Read The Magdalena Curse Online
Authors: F.G. Cottam
The Magdalena Curse (4 page)
He laughed. It was a snigger, vindictive, high-pitched. ‘Hello,’ he said.
He had addressed her.
She swallowed. She did not reply.
His head jerked to one side as though in some mad impulse of sympathy. ‘Are you still angry with me, pretty doctor?’
The voice coming out of the child spoke English, heavily accented. ‘Boom,’ it said. It paused. ‘The rifle I used was a Barrett Light. A Barrett Light is a sniper’s weapon. It is British. And it is the best in the world.’ Adam’s arms jerked up like someone aiming a gun and one of his eyes closed as he looked along an imaginary sight. His tongue protruded in concentration and was then slowly withdrawn as the smile returned. A finger squeezed a phantom trigger. ‘Boom,’ the voice said. ‘That was all it took, pretty doctor. The range was eight hundred metres. No distance for a Barrett Light. A routine shot. And your boyfriend’s head exploded like a pumpkin under a hammer blow.’
‘Adam?’
‘Busy,’ the voice said. ‘Unavailable.’ The child’s face contrived a lascivious wink and the body reclined on the bed and the sniper closed his eyes and rested.
Later, when she was sure the boy slept, Elizabeth came back to the room and unravelled the plaits in his hair and combed it out. She did not want Mark Hunter to see the physical interference inflicted on his son. Then she went back downstairs and, goaded by her memories and the grief rekindled, she wept. She was still struggling for composure when she heard Hunter’s key in the lock, a few minutes after midnight.
He took off his suit coat and unfastened his tie, then came and sat down in the chair facing hers. He had noticed straight away that something was wrong. He was sober and she was glad of the fact. Probably he had drunk reluctantly, glancing
often at his wristwatch, impatient for the time when he could respectably go home. She remembered that she’d felt a stab of pity for him, putting on his tie to go to the local pub. It was a few hours and a lifetime ago. The world had shifted since then. Her sympathies now were engaged with bigger things.
often at his wristwatch, impatient for the time when he could respectably go home. She remembered that she’d felt a stab of pity for him, putting on his tie to go to the local pub. It was a few hours and a lifetime ago. The world had shifted since then. Her sympathies now were engaged with bigger things.
‘Should I go up?’
‘No. He’s sleeping now. He needs a long sleep, I think, or he will wake exhausted.’
‘Something happened?’
‘Another escalation.’ It was ironic, using the terminology of war to describe what had occurred. ‘How many men have you killed, Mark?’
He looked at her for a long moment. ‘Some would argue there’s a philosophical distinction between the deaths you inflict with your own hands and those you delegate. I would not. The answer to your question is too many.’
‘And now you’re being punished for it, through your son.’
‘Except you don’t believe that, doctor.’
‘Shortly after I qualified, I volunteered with my boyfriend, also just qualified, to do a stint with the Red Cross. We were sent to Chechnya.’
‘Christ.’
‘Where, as you know, things escalated. We were at the siege of Grozny. All was chaos and butchery. We could do nothing. My boyfriend was killed by a sniper bullet. They got me out in the end lashed to a pallet aboard a cargo plane. Tonight, in Adam’s room, I listened as his killer bragged about murdering Peter.’
‘Only the dead can speak through Adam,’ Hunter said quietly. ‘If that is any consolation.’
‘It isn’t.’ She laughed, incredulous at the truth she had witnessed. ‘Your son is possessed.’
‘I’d wondered why someone who looks like you do is single.’
She stared hard at him.
‘It’s my training. I was taught to watch out for the unusual, for anomalies. The hours that you work, the absence of a ring on your finger and the fact that you were available to child-mind on a Friday evening are at odds with how you look, Elizabeth. That’s all.’
‘What did you do, in Bolivia, to incur the wrath of this black magician?’
‘We blundered into something. It was a very confused situation, not something we were prepared for. Not something anyone could be prepared for, I don’t think. But I did something wrong. Not just wrong. I did something bad.’
