Black Coke (36 page)

‘Don’t move,’ Nathan said to the wide-eyed driver who was reaching into his jacket.

The driver nodded. Nathan glanced into the back of the car. It was empty.

‘Give me your gun,’ Nathan said.

The driver reached slowly into his jacket and handed over a pistol.

Nathan gestured with his gun. ‘Now get out.’

The driver stepped out of the car. Pedestrians were giving them a wide berth. Colombians had learnt long ago not to interfere with car jackings, even in broad daylight.

Nathan opened the boot. He waved his gun at the driver.

‘Pick up your mate. Put him in the back.’

The driver came round, lifted his colleague and dumped him in the boot. Nathan rummaged in the unconscious man’s jacket and pulled out a wallet and keys. He put the sunglasses on his nose. He slammed the boot shut.

‘Get back in,’ he said.

Once in the car, Nathan pointed the gun at the driver’s groin.

‘Drive around. Don’t mess with me. Got it?’

The driver nodded. He was a young man with a sharp nose and blue eyes. Sweat streamed down his forehead onto his grey suit.

‘You’re that man, aren’t you?’

‘Hit the gas,’ Nathan said.

‘You are, aren’t you? They showed us your pictures.’

‘Get a move on before I get really pissed off.’

‘Oh, my God. Don’t kill me. Please. I’ve got two boys and a wife.’

‘Look, mate.’ Nathan prodded the man in the ribs with his gun. ‘Shut the fuck up and get driving.’

The car crawled forward then accelerated into the traffic. Nathan flicked through the wallet until he found what he was looking for: an ID card. It was from the British embassy, which meant that the compound was some kind of embassy safe house. The unconscious man’s name was Harry Singleton, probably some lowly agent who had been sent on assignment to Colombia to get experience in the field before coming back to some random desk job back at MI6 in London.

The driver was glancing at Nathan. His left hand was no longer on the steering wheel. Nathan pointed his weapon at the driver’s temple. He leaned forwards and grabbed the knife that was hidden down the side of the seat.

‘Don’t try to be a hero,’ Nathan said, chucking the knife onto the back seat.

The driver kept his gaze on the road ahead. They were heading through a rough part of Bogotá, with crumbling shacks and gangs hanging around street corners. Children in rags were playing with dustbins, pushing them over and rolling them around. A skinny dog was searching through a pile of rubbish, chewing abandoned food.

‘Turn back,’ Nathan said.

‘To where?’

‘To the compound.’

A few minutes later, they passed an empty side street.

‘Stop here,’ Nathan said. The driver hit the brake. ‘Reverse into there.’

‘Look, mister, I’m just a driver. I don’t know anything about the Front.’

‘Whoever mentioned the Front? I said reverse the car. That’s better.’ Nathan waved the gun. ‘Now get out.’

The driver staggered out from one side. Nathan jumped out from the other. He whirled round and pointed the gun at the driver over the front of the car.

‘Get in the boot.’

‘Please, mister—’

Nathan marched round. He whacked the driver on the back of the head, caught him, and bundled him, unconscious, into the boot next to his colleague.

Then he got into the driver’s seat and headed for the compound.

Bogotá, Colombia
14 April 2011

N
athan slowed down as he approached the gates of the compound. He rolled down his window. The guard puffed smoke from the corner of his mouth and thrust out his hand like a doorman waiting for a tip.

‘Identificación, por favor.’

Nathan handed the ID card through the open window.

‘Harry Singleton?’ The guard gave a bored glance at the card then at Nathan. Sunglasses glinted back sunglasses. ‘New here?’

Nathan nodded.

The guard handed back the card. He stepped back and took another long drag from his cigarette. His partner strolled round the vehicle, checking the underside with his mirror on a stick. Nathan followed him in the side mirrors, trying to look uninterested while his heartbeat doubled. He prepared himself to reverse back and escape at the slightest sign of danger.

The second guard barked something to the first guard, who waved Nathan in. Nