Black Coke (21 page)

‘How d’you know?’

‘My campesino friends have a few contacts in Haiti. They know him.’

Nathan studied Manuel carefully. He wasn’t revealing everything he knew. Should he push him further?

As though reading his thoughts, Manuel said: ‘We’re working with the Haitians. They’re on our side.’

‘Meaning?’

‘You’ll see.’

‘What about that person you want me to meet?’

‘Lucia Carlisla.’

‘Never heard of her.’

‘Runs CAF.’ Manuel lowered his voice. ‘Colombians Against the Front.’

‘Some kind of campaign?’

‘Just kicking off here.’ Manuel dodged an overflowing dustbin. ‘Strong connections in the media and finance. A formidable woman, and not just because of her looks.’

‘And on the Front’s hit list, I guess.’

‘Come in here.’ Manuel pulled Nathan into a small internet cafe tucked between two vegetable shops. Kids with headphones were glued to screens, playing shoot-em-ups and shouting to each other. Manuel spoke to the attendant then took a seat at the furthest computer terminal. He patted a chair next to him. Nathan sat down.

Manuel accessed the website for Caracol TV. A few clicks and a newsreel started. Manuel plugged in headphones and handed them to Nathan.

‘I can’t believe it,’ Nathan said, pointing at the screen.

‘You know him?’

‘George Lloyd-Wanless. He’s that slimy creep I was telling you about. Is that Lucia?’

Manuel nodded. ‘Listen.’

Lucia was indeed attractive, despite her open-collared denim shirt looking markedly under-dressed compared to the business attire of the news anchor and George. Her hazel eyes were angled upwards to either side of her face, giving her an elfin look that was emphasised by her high cheek bones. Her long dark hair was tied back in a pony tail, revealing a slender neck. In a normal situation, she’d have been a stunner. But her face was twisted into such an expression of rage that Nathan found himself wondering whether any man had ever dared approach her.

He strained to understand the fast Spanish. A smile crept across his face as Lucia laid into George. By the end of the debate, Nathan felt the first glimmer of optimism in what seemed like ages.

‘Wow, what a girl!’ he said, clapping his knee with his open hand.

Customers on neighbouring computers glanced round.

Nathan lowered his voice. ‘What does she know?’

‘I expect she knows people who may know.’

Nathan stood up. ‘Then let’s find her.’

Putumayo, Colombia
12 April 2011

A
monite trudged down the stone steps to the concealed entrance of the underground complex. She was glad to get out of the tropical downpour, which had turned the surrounding jungle into a maelstrom and the helicopter landing pad into a swamp. The sun was setting and her body ached from the long trip from the UK. She was getting too old for all this.

The guard at the entrance was dressed in all-black standard Front combat gear. He nodded to her and moved aside, assault rifle slung over his shoulder. Amonite swiped her card on the scanner on the right of the grey metal door, which glided open with a faint murmur. She walked down the stone corridor. Condensation dripped from the ceiling. Dim lights cast a ghostly glow at regular intervals, illuminating dark openings that led to other corridors and secret rooms. The Front had wrestled the complex from a paramilitary unit that had constructed it years ago in its fight against the rebel FARC. The paramilitaries had recruited peasants as slaves to build it, then used the complex for disappearances, torture and summary executions. Now, the Front was turning it into a major base from which to launch its operations.

But she hardly thought about any of that. She was too preoccupied by George’s message about Nathan Kershner coming to Colombia and by Dex’s failure to stop him at the airport. Nathan had already disrupted her plans once before in Mexico. There was no way she was going to let him do that again.

Amonite turned left, then right again, until she arrived at another grey metal door. It hummed open, revealing a long, well-lit room with dozens of tables and benches. Men in white coats sat hunched over test tubes, computers and other electronic equipment. Amonite didn’t know what most of it was for—after all, she’d left school aged 15 and had never studied much science—but she knew it was expensive and high tech.

She nodded to one of the scientists, who was hurrying over. He was a tall, well-built, elegant man, with angular features and sharp eyebrows, like those male models in the fashion pages of the in-flight magazines that she secretly liked to stash away. He wore a three-piece pin-striped suit, which would have looked more appropriate on Wall Street than in an underground lab in the middle of the jungle. But he looked dashing, to quote Sir George.

‘Hey, Herbert, how’s it going?’ Amonite said, crushing the man’s hand in a firm handshake.

Herbert winced. ‘We’re making good progress.’

‘The experiments?’

‘Going well, going well.’ Herbert rubbed his hand and led Amonite into a corner, next to a closed-head steel drum. ‘I’d like a word.’

Amonite pursed her lips.

Herbert glanced nervously around. ‘Can we speak in the next room?’

Amonite grunted. She followed Herbert through another door into a smaller room with a metal table and two white plastic chairs like a police interrogation cell. She sat down, but the chair was too narrow for her wide frame. She shifted uncomfortably and tried to cross her legs. The chair creaked. She straightened her legs and looked at Herbert, trying to contain her embarrassment.

‘So?’ she said.

Herbert was staring at her. She couldn’t figure out whether it was a look of fear, disgust or intense bafflement on his ridiculously handsome face. She felt like smashing it to a raw pulp.

‘So?’ she repeated.

‘There’ve been a few small problems.’

‘Small problems? You too?’

‘But we’ve overcome them. It was the exon splicing. The DNA sequencing motif wasn’t accurately enhancing the hrRNA into mRNA. The protein wasn’t being expressed properly.’

‘Herbert, don’t screw me around.’

‘Sorry.’

‘So?’

‘A subject died. After a period of paranoid schizophrenia.’

‘Meaning what, exactly?’

‘He went clinically insane.’

