Black Coke (8 page)

Nathan put his head in his hands. Front 154 was turning into one of the largest paramilitary illegal drug operations in modern history, yet he was the only person at Soca working on it. What could one man do against an international drugs cartel?

He kept working all morning, trying to ignore the anxiety inside him. He grabbed a sandwich for lunch and ate at his desk, scrolling through more articles and reports about the Front’s atrocities and growing power. He vaguely heard his colleagues switching off their computers, picking up their coats and leaving for the day. Still he kept searching, driven by the desperate hope that something, somewhere could give him a clue about who was behind the Front, how Amonite had become involved, and what could be done to stop it.

He glanced at the time on his screen: 9.27pm. He rubbed his eyes. He’d been working for more than twelve hours again. He’d found masses of stories about the Front, but no significant break-throughs. It was time to go home to Caitlin. He’d take her out for dinner at the Spanish restaurant in King’s Cross if it wasn’t too late. She loved Spanish food.

He left the Soca headquarters and took a circuitous route home, regularly checking for tails in his rear-view mirror.

He had a distinct feeling he was being watched.

Kingston, Jamaica
7 April 2011

R
ev Elijah Evans fingered his dog collar and wiped his nose. He glanced back at the four strong men balancing the polished wooden coffin on their wide shoulders. The one closest to him, a young man with moist eyes but a stern face, nodded to show they were ready.

Elijah smoothed the creases from his long black robe and centred the wooden cross round his neck. He straightened himself to his full six foot two. He breathed out slowly, once, twice. He opened his leather-bound bible to the gospel of John chapter 11. He cleared his voice and stepped through the open doors into the church, the coffin bearers right behind him.

‘I am the resurrection, and the life,’ he read out in a booming voice as he led the procession down the aisle. ‘He who believes in me will live even if he dies, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.’

The pews were packed with men and women in their best clothes. They were weeping and looking grave for the funeral of Shaun Davis, a twenty-one year old who had been beaten to death, beheaded and set on fire the previous Saturday night in Tivoli Gardens in downtown Kingston. He’d been a pillar of the church, the leader of the choir, and a final year student at Jamaica’s University of the West Indies.

Elijah reached the pulpit. He turned to face the congregation. In the front row were Shaun’s mother and father, grey-haired, backs bent and with deep lines of sorrow etched into their ashen faces.

Elijah would comfort them later.

The coffin was placed on a pedestal, closed. Shaun’s body was too mutilated for an open casket. Elijah read from Isaiah 13:9.

‘Behold, the day of the Lord is coming, cruel, with fury and burning anger, to make the land a desolation.’

A pause. Everyone was looking at him with anticipation. He raised his left hand for emphasis.

‘I will punish the world for its evil and the wicked for their iniquity; I will put an end to the arrogance of the proud and abase the haughtiness of the ruthless.’

A series of half-hearted ‘amen’ rippled through the congregation. He slammed the bible shut with a flip of his hand and lifted his gaze to the oak beams overhead.

‘We are here today to mourn the passing of an innocent young man whose life was stolen by evil drug dealers.’

Sobbing gushed from the front row. Shaun’s mother crumpled to the floor. She lay there in the foetal position, trembling. Her husband and two other church members struggled to help her up. She collapsed onto a pew, her body heaving.

Elijah bowed his head.

‘Drug dealing is a sin,’ he said. A murmur of approval ran through the crowd. ‘And drug dealers will be punished on the day of reckoning by the Lord our God.’

Elijah looked up, ready to unleash a ferocious tirade.

He faltered.

At the back of the church, standing behind the last row of pews, a woman as wide as two coffins was staring at him. She was in a heavy black coat despite the heat outside. She had a stubby nose and two close-set eyes. Her threadlike lips looked like they’d been sliced into her face with a three-star ratchet knife. She ran a black gloved hand through her slick hair. Then she made a gun sign with her finger and thumb and pointed it at Elijah.

A lump clogged up Elijah’s throat.

The congregation was looking at him questioningly.

Elijah bowed his head as though deep in prayer. The bible nearly slipped from his sweaty fingers.

‘God has called Shaun back to heaven,’ he muttered. He rattled through the rest of his sermon, trying to avoid looking towards the back of the church. He led the congregation into the closing hymns. As they sang their way through ‘There is a Redeemer’, he dared another glance. The woman had gone. He launched into the final verse with renewed gusto.

Once the service had ended, Elijah stood outside the front doors at the top of the stone steps, shaking people’s hands as they filed out. He hugged the grieving parents and promised he would pray for them. He walked round the church to the graveyard. Everyone was standing round the hole that had been dug in the ground. Elijah uttered the prayers of committal as the coffin was lowered. Workmen filled the grave with earth. Everyone sung more hymns.

At last the grave was full. Wreaths and bouquets were placed on it.

Elijah said a prayer of thanks. Then he rushed back to the church so fast he drew glances from his church elders. He slammed shut the heavy front doors and made his way to his office in a side room. He pulled a small bag of black powder and a mirror out of the top drawer of his desk. He placed the mirror next to the pot of tea that had been brewing on his desk since that morning. He tapped out a long line of powder and snorted it with a rolled-up bank note. His nose, mouth and throat went numb.

He slumped into his chair. A delightful tingling spread through his body, building up to a crescendo of pleasure, like the start of an orgasm. He lost track of time, until the drug wore off and a headache settled in with pounding strength.

Was that really Amonite Victor he’d seen at the back of the church? Or was it a demon come to haunt him for Shaun’s death?

It took all Elijah’s willpower to resist taking another line. He had to be in a fit state for the evening service. He took off his robe and turned round to face the mirror on the wall. He admired his firm jaw. He straightened his pin-striped suit. Soon he’d have a church large enough to rival those Pentecostal groups who got all their riches from the US. He’d be so wealthy his relatives would be falling over themselves to do his bidding. No longer would he be seen as the failed one of the family. Even his father would be proud of him.