‘And the white witch? She didn’t feel inclined to lift the curse there and then?’
‘I’ll tell you about it. I’ll tell you everything. I’ve never spoken of it to anyone in all the years since. But you will have to know.’
‘Why did you call me in the first place, Mark, if you thought my skills redundant?’
He looked at her. ‘I hoped I was wrong. The situation has deteriorated with such awful speed.’
‘But it has become clearer. After what I saw tonight, I can explain it in no other way. Something unwelcome and strange has occupied your son, some malevolent force. Adam really is possessed.’
‘I know he is, Elizabeth. And it will get much worse than this. And I must find that old woman and persuade her to come back with me and use her power if I’m to have a chance of saving him.’
‘You had better tell me about what provoked this,’ she said. ‘You had better tell me and tell me truthfully.’
Everything about the deployment in Bolivia was wrong. But before discussing the flawed reasoning behind the mission, Mark thought it important to impress upon Elizabeth just how strange and unknown a place Bolivia had been twelve years ago. It was still exotic now, of course. It was a place of outlandish beliefs and customs. It was high and remote. There was still a primitive poverty in parts of the country that shocked affluent Europeans. But the fact was that those Europeans were there now in increasing tourist numbers to be shocked. Bolivia had become a backpacker destination of choice. The most dangerous road in the world, which Bolivia could rightfully boast, had become the thrill-seekers’ weblog cliché. The prison in La Paz had been forced to end its Newgate Gaol traditions under the scrutiny of a curious world. The place where Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid had apparently met their bleak deaths was practically a theme park dedicated to the myth of the American outlaws. The shrinking of the world had domesticated aspects and even regions of Bolivia. When Mark had been deployed there as an army captain, not many weeks married, that had yet to become the case.
Any mission was routinely described as business, in the regiment. The more business there was, the better, was the prevailing philosophy. Business meant survival. The lack of it meant perceived obsolescence and inevitable Whitehall-decreed cutbacks in manpower and hardware. Fears entertained by the senior officers had filtered down
to the non-coms. Peace was a likely prospect in Northern Ireland, where most of their business was done. Trade was lacklustre in the Province, the market almost exhausted. There was a bit going on in the former Yugoslavia, of course. But it did not add up to much. It was peripheral. The days of their champion, Margaret Thatcher, ecstatic at some piece of stun grenade theatre staged in Hereford, were long gone. Prime Minister John Major was more sanguine about the military and its costs. He might be a patriot. But he had the soul of a Chancellor of the Exchequer, which he had once been.
to the non-coms. Peace was a likely prospect in Northern Ireland, where most of their business was done. Trade was lacklustre in the Province, the market almost exhausted. There was a bit going on in the former Yugoslavia, of course. But it did not add up to much. It was peripheral. The days of their champion, Margaret Thatcher, ecstatic at some piece of stun grenade theatre staged in Hereford, were long gone. Prime Minister John Major was more sanguine about the military and its costs. He might be a patriot. But he had the soul of a Chancellor of the Exchequer, which he had once been.
The Bolivia incursion was a Whitehall initiative. Mark discovered that at a meeting with his own commander, when he attempted to extricate himself from it. He had endured a gruelling training attachment in Belize prior to his wedding only three weeks before this summons. He was supposed to have earned thirty days of leave. They had allowed him twenty-one. He had been summoned by phone at the newly bought home in Devon that he shared with his new wife. They were in bed when the call woke them. He could see no justification for it. There were plenty of other men as good as he was on active duty and with none of his resentment at having to go.
‘I can think of three,’ Colonel Baxter said over steepled fingers.
‘You flatter me.’
‘No. I don’t.’
