Black Coke (25 page)

‘RPG!’ shrieked Patrice.

A rocket-propelled grenade. Elijah closed his eyes, his mind scrambling around for the right bible verse.

Everything was spinning.

Only God could save them now.

Bogotá, Colombia
13 April 2011

‘I
t’s corruption on a scale I’ve never seen before,’ Lucia said, leaning forward so close across the wooden table that Nathan was surprised to catch a hint of perfume. ‘Even by Colombian standards.’

Nathan sipped from his steaming cup of coffee. He’d woken up that morning nearly as exhausted as when he’d gone to sleep. He glanced at the other tables in the Parisian-style cafe. Three fat American tourists huddled over a creased map. A young couple argued over the remains of a slice of chocolate cake. A grey-haired businessman hammered away on his laptop then barked into his phone.

‘Something wrong?’ Lucia said.

‘All fine.’

‘I come here all the time.’

‘Right.’

‘Hey, look at this headline.’ Lucia grabbed a newspaper that was hanging on a wooden rail attached to the wall. ‘Mexican president calls for debate on drug legalisation.’

Nathan shifted in his seat to get a better view of the entrance.

‘It’s all changing. Just you wait.’ She skimmed the article. ‘Everyone’s realising the war on drugs is a big mistake. Don’t you agree?’

‘How long’s it been going?’

‘What?’

‘The operation. Amonite Victor. How long?’

‘Six months. A year. Maybe more. Nobody can tell me. I didn’t even realise who she was until a few days ago.’

‘You sure she’s in charge?’

‘It’s a guess.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Tons of drugs into the US and Europe, right under the noses of the FBI, the DEA, Interpol and everyone else. Just think about it.’

Nathan sipped his coffee again. Lucia was as passionate in the flesh as on TV.

‘What?’ Lucia said.

‘Amonite doesn’t have the brains.’

‘That’s not what I hear.’

‘I know the Americans have a lot of influence here, but—’

‘She’s not American.’

‘Right.’ Nathan’s eyes wandered to the entrance. A short man with long hair and a short beard was standing there, scanning the crowd. Nathan’s muscles tensed.

‘Well, not only American,’ Lucia continued. ‘She’s Colombian too. Born in America of Colombian parents.’

The man’s gaze settled on their table. He moved to the bar and spoke to the waitress, who giggled and blushed.

‘Hey, you listening?’ Lucia said.

Nathan looked into her eyes: hazel with speckles of green, blazing with rage. He remembered how she’d lain into George.

He made a rolling motion with his hand. ‘Keep going.’

‘Amonite’s building a network that’ll make the Medellín cartel look like it was a school gang.’ She counted off her fingers. ‘The Crips and Bloods in LA, the Mexicans from La Eme, the Jamaicans, the Haitians, the Russian mafia, the Italian mafia, even the Yakuzas.’

The businessman glanced round.

Lucia dropped to a whisper again. ‘A global network.’

‘And in Colombia?’

‘That’s what I’ve been telling you for the past half hour. Hugely powerful. Government, the army, the police.’

The short man with long hair sat at a table in the corner and pulled a book from his pocket. Nathan felt so jumpy he nearly pounced on the man. He clasped his hands together and turned his attention back to Lucia. She was looking at him with a strange glint in her eyes.

‘I thought the president had cleaned up politics?’ he said.

‘Redeveloping the colonial quarter’s not going to turn Bogotá into Geneva overnight.’

‘Give me an example.’

‘Of?’

‘Amonite’s power.’

‘You’re not an easy one to convince, are you?’ Lucia crossed her arms. ‘A couple of days ago, a junior minister at the interior ministry said we needed a debate on drug legalisation. I’d known him for some time. A good guy in a rotten ministry.’

‘What happened?’

‘Gunned down outside his home. Two bullets to the head.’

‘How do you know Amonite was behind it?’

‘Because the guy was one of my key sources about her links to the ASI,’ Lucia said. ‘He’d built a big file. He was about to hand it to me.’

‘Where is this file?’

‘Probably burnt to ashes, along with his house, wife and two kids. The firemen arrived too late.’ Lucia made a hollow laugh. ‘They said they got stuck in a traffic jam.’

A police car wailed past. An armoured truck followed. Lucia didn’t even seem to notice. She was gazing into her coffee as though expecting to see the future there.

‘And Lloyd-Wanless?’ Nathan said. ‘How does he fit in?’

‘I shared a TV panel with him. A total disaster.’

‘I know.’ Nathan smiled. ‘I saw it.’

Lucia’s face flushed. ‘He’s eloquent. Spews out the same old anti-drugs bullshit.’

‘It doesn’t make sense.’

‘What?’

‘D’you have a pen?’ Nathan asked a waiter going by. ‘Thanks.’

He grabbed a napkin and scribbled on it, circling names and joining them with lines.

‘Amonite, Lloyd-Wanless, the Front, the ASI, Black Coke,’ Nathan said. ‘They’re all linked somehow or other. We know that. But something’s missing. Right here.’ He jabbed the centre of the napkin with the pen. ‘I know how these big cartels operate. I’ve studied them. There’s always a powerbase, bang in the middle.’

‘Could it be Lloyd-Wanless? You said he was ambassador here in the nineties. Could’ve made a few contacts. Could be him and Amonite?’

‘No. I’ve just told you,’ Nathan said. ‘I know Amonite. I’ve fought against her. She’s ruthless, she’s professional, she’s tough. Yet she doesn’t have the capacity to run this. Nor does Lloyd-Wanless. He’s powerful, ambitious, but he doesn’t have the resources to be the big boss here. There’s someone else.’

‘Who?’

Nathan’s hand slipped to the gun inside his jacket. He tried not to stare at the long-haired man, who was fumbling around in his pockets for something.