But now he needed to relax. Maybe he should go home for the afternoon to see his young lover, Patrice. Elijah’s groin stirred at the thought. He leapt from his chair and hurried down the stairs. He stepped into the main hall. He gasped, grasping the back of a pew to steady himself.

Marching towards him, down the centre aisle, fleshy paw out-stretched, was Amonite Victor, a wide grin on her sun-tanned yet unbelievably ugly face.

‘Reverend, it’s been too long,’ Amonite said in her absurdly deep voice. ‘So wonderful to see you again.’

Elijah shook Amonite’s hand vigorously.

‘Nice of you to drop by our troubled island.’ Elijah’s voice was trembling. ‘Still up to the same old mischief?’

Amonite gave a roaring laugh that made Elijah jump. ‘Ah, you know what I’m like.’

Elijah nodded rapidly. He led Amonite into his office. Why had Amonite decided to come to see him in person? Had she found out about Elijah’s links to the Brixton yardies?

Elijah gestured to the ripped leather armchair that was placed at an angle in front of his desk. He plonked himself into his own chair and clasped his hands.

‘How can I help?’ he croaked.

‘That was a lovely funeral, if I may say so. I hear Shaun was one of your best.’

‘Best what?’

‘Don’t take me for a fool, reverend. I’m not one of those old farts from your church.’

‘So you heard?’

‘That Shaun tried to double cross you? Sure I did. How much did he take?’

‘Two keys.’

‘Too bad.’ Amonite flashed a smile like the rictus on Shaun’s dead face. ‘I hear business is booming.’

‘Cup of tea?’ Elijah reached for the pot. ‘It’s fresh.’

‘Sure.’ Amonite leaned forward. ‘I have a little favour to ask.’

‘What may that be?’

‘Always the same.’

‘No problem at all.’ A grin eased across Elijah’s face as he poured the tea into two small cups, grateful that trust had been restored between them. ‘You got rid of the previous shipment?’

‘Once I’d dealt with your double-crossing countrymen in Brixton, it sold like hotcakes. Have you tasted that sample?’

‘It’s not because they’re Jamaican that—’

‘Sure, sure. Whatever. What about the sample?’

‘It’s incredible,’ Elijah blurted.

‘The next is just under a ton.’

‘Wow. Consider it done.’

‘Oh, and… Don’t screw up. No more Shauns.’

‘Don’t worry.’ Elijah sipped from his tea. ‘It’ll be fine.’

‘It better be,’ Amonite said. ‘El Patrón’s rather sick of Jamaicans at the moment.’

The mention of El Patrón sent a shiver down Elijah’s spine.

‘Where are the pickup and delivery points?’ he said.

‘Pick up is Baranquilla. Final destination is Florida for this one. London for the next one.’

‘Florida?’ Elijah grinned. ‘I’ve got great networks there.’

‘You won’t be taking it to Florida. Some Haitians will. El Patrón prefers it that way. You’ll meet them half way on an island to hand over the load. I’ll give you details shortly.’

‘Haitians? You trust them?’

‘If El Patrón does, then that’s good enough for me.’ Amonite took a gulp of tea. She spat it out. ‘What the hell is this shit?’

‘Cerasse. Traditional Jamaican. Good for the blood and headaches.’

There was a faint buzz. Amonite plucked a phone from her coat pocket and put it to her ear with a surprisingly graceful flick of her hand. She listened for a long while, her acned face darkening.

‘They’re onto him are they?’ she said. ‘I’ll be straight back.’ She tucked the phone away.

‘Everything okay?’ Elijah said.

‘What the fuck do you think?’

‘Right.’

‘You look nervous, reverend. Is there something you’re not telling me?’

‘No, not at all.’ Elijah pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and blew his nose. It came out bloody. He looked up. Amonite’s gaze sliced through him. Elijah rose unsteadily to his feet.

‘If you’ll excuse me, I have a sermon to prepare.’

‘Oh yes, of course. My profuse apologies for intruding on your holy time.’

Elijah led the way out of the office, back to the front door of the church. ‘Good to see you.’ He spun round to shake Amonite’s hand again. ‘Call again anytime.’

Elijah watched Amonite strut down the street, deftly side-stepping the potholes with the grace of a catwalk model despite her oversized frame. Any white man or woman in their right mind would never walk alone through Kingston, even in broad daylight. But Amonite was different. Nobody would attack such a monster. Or if they did, they’d regret it.

With a sigh of relief, Elijah turned back into the relative coolness of the church.

He had important work to do.

North London, UK
8 April 2011

N
athan strapped on his bullet-proof vest and scanned the street. They were in Hackney, one of the roughest areas of London. Wheelie bins overflowed on the pavement outside a crumbling Georgian house with boarded-up windows. A scrawny Alsatian skulked around the rusty metal gate. It barked at passers-by like an emaciated Cerberus trying to guard the gates of hell.

‘That’s the one.’ Steve jabbed a finger. ‘Typical crack den, in all its fucked-up glory.’ He turned round to inspect the riot police shuffling around impatiently behind them. They were all kitted up in black overalls with blue helmets and visors and see-through shields and truncheons.

Nathan wiped his forehead. The overcast sky was releasing a persistent drizzle. Street lamps flickered to life as the late afternoon sun struggled to break through. He’d hardly slept again last night. Caitlin had got wasted at dinner in the Spanish restaurant, so he’d just about carried her home. He’d then lain in bed, staring at the moonlight through the curtains, going over his conversation with Cedric. His heart raced at the very thought of Amonite in the UK