Mark wondered who the three were. It didn’t matter. Evidently they were already engaged on other missions. Outside, he could hear the punishing thud of percussion grenades, the adrenaline urgency of screamed commands. It was very hot on the base, in their breeze-block hut. It was July. They had opted for a summer wedding. The reception had been held on an island on the Thames at Kingston, where
Lillian was originally from. The water had shimmered on their short crossing to the island under the blue sky of a perfect English day. Rose petals had been strewn on the still surface of the river.
Lillian was originally from. The water had shimmered on their short crossing to the island under the blue sky of a perfect English day. Rose petals had been strewn on the still surface of the river.
‘Dragging one of our best and brightest from the marital bed is not something I do with any relish, Mark. May I call you Mark?’
Hunter was twisting his beret in his hands. He could feel pinned to it the stubborn sharpness of the badge he had been so proud to earn. ‘You can call me what you like, Sir. You’re my commanding officer.’
‘Please don’t be petulant,’ Colonel Baxter said. His eyes dipped to a document on the desk in front of him. He studied it, biting at his grey moustache with the bottom row of his teeth.
‘I’m sorry, Sir.’
‘And so you fucking well should be.’ Baxter’s eyes rose and met his. ‘It is a great privilege to be called to arms under the standard of this regiment. Never forget that. Infant children have been deprived of fathers who died valiantly serving our colours with nothing but pride.’
There was no arguing with this. It was military fact, the regiment a family, its sacrifices familiar to and painfully borne by every member. ‘I’m sorry, Sir. I am truly and humbly sorry.’
‘Good. Your truculence is forgotten.’ Baxter picked the document up from his desk again. He did not wear glasses. He did not hold the slim stack of papers away from his face to find a range at which their words would come into focus for an ageing man. He must have been fifty, Mark supposed, but his vision was unimpaired. The colonel enjoyed the reputation of a superb rifleman. He could down a moving target at better than half a mile. As he read the short sheaf of papers in front of him, his hands were unnaturally still.
Mark was impressed but not surprised. You became accustomed to such accomplishments at Hereford.
Mark was impressed but not surprised. You became accustomed to such accomplishments at Hereford.
A cocaine cartel had established a presence in the north of Bolivia, near the town of Magdalena only a few miles from the border with Brazil. This territory was the Amazon, river tributaries and thick rain forest, a region which did not share the high altitude characteristic of much of the country. But it possessed challenges of its own. It was hot, swampy terrain, difficult to travel through, innately hostile to man. Trained at length in Belize, a man from the regiment would find it all very familiar, Mark thought. He would almost be at home. He did not much like the parasitic insects that burrowed under a man’s skin. But then he did not greatly care for winter nights concealed in a culvert observing a Republican farm building in the freezing bogs of South Armagh. Join the army and see the world. But do so uncomfortably.
Baxter slid a satellite photograph across the desk. Dense forestation was a black blur covering the whole of the print. Rivers and streams were silvery snakes gleaming, uncoiled. A route through the forest was just the faintest of lines, given away by its straightness. Geometrical precision was alien to this wilderness. There should have been no straight lines. Yet there it was. A route, ruler straight, headed north. Mark followed the trail with his finger. It was too faint to record the rampaging progress of loggers, altogether too neat. And it was too delicate to represent a metalled road. Effort had been made to minimise the path, to keep it as narrow and well concealed as its existence allowed.
‘Either they’re environmentally sensitive, or they’re hiding something,’ Mark said.
Colonel Baxter did not answer him.
Faintly, from one of the sets of wooden buildings in the sunshine beyond the hut, Mark heard the cagey, staccato
rhythms of a live-fire exercise. They would be rehearsing an ambush in one of the blinds built by the base carpenters, or rescuing hostages from a confusing warren of wooden rooms. His hands were moist in the heat and his tracing forefinger smudged the point where the road ended, the smudge giving more substance to a settlement there than the picture had originally possessed. But it was a settlement, man-made before an attempt at camouflaging it. Again, the geometry gave it away. The small cluster of buildings formed a pattern of rectangles.
rhythms of a live-fire exercise. They would be rehearsing an ambush in one of the blinds built by the base carpenters, or rescuing hostages from a confusing warren of wooden rooms. His hands were moist in the heat and his tracing forefinger smudged the point where the road ended, the smudge giving more substance to a settlement there than the picture had originally possessed. But it was a settlement, man-made before an attempt at camouflaging it. Again, the geometry gave it away. The small cluster of buildings formed a pattern of rectangles.
