Black Coke (19 page)

Lucia frowned. ‘Because I’m right?’

‘Everyone’s happy for us to criticise the Front: the big, bad paramilitary group whose fault this all is. It deflects attention away from the government.’ Octavia leaned forward, her fat stomach bulging against the side of the table. ‘But legalisation’s a different issue. Everyone has too much to lose.’

‘That’s not a good reason.’

‘It is if you want to stay alive.’ This time it was Carlo Justana, the balding vice-chairman and retired banker, who was speaking. He was sitting to her left, pushing his silver-rimmed glasses up his chubby nose. He’d always been supportive of Lucia, so why was he chirping in now?

‘Meaning what exactly?’ Lucia said.

‘We’re not as fearless as you. We’ve lost too many friends and relatives to this war.’

‘So have I.’

‘I know, and we’re all sorry about what happened. But you have to understand us.’

Understand them? They were acting like a bunch of losers. There was nothing to understand about that.

Then it hit her.

‘You’re giving up?’ Lucia scanned the table. Even Octavia was averting her gaze. ‘I don’t believe it. You bastards. You want to close the whole thing down.’

‘Taking a breather is a better way of seeing it,’ Octavia said. ‘We need to regroup, figure out what to do next.’

‘That would be the end of the campaign, and you know it.’ Lucia could hear her voice rising. ‘All that hard work for nothing.’

‘It’s not for nothing,’ Carlo said. ‘Look at the impact you’ve had.’

Lucia crossed her arms.

‘The campaign
will
continue,’ Octavia said.

‘Continue? What are you saying?’

There was another long pause. Octavia fiddled with her pen, then slammed it on the table. ‘Look, Lucia, we’d like you to step down.’

‘What?’

‘It’s best that way. It’s getting too risky for you, and us. Joanna will hold the fort while we figure out what to do next.’

‘Joanna?’

‘She’s very competent.’

‘You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?’

‘We can’t have our CEO being so impulsive,’ Octavia said. ‘It’s not the first outburst.’

‘Like when?’

‘Like when you laid into the American ambassador at the Christmas reception at the US embassy. It was so embarrassing, Lucia. In front of everyone. I couldn’t sleep for a week after that.’

‘He was being a total moron.’

‘Or the complaint I just got from the UN. Apparently, you caused quite a scene with the security guards at that London conference.’

‘That’s wasn’t my fault.’ Lucia turned to her left, the frustration reaching boiling point. ‘Carlo, you in on this too?’

‘You haven’t left us much choice.’

‘But things are just taking off. Without me, this organisation would still be stuck in that shitty back office you were in when you hired me last year.’

Octavia raised a hand. ‘No need to start swearing again.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’ Lucia pushed the chair back and shot to her feet. ‘Is that all you care about? Don’t you give a damn about the farmers being massacred by the Front?’

‘Lucia, please—’

‘Don’t speak to me like that. It’s fucking annoying. Screw the lot of you.’

Lucia shoved the chair away and stormed out of the room, leaving the door to slam shut behind her. She nearly bumped into Joanna, who was holding a bunch of files to her chest.

‘What the hell do you want?’ Lucia said.

Joanna went pale.

Lucia stomped down the steps into the street below. She marched three blocks and plunged straight into a bar. She ordered a beer. As the alcohol seeped into her body, she went over the meeting. She’d always been outspoken, so why were they having a go at her now? Did they think they could run the campaign without her? She’d been the one who’d raised the funds, investigated the Front’s links to the ASI and started to grab the media’s attention. Joanna was hard working and bright, but she was too shy and didn’t have Lucia’s charisma and passion. They had no right to kick her out. Joanna had no right to take over.

Then she realised. They’d been threatened.

Why else the sudden change? Someone must have told them to tone down the rhetoric, or face the consequences. Was it the Front, the ASI, or the government? Or was it that obnoxious new British ambassador?

Which meant they were scared. Which meant that… she looked around the pub.

A gaunt faced young man with wavy black hair and a red football shirt was at a table in a corner. A scar zigzagged down his cheek. His eyes narrowed when their gazes locked.

Lucia grabbed her beer and marched over to him.

‘What you gawking at?’ she said.

The man opened his eyes wide.

‘Tell those big-headed mafiosi bosses of yours that threats won’t work.’

He lifted his hands. ‘Señorita, please,’ he said in Spanish with a strong American accent.

Lucia hurled her beer. It flew out of the glass as if in slow motion, splashing all over the man’s face, onto the wall behind him, down his shirt, onto his knees, leaving him with a look of astonishment exactly like Lucia’s father once had when she flung a glass of cold water into his face during an argument.

Heads swivelled round in the bar.

The man coughed, blinked, fumbled around for a paper napkin on the table, wiped his face with it.

‘Big mistake,’ he said, his eyes smouldering through the beer still dripping from his eyebrows.

Lucia’s mouth went dry. The glass slipped from her fingers. It shattered on the stone floor tiles. She took a step back, then another, then spun round and hurried out of the bar and down the road. She took a left turn, then peered back round the corner.

The man was outside the bar, phone to his ear, still wiping his face, scanning the busy street.

She turned and fled.

Newark Airport, USA
12 April 2011

N
athan stepped out of the plane and made his way through the arrival corridors towards the transit area. The officer at passport control had barely glanced at his passport at Heathrow. Nathan had boarded the plane with no trouble. He’d slept most of the way and felt slightly more refreshed than when he’d left. He pushed the thoughts of Caitlin from his mind and shoved his emotions to the darkest corner of his mind. He’d deal with it all later, once Amonite was dead and the Front destroyed. He knew that wasn’t the best reaction. His failure to deal with his friends’ deaths in Sierra Leone had left him with post-traumatic stress for years, but he had no other option.

He sat down at an Italian restaurant and ordered a large bowl of spaghetti bolognese. His stomach gurgled with hunger as he waited for the food to arrive. He grabbed a copy of the International Herald Tribune from a rack on the wall next to him. The cover story was about the upsurge in violence in Colombia. A politician in Cali had been found dead, garrotted then dismembered. The president had ordered the army into the streets. Human rights groups were denouncing the government crackdown.

He flipped through the newspaper, then stopped. On page 7 was a headline saying: Scotland Yard Hunts for Killer Agent. The story claimed Nathan was working for the Front and was behind the spate of drug-related killings in London over the past few weeks. There was a quote from an anonymous source at Scotland Yard describing him as ‘armed and dangerous’. Fortunately, there was no picture.

He put the newspaper back on the rack, his hands trembling. What did he expect? George was going to use the dirtiest tactics to track him down and Cedric was too weak to do anything about it. Nathan shook his head. Cedric had turned out to be quite a disappointment. When Cedric first started as director general of Soca two years ago, Nathan had been impressed by his calmness under stress and his focus on getting things done. Cedric had even become a mentor and friend over time, particularly during the dark days of the Don Camplones case last year. But George’s arrival had changed all that. Faced with George’s ruthless ambition, Cedric had become quieter and even more reserved, to the point that many staff wondered whether he had any power left at all.

As for George, he was clearly involved with the Front in some form. His links to Colombia went back too far. Nobody lived in Colombia for long without being somehow tainted by the drugs war. Nathan had to find the link and reveal it.

The waitress placed a huge bowl of pasta and a glass of water in front of him. He’d forgotten how large American helpings were. He tucked in, grateful for the sustenance. He gulped down the water. Once he’d finished, he checked his watch. Still two hours to go before the connection to Bogotá.

He rummaged around in his rucksack for his Lonely Planet guide to Colombia. He turned to the map of Bogotá. On the east side of the city were the towering mountains of Montserrate and Guadalupe. The streets were a grid network: calles ran east-west, while carreras went north-south, making orientation easy. He’d contact Manuel and find a hotel in the historical part of the city, which was safer. Then he’d find a weapon, having dumped his gun in a bin in Acton Town, and figure out a plan of attack.

He closed the guidebook and ordered himself a coffee. The waitress brushed herself against him a little too obviously. She was pretty, with curly dark hair and long eyelashes, but he was in no mood for flirting.

He finished his coffee, paid, and went to sit near the departure gate. He soon found himself unconsciously studying all the people going by, looking for suspicious looks, sudden breaks in the pattern of movement, anything that might alert him to a tail. But it was just the usual crowd of travellers.

A woman’s voice on the loudspeaker above his head announced that boarding for the United Airlines flight to Bogotá was imminent. Nathan took a deep breath. He didn’t have to go to Colombia. The chances of hunting Amonite down were slim and he could easily die in the process. Instead, he could just as easily exit Newark airport and disappear, using his false identity to build a new life in the USA.

‘Final boarding for Bogotá,’ the woman said. ‘Will passengers please make their way to the gate.’

Nathan went to the end of the queue. He handed his passport and boarding pass to a ground hostess. She barely glanced at him as she waved him through. Moments later, he was sitting in a window seat near the back of the plane.

There was no turning back now.

Bogotá, Colombia
12 April 2011

N
athan knew he was being watched the moment he stepped through the exit of El Dorado International Airport, past the throngs of people silently holding signs with names on them, and turned right onto the bustling taxi rank.

The man was tall, with wavy black hair and mirrored sunglasses. A long scar zigzagged down his right cheek. His red football shirt had a large stain on the front. He clutched a motorbike helmet under one arm and was holding a lit cigarette with the other. There was something about him, a smooth, casual disregard for his surroundings, that set Nathan’s senses tingling.

Then Nathan remembered.

Putumayo.

The destroyed village.

Scarface had been on the chopper that came to greet Amonite.

Nathan jumped into the back of a yellow cab, pocketing the pay-as-you-go mobile he’d just bought inside the terminal. He ordered the cab to the historical centre of La Candeleria. His chest was tight and his breathing shallow.

‘Altitude, mister,’ the taxi driver said, broken yellow teeth grinning into the rear-view mirror. ‘We are third highest capital city in world.’

Nathan nodded, glancing behind him. A black motorbike pulled up next to Scarface, who hopped onto the back and clung onto the driver. The bike sped off the opposite way.

‘You been to Bogotá before?’ the cab driver asked, picking his nose absent-mindedly while weaving in and out of the traffic like a downhill skier at a slalom race.

Nathan dialled Manuel’s number.

‘You must go up to La Calera and see beautiful view of Bogotá,’ the driver said, pointing at the mountains that loomed above the urban sprawl. ‘Then you visit botanical garden José Celestino Mutis. Is also beautiful. After that you visit cathedral.’

A motorbike roared past. Nathan flinched. He switched off his phone. He’d call Manuel later.

‘You from UK?’ The taxi driver was looking at him in the mirror. ‘I have cousin in London, in place called Lambeth. You know it?’

Nathan said nothing. He was in no mood for idle chatter. He looked out of the window. Cars and mopeds were nearly crashing into each other as they battled for space on the crammed motorway into the city. Another motorbike raced past. The driver had a number printed on his back in bold white letters.