headed for the door.

‘They’ll kill you,’ Nathan called after her.

She spun round and headed towards the French windows.

‘Stop!’ Nathan said.

She turned back.

‘They’re in an unmarked grey Ford, 20 metres across the road,’ he said. ‘To the right when you exit.’

Lucia hesitated. Was this stranger telling the truth?

Joanna’s number flashed on her cell phone.

‘Joanna?’ she said.

‘This isn’t Joanna,’ said a man with an American accent.

‘Who are you then?’

‘We’ve met before. Don’t you remember?’

‘Where’s Joanna?’

‘She’ll be fine if you do as I say.’

‘You touch her, I’ll slice your balls off.’

‘Come downstairs. Say hello to us. Then we chat.’

The man clicked off.

Lucia looked at Nathan, who was sitting on the sofa, hands over crossed knees. His shirt had two buttons opened, revealing the top of a muscular chest. She’d never met this guy before. For all she knew, he was with the two men outside.

‘So?’ Nathan spread his hands.

She looked from his chest to his eyes. ‘Get the hell out of here.’

Bogotá, Colombia
12 April 2011

‘D
on’t be an idiot,’ Nathan said as he rushed after Lucia down the stairwell, remembering Manuel’s warning about her.

‘Who the fuck are you to tell me what to do?’

He grabbed her arm. ‘They’ll kill you.’

‘How do I know you’re not with them?’

‘Do I look like a Front hitman? Do I sound like the ASI?’

She shoved him away. ‘Doesn’t mean anything.’

Her phone rang. She put it to her ear. Her face went pale. She put the phone away and studied Nathan so intensely he could nearly hear the firing of the neurones in her brain. Was it the Front again?

‘Alright,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘Lead the way.’

They tried the back exit. It was jammed.

‘It happens sometimes,’ Lucia said.

‘But I opened it just a minute ago.’

‘There’s a special way of closing it that stops it getting stuck.’

Nathan tried to pick the lock, then shoved his shoulder against the door again. It still didn’t budge. The front door was the only other exit. He pushed it slowly open. The warm night air hit them as soon as they stepped outside. Lucia headed straight for the grey Ford across the road, her pace firm as though she was about to give them a good hiding. Nathan yanked her back. He wrapped his arm around her firm hips, like lovers going for a stroll.

‘Hey! What d’you—’

‘Don’t start,’ he hissed in her ear.

‘How dare they—’

He tightened his grip, trying to ignore the delightful sensation of feeling her resistance melt. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the car door open and one of the men climb out.