‘Who?’ Lucia repeated, frowning. ‘Whatever. I’ll see you in a minute.’

She headed for the bathroom.

The man pulled out a wallet, left some coins on the table and exited the cafe.

Nathan sighed with relief. He called Manuel’s number. Manuel was meant to have met them at the hotel, but hadn’t turned up. The phone rang and rang, then went onto voicemail. Nathan tried again, then hung up. He was wondering what to do next when Lucia strode back in. Her long and thick black hair curled around her slender shoulders. Her figure-hugging white t-shirt and narrow black jeans emphasised her athletic curves. The young man eating cake stared at her with such barely-concealed lust that his girlfriend had to turn his head away.

Lucia slid gracefully back into her seat. ‘Returned to earth yet?’

‘Still no reply from Manuel.’

‘Don’t worry. He’ll turn up eventually. He knows where we’re staying.’ Lucia dropped some coins on the table and pulled her leather jacket off the back of the chair. ‘Come on. Let’s go. I know someone who can help.’

Medellín, Colombia
13 April 2011

A
monite never thought the day would arrive when she’d at last meet her hero. She suppressed the urge to pinch herself as she pushed the heavy oak door into the bustling Italian restaurant. It was a sign of her growing importance within Front 154 that he’d asked her to meet with him.

The manager waddled over and oozed a smile. He was a squat, pudgy man with receding black hair and arms that flapped around like a penguin’s. His bushy moustache shot out to either side of his face as though reinforced with steel rods.

‘Madame, welcome to our humble establishment.’ He bowed a little too obsequiously. ‘We are so pleased you are honouring us with your gracious presence.’

‘Stop the crap, Giovanni.’

‘Madame, I mean every word I say.’ He gestured towards the back. ‘This way, please.’

He led her through the restaurant. Apart from a few Front heavies congregating around the bar and glancing furtively around, there were mainly well-off couples and businessmen sitting at the round tables that crowded the candle-lit room. Waiters in black bowties weaved through them with towers of dirty plates balanced on their hands.

Amonite followed Giovanni through a back door and down a corridor stinking of cooking. They halted in front of a bare wall painted black. Giovanni pushed a section of the wall. It slid open. Steps led down to a thick metal door, like the entry to an underground bunker. Giovanni twirled a handle and dragged the door open. He flicked on the lights.

Amonite had heard whispers about this secret Front hideout, but she’d disregarded the rumours about its opulence. A myth used by a global drug lord to build his reputation.

She’d been wrong.

The room was huge and more luxurious than a Saudi sheik’s palace. Five gold chandeliers dripping with diamonds hung from the ceiling. A mix of modern and classical paintings lined the walls, each lit by their own lamp. A 15 metre table made out of solid tropical hardwood stretched out like a six-lane motorway in the centre of the room. Greek statues writhed in the corners, like grotesque apparitions casting eerie shadows on the blood-red walls.

The door clunked shut behind her. She spun round. Giovanni had gone. She suddenly felt nervous. Was she being watched? Studied for her reactions? Was this a big test?

She marched up to a painting, staring at the scribble in the bottom right-hand corner.

‘It’s a Picasso,’ said a slurred voice behind her. ‘That’s his signature.’

Amonite froze.

‘El Patrón likes Picasso,’ the voice continued. ‘Although Fernando Botero is better. He’s the most Colombian of artists. To your right, my dear. Those paintings are by him.’

She glanced sideways, her heart racing. A series of paintings showed distastefully fat people in various poses. One was of a bearded man on his knees, hands tied behind his back, red blindfold round his eyes, in a prison cell.

‘That one’s called Abu Ghraib. Ha! The gringos accuse El Patrón of torturing and killing, but they are no better. Botero spent 14 months only painting pictures about Americans torturing people at Abu Ghraib.’

Amonite nodded, but didn’t dare turn round. What point was El Patrón making? Or was he off on one of his legendary rambles?

‘He’s from here, Botero is,’ El Patrón said. ‘A good Medellín boy. Did you know that?’

Amonite shook her head.

‘The gringos. They are the enemy. They tried to destroy El Patrón. Many times. But they will never succeed.’

Amonite closed her eyes. Hundreds of times she’d imagined meeting El Patrón in person. She’d rehearsed what she’d say, how she’d try to impress him with her confidence and loyalty. But now her mind was blank.

‘You can turn round, Amonite.’

She turned round, slowly, head down, glimpsing polished black shoes on the footrest of a wheelchair. Her palms were as sweaty as when she had to stand before the class as a fat teenager and face the teacher’s wrath for failing yet again.

‘You can look up.’ El Patrón chuckled. ‘I’m not going to bite you.’

She lifted her gaze. Then wished she hadn’t. The left half of El Patrón’s face sagged, lifeless, as though made of wax that had melted. His lips drooped, the side of his mouth stuck in a perpetual grimace. The skin of his cheeks and forehead hung loose and flabby. His left eye strayed randomly as though following a fly buzzing around the room. The right side of his face was patched up with bits of flesh and scars.

‘Have you lost your voice?’ he said.

‘Patrón…’

‘You were not expecting anything this bad, were you?’

She shook her head.

He clicked his fingers. A bodyguard materialised out of the shadow of a doorway behind him and rolled the wheelchair forward, bringing with it the stench of too much eau de Cologne.

‘They had to do it all in a hurry,’ El Patrón said. ‘It was that, or death.’

A lump appeared in Amonite’s throat.

El Patrón looked up at her with his good eye. He took her hand. He was cold and dry.

‘Tell everything to El Patrón,’ he said.

Amonite took a deep breath. It was no use lying to him. He could find out everything, probably already knew everything. He was indeed testing her, making sure she was still loyal.

‘We’ve had a few, erm, small problems,’ she said.