‘It doesn’t look much, Sir.’
‘That picture is almost two weeks old. The place could be twice the size by now, heavily fortified and fully operational. You won’t know until you get there.’
‘I’m assuming a Stealth aircraft took this picture. I’m assuming this is an American initiative.’
‘That’s essentially correct.’
‘They’ve got some pretty good special forces operatives of their own. I’ve done joint exercises with them in Germany. You must have done the same in the past, Sir. They’re more than capable of dealing with a jungle stockade full of marching powder and a dozen armed thugs from the cartel guarding it. This is a milk-run for their covert chaps.’
Baxter frowned and stood up. He went over to his window. Mark did not think the view especially compelling. Baxter was concealing something. But that was his prerogative, given his rank. ‘The special relationship has taken a few hits of late, Mark. There are some bruising personality clashes at a level too high for anyone to be comfortable with them. This mission is seen by the PM as one more symbolic means of cementing our long-standing position with our longest-standing allies.’
‘Technically, Sir, our longest-standing allies are the Portuguese.’
‘Your co-leader on this mission is of Portuguese origin,
actually. He’s a Major Rodriguez. Rodriguez serves of course in the army and under the flag of the United States. I believe he’s a linguistic specialist.’
actually. He’s a Major Rodriguez. Rodriguez serves of course in the army and under the flag of the United States. I believe he’s a linguistic specialist.’
‘You mean, a man trained in interrogation techniques.’
Baxter shrugged. ‘I don’t think Major Rodriguez could be described as a common torturer. He’s fluent in seven languages and one of those is Ancient Greek.’
Hunter nodded. He did not think classical scholastic skills likely to be of any use against cartel members. But Rodriguez would have other, deadlier proficiencies. He was confident of that.
‘You will join the Americans and a Canadian when you hit the ground. We need to do this, Mark.’
‘We need the business.’
‘Oh, we always need the business.’ Baxter turned. ‘And on this occasion we need to get the right business outcome.’
They were there, waiting for him in the darkness as Hunter gathered his parachute at the rendezvous point. Rodriguez and the Canadian, Captain Peterson, were the officers. He was immediately aware of the damp, rain-forest warmth and the rich, almost overpowering smell of the ferns and vines and wildflowers and shrubs surrounding them. There was the furtive rustle around him of large insects and the screeches from above of night birds. Hunter borrowed a folding spade from one of the American non-coms and buried his parachute, counting the men in the darkness as he dug. This task of attempting an accurate estimate of their company strength successfully alleviated the tedium of digging. He had not heard a word spoken by his new comrades in arms. But Hunter supposed that most of them would be from the rural southern states, from Mississippi and Tennessee. They were country boys, he thought, men comfortable with the habit of stealth. They had spent their
boyhoods pursuing prey through the swamps for the dinner table. You didn’t kill in such circumstances, and you didn’t eat. It was a harsh fact of poor rural life. Not for the first time, he envied the American soldiers their easy intimacy with the weapons they carried. These men had cradled rifles and shotguns almost from the moment they left their own cradles as infant boys. And it showed. Around him they formed a watchful, silent perimeter. There were eight of them, he thought. He had counted only five, but the Americans liked even numbers. Rodriguez commanded eight men for this operation. He did not command Peterson. He did not command Hunter, either. There would likely be no departure from consensus. Expertise in the matter of fighting and killing generally bred cooperation.
boyhoods pursuing prey through the swamps for the dinner table. You didn’t kill in such circumstances, and you didn’t eat. It was a harsh fact of poor rural life. Not for the first time, he envied the American soldiers their easy intimacy with the weapons they carried. These men had cradled rifles and shotguns almost from the moment they left their own cradles as infant boys. And it showed. Around him they formed a watchful, silent perimeter. There were eight of them, he thought. He had counted only five, but the Americans liked even numbers. Rodriguez commanded eight men for this operation. He did not command Peterson. He did not command Hunter, either. There would likely be no departure from consensus. Expertise in the matter of fighting and killing generally bred cooperation.
He finished the job of consigning his parachute to its tomb and cleaned the blade of the spade with a moist handful of undergrowth, giving it back to its owner with a nod of appreciation. There was enough starlight to see by. There was no moon. But a landing in foliage of this density in total darkness would have risked serious injury. There was sufficient ambient light, and his eyes were fully adjusting to it. Rodriguez, ethnically distinct from the men he commanded, dark where they were pale, came forward and murmured a greeting and flashed a white smile. He was whipcord lean and his handshake was firm. Hunter liked him instantly. He felt a paddle-sized hand judder jovially against his shoulder blade and turned, and he knew it was the Canadian, Peterson. The grinning Canuck was built like a championship-class light-heavyweight about to step on to the scales. Hunter felt relief settle through him, forcing out the acid corrosion of adrenaline, slowing his heart, obliging him to smile back at his new companions. He would be all right with these two. They were good men. Something solid settled in him and he suspected it was nothing more really than honest relief.
He had never experienced combat as a married man prior to this. He did not wish to make a widow, he realised, of his new wife.
He had never experienced combat as a married man prior to this. He did not wish to make a widow, he realised, of his new wife.
‘That was a nice landing,’ Rodriguez murmured in his ear. You did not whisper. The sibilant hiss of a whisper carried.
Peterson chuckled, but it was a very discreet expression of mirth.
‘You know how hard a night drop can be on the knees,’ Hunter said. His pack and personal weapons and their ammunition added fifty kilos to his weight. The knees could only take so much.
‘Not to mention the balls, if you have the bad luck to land straddling a tree branch,’ Peterson said. ‘And I speak from bitter personal experience.’
Hunter squatted beside his pack, on the ground where he had placed it before beginning to dig. From a side pocket, he took a clip for the assault rifle strapped across his chest. He did not insert the clip, because the sound would carry. Instead, he put the clip in the webbing on his pack straps before levering the pack on to his back. It would be handy enough there in a firefight. In the webbing on the strap to the right of his chest, the clip was only inches from his reaching fingers.
Rodriguez made a hand signal to his men. Hunter sensed rather than saw them change formation, a concentration of craft and menace spreading to his front and rear and flanking him. They began to move towards their target, two miles away, a mile or so in the thick forestation that spread almost impenetrably north from the small and isolated settlement of Magdalena. The terrain was very similar to Belize and Hunter’s recent training assignment there. But the climate was cooler and less humid, the air slightly thinner. And something else was different. Belize had been an exercise. You could never rid an exercise of
its staged and somehow futile atmosphere of dress rehearsal. An exercise, however exotic the location, was essentially a chore. This was real. And the contrast could not have been greater. It was there in the silent, purposeful progress of the men as they fanned out and edged forward towards whatever challenge awaited their formidable fighting skills. There would come a day when Mark Hunter would no longer enjoy this, he knew. There would come a day. He had seen men burned out and unmanned, their nerves broken and their will to fight exhausted. But it had not happened to him. And at that confident moment, he could never imagine that it ever would.
its staged and somehow futile atmosphere of dress rehearsal. An exercise, however exotic the location, was essentially a chore. This was real. And the contrast could not have been greater. It was there in the silent, purposeful progress of the men as they fanned out and edged forward towards whatever challenge awaited their formidable fighting skills. There would come a day when Mark Hunter would no longer enjoy this, he knew. There would come a day. He had seen men burned out and unmanned, their nerves broken and their will to fight exhausted. But it had not happened to him. And at that confident moment, he could never imagine that it ever would.
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