‘You idiot.’ Amonite slapped the table with her open palm, making Herbert jump. ‘We can’t afford mistakes like this.’

‘We’re resolving the difficulties. You have to believe me.’

‘El Patrón’ll go apeshit.’

‘Please don’t tell him.’

‘Give me one good reason why.’

‘A few more days.’ Herbert’s neck was flushed above his silk tie and tight collar. ‘That’s all I need. Our experiments show the subjects crave the Black Coke.’

‘Until they kick the bucket.’

She studied Herbert as he trembled before her. He was a scientific genius, but such a coward at times. And she hated cowards. They made her want to crush them like those black beetles that were now infesting half the Colombian countryside and that Herbert had insisted inspire the logo for his drug.

Herbert gestured towards the door. ‘Can I show you something?’

‘Go on.’

Amonite followed him back through the lab and down a long corridor. They arrived in front of a door with two guards to either side. When they recognised Amonite and Herbert, they stepped aside. The door whirred open. Amonite put her hand to her mouth to stop herself gagging against the stench of rot and sweat. Herbert pulled a flashlight from his jacket pocket.

Amonite recoiled.

The room was full of skeletons of human beings, their wide, white eyes reflecting the light like small globes. They were covered in bruises and dirty rags and lay on mouldy mattresses. Their faces were gaunt, their limbs like twigs. Their jaws moved erratically, jabbering away. One of them reached out to grab Herbert’s leg. Herbert smacked him with the back of his hand. The poor wretch collapsed against the concrete wall.

Herbert rested his light on a man who was huddled in a corner. Herbert grabbed him by the arm and dragged him along while he frantically tried to break free. Amonite followed them through the rows of mattresses to the far side of the room.

‘Patient number 13,’ Herbert said, as though he was describing a tin of baked beans he’d picked off a supermarket shelf. ‘He’s on the latest Black Coke. We’ve increased its psychoactive potential and its overdose threshold.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Ten times more addictive, but with a lower risk of death.’

‘Sounds more like it.’

Herbert relaxed visibly. ‘That’s what I thought too.’ He turned to patient 13, who was crawling away. Herbert kicked him in the back. The man collapsed onto his face. Herbert pulled out a small case from his pocket and laid it on the floor. He gestured to Amonite to come over. The other prisoners had formed a shivering pile next to the exit and were staring at Herbert.

‘Here, take the torch.’ He opened the case to reveal a syringe and a small vial of black liquid, which he held up to the light.

Amonite backed away as Herbert filled the syringe. She’d never liked needles, ever since ending up in hospital after a bomb blast in Juárez when she was tracking down a drug gang that had gone AWOL. They’d pumped her so full of painkillers she’d thought she was going to lose her mind.

She forced herself to watch as Herbert dragged the man closer, turned him on his back and ripped his sleeve open. The man’s arm was a sea of scabs and needle tracks covered in puss. Herbert tutted as he tapped around for a vein.

‘Best to do it intravenously.’ He glanced up and noticed Amonite’s stare. ‘Quite a few users will be jacking up this stuff, not just snorting it.’

‘Right.’

Amonite kept her gaze on patient 13 as the liquid entered his body. His eyes rolled backwards until only the whites were showing.

‘What’s those black spots on his eyeballs?’ she said, peering closer.

‘No idea.’

Saliva dribbled out of the corners of patient 13’s mouth. His body jerked once, twice, three times. He let out a long moan like the start of an intense orgasm. Herbert glanced up again, a satisfied smile on his face.

‘Better than smack, from what I gather.’ He stood up. ‘Your customers will love this one.’ He headed for the other prisoners, who were squealing and squirming. ‘Let me show you what happens if we—’

He tripped over, banging his shoulder against the wall. Patient 13 had grabbed his leg and was crawling towards him. Amonite moved to kick him away, then stopped and stepped backwards. Herbert was trying to twist free. Patient 13 was now on top of him, his fingernails clawing into Herbert’s flesh.

‘Help me!’ Herbert tried to shove patient 13 away. ‘Get this freak off me.’

Amonite leaned against the wall, arms folded. She checked her watch. It was time for her radio call with El Patrón soon. How could she explain this to him? The first big shipment was already out there, maybe even with the Haitians by now, heading for the US market. It was too late to call it back. El Patrón wasn’t one for pathetic excuses.

Herbert screamed and flailed his arms, unsuccessfully trying to rid himself of patient 13, who was all over him like a famished hyena.

‘Amonite, please!’

Amonite gritted her teeth. Failure had to be punished. Let patient 13 disfigure Herbert’s gorgeous face. That would teach the arrogant bastard a lesson.

She stepped towards the exit, vaguely aware that Herbert had kicked patient 13 away from him. The other prisoners scattered.

Something gripped her leg. It was patient 13. She tried to shake him off, but the grip tightened. Herbert was leaning against the wall, nursing his wounds, glaring at Amonite.

Amonite whipped out her gun. She grabbed patient 13’s hair and yanked him up so he was wriggling in front of her like a worm on a fisherman’s hook. She placed her gun against his forehead. He snarled and tried to claw at her face.

Amonite fired once. Blood and brains splattered all over Herbert, who yelped in terror. The shot reverberated around the room. The patient’s body shuddered. She threw it at Herbert, who shrieked like a child and pushed it away.

Herbert scrambled to his feet.

‘Why didn’t you help me?’ he said.

‘I just did.’

Amonite picked up the torch. She shone it at Herbert. His suit was tattered and covered in blood. Behind him, the prisoners were cowering in a corner.

‘So much for the perfect drug,’ she said.

‘Next time, it will work.’

‘It better.’ Amonite turned towards the door. ‘Because there won’t be a next time after that.’