Black Coke (29 page)

She got up. ‘Look, we can do this several ways. You can freely tell me everything you know, who else knows, what they’re planning. Or I can beat the shit out of you until you beg on your knees for mercy and tell me everything anyway. What will it be?’

Nathan twisted his wrists in an attempt at letting the circulation through.

Amonite lent closer. Her breath was hot and putrid.

‘So?’

‘Quit the steroids,’ Nathan said. ‘You stink.’

‘Rude fucker.’ Amonite punched him in the stomach with such force that he keeled over, gasping for air, groaning with pain. She kicked him once, twice, three times in the ribs. Then she straightened up, towering over him.

‘That sister of yours, she sure grunted like a pig.’

Nathan bit his tongue until it hurt. He wanted to jump on Amonite, gouge her eyes out, rip her ears off, pummel her ugly face to a mush, kill her. But he knew he had no chance. He had to be patient, suffer, and wait for the right moment.

Amonite sat back in the chair. ‘You’re on your own, you know. Even your little buddy Cedric’s abandoned you. Did you know that? Left you high and dry. Told us where you lived.’

She leaned forward again, resting her elbows on her knees. ‘So, what’s it going to be? You speak, or I make you speak?’

Bogotá, Colombia
14 April 2011

‘Y
ou look stunning,’ the shop assistant said, manicured hands on voluptuous hips, perm blonde hair wobbling on her head, as she took a step back to admire Lucia in the full-length mirror. ‘Your man is going to find you utterly irresistible.’

Lucia tugged on the white tube top to pull it further up her breasts. They felt like they were about to pop out like champagne corks, the top was so tight.

‘I feel utterly ridiculous,’ she muttered. ‘I might as well walk around naked.’

‘Oh no!’ The shop assistant tutted. ‘That would be indecent.’

‘You think this isn’t? Fishnet stockings with suspenders, black leather mini skirt that nearly shows my panties, heels so high it’s like tottering around on stilts?’

‘You’re the one who asked for this, señorita. Not me.’

‘I’m wishing I hadn’t.’ Lucia turned back to her reflection in the mirror. ‘I look like one of those street hookers from Santa Fe.’

‘More like Esperanza Gomez.’

‘Who?’

‘Our national porn star. Won Miss Playboy TV.’

‘I look like her?’ Lucia said, increasingly convinced she wanted to punch the teeth right through the back of the assistant’s pretty little head.

‘In a good way, of course.’

‘Of course.’

‘What’s it for, may I ask? A house party with friends? A romantic tête-a-tête? An all-nighter clubbing?’

Lucia twisted sideways to check her figure. Part of her couldn’t help but agree that the outfit was incredibly sexy.

‘For a club it’s good,’ the assistant continued. ‘Maybe not for a dinner.’

A group of young men strolling past the shop whistled at Lucia.

‘You see?’ the assistant said, blowing a kiss and waving at the men. ‘They love it.’

‘They sure do.’ Lucia threw the men a look that shut them up instantly. ‘That confirms it. I’ll take the lot.’

She headed for the safety of the changing booths. She sighed with relief as she pulled on her jeans and shirt, feeling their thick, familiar fabric brush against her soft skin. She laced up her trainers and stared at the clothes hanging from the pegs in front of her. Was this really such a good idea?

What would Nathan say?

Nathan…

She got up, a calm resolve flowing through her. She had to find a way of infiltrating the Front and finding Nathan, and Manuel still hadn’t got back in touch. So this was as crude as it got. She went to the till, handed the clothes over and paid in cash. The shop assistant winked as she gave Lucia a bag with the clothes in.

‘If that outfit doesn’t do the trick, come to see me,’ the assistant said, patting her hair in place. ‘I’ll give you your money back.’

‘It will work. It better do.’

Lucia left the shop, ignoring the men who were still gaping at her. She glanced around, checking her tail as Nathan would have done. She walked out of the red-bricked Andino Mall into the trendy Zona Rosa district of northern Bogotá.

It was time to head back to the hotel and get changed.

Bogotá, Colombia
14 April 2011

‘T
his isn’t going well, Nathan.’

Amonite was standing in the doorway, a plastic chair in hand. This one was red. She placed it in the centre of the cell and perched on the edge of it.

‘I’m not a patient woman. You should know that by now.’

Nathan blinked. They’d left the light on during the hours or days since Amonite had last left him.

‘I know all the tricks, Nathan. The grey man. Focusing on the spot. All that shit. I’ll still break you. It’s just a matter of when.’

Nathan yawned.

‘Tired, are you? Would you like to rest your poor little head?

A rat poked its head out of a hole again. Nathan thought he could hear a dripping then a rushing sound, like a river, or was he just imagining it?

‘Do you have any idea where we are?’ Amonite flashed an ugly grin. ‘In a dungeon, a torture chamber, a secret prison where the ASI does all its dirty work. This is Colombia’s very own Abu Ghraib.’

Nathan closed his eyes.

Amonite shot to her feet.

‘You dumb-ass piece of shit.’ She kicked him in the stomach. ‘You going to talk or do I have to beat you to death?’

Nathan toppled sideways. He tucked his chin into his chest in an attempt at protecting his face. But Amonite kept kicking him, repeatedly, furiously, grunting and shouting and yelling, until Nathan lost consciousness.

Nathan felt someone dragging him to his feet. He opened puffy eyes. It was one of the guards. He pulled Nathan through the doorway and down a stone corridor. They reached another metal door. The guard flung it open and threw Nathan into a room. He placed his rifle against the wall, then picked up a hosepipe from the ground and twisted a tap.

‘Shower time,’ he said in rough English, turning the jet of water onto Nathan.

Nathan turned his back to the guard. The water was cold, but it felt good on his body, washing away the blood and grime. He turned back to face the guard and cupped his hands to collect some water. He drank it, feeling it trickle down his throat and realising he hadn’t drunk anything for ages.

He checked his body again. It was badly bruised from the beatings, but nothing was broken and the bleeding was superficial. He was still in okay shape. They were probably showering him down to prepare him for the next round.

The guard switched off the tap. The dirty water was draining towards a rusty grilled manhole in the middle of the room. A stench of sewer rose from it. Nathan pretended to stumble backwards, until he was standing on the manhole. The guard ignored him, too busy winding up the hosepipe. Nathan fell to his knees and peered through the grill. Just darkness and the sound of running water below.

He staggered back towards the guard, who was reaching for his rifle.

It was now or never.

Bogotá, Colombia
14 April 2011

‘W
here the fuck is he?’ Amonite hissed into her phone. She glanced up and down the corridor. One of George’s cute young secretaries popped out of one office and disappeared into another.

‘I dunno,’ Dex said on the other end of the line.

‘What about the Haitians?’

‘Zilch from them too.’

‘Can’t nobody run a good op here?’

‘Not my fault, Amonite.’

‘That reverend’s got a ton of gear. That’s more than we produce in a week. El Patrón’s gonna go apeshit when he hears this.’

‘Don’t tell him.’

‘Not an option.’

Amonite glared at George’s secretary as she emerged from the office and trooped past, her high heels sinking into the plush carpet. Two embassy officials walking past leered at her as she wiggled her ass. Amonite waited for them to be out of earshot.

‘Find that damn reverend.’

‘Boss, he could be anywhere by now.’

‘You got contacts in Jamaica, don’t you?’

‘Sure I do.’

‘Then use them, for fuck’s sake.’

Amonite jabbed the off button on the phone. She marched down the corridor towards the press room. She took a place in the corner, among George’s phalanx of advisors in their grey suits, grey ties, leather-bound folders and long faces like they were at a funeral. George was standing at a lectern, addressing a crowd of journos scribbling away on notepads.

‘Our joint fumigation programme with the Colombian army has destroyed more than three million acres of coca,’ he was saying. ‘Cocaine production has dropped by more than half. We see this as a huge success.’ He scanned the room. ‘Any other questions?’

A middle-aged woman lifted her hand.

George pointed at her. ‘Yes?’

‘What are these rumours that President Caviedas agrees with the Mexican president about the need for a debate on legalisation?’

‘Drugs are illegal. Full stop.’

‘What would the British government do if such a debate opened up?’

‘President Caviedas is a staunch supporter of drug control. Just look at his campaign against the Front. Next question. You, at the back.’

A young male journo stood up. ‘Everyone says the president has made Colombia a safer place. He’s put the guerrillas on the defensive and demolished major drug cartels. The streets of Bogotá are meant to be calmer than ever before.’

‘What’s your question?’ George snapped.

‘If everything’s going so well, why’s Front 154 terrorising the countryside? And what about rumours of this deadly new drug, Black Coke?’

‘That’s two questions,’ George said with a frown. ‘I’ll take each in turn. We’ve already infiltrated the Front. I can’t say more for reasons of security, but you’ll soon be hearing about our successes.’

‘And Black Coke?’ the man said.

‘Those are just rumours. Unverified.’

‘Some of the stuff appeared in London last week.’

‘I’m aware of that.’

‘Six drug addicts have now died. Fifteen are in a critical state. Word on the street is that it’s more addictive than crack, heroin and crystal meph all rolled into one. You have nothing to say about it?’

George pursed his lips. ‘No.’

Amonite smirked. George was clearly annoyed by all this. Yet even she knew that you had to be friendly to the media if you wanted them to print your view of the story.

‘What about the death of Octavia Abramo?’ another journalist shouted out.

‘What about it?’ George said, a touch too defensively.

‘Do you know who killed her?’

George glanced round and caught Amonite’s eye. He frowned, then turned back to the journalists. ‘The ASI has caught the suspected murderer. He’s in custody.’

A cheer erupted from the audience.

‘What will they do with him?’ shouted a male journo near the back.

‘Hang him!’ shouted another.

‘They’re investigating why he did it and who ordered him to murder her.’

‘Do you think this heralds a new wave of assassinations?’ the first woman said.

George shook his head. ‘Journalists have always been easy targets since the days of Pablo Escobar, as you all know. But we think this is an isolated incident.’ He nodded to everyone. ‘Thanks for listening.’

More hands shot up, but he ignored them. He left the room. Amonite followed him. He was waiting for her just outside. He grabbed her arm and led her into a side room, closing the door behind them.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he said. ‘You can’t just wander into the embassy like that. One of those idiotic journalists might have recognised you.’

‘No chance. Nobody has a clue who I am.’

George grunted. ‘What’s Nathan Kershner saying?’

Amonite bit her lip.

‘So?’ George said. ‘Has he spilt the beans yet?’

‘He’s not talking.’

‘Why not? What did they teach you in the forces?’

‘He’s a tough one.’

‘I want him to talk by this evening, got it?’

Amonite clenched her fist. She so wanted to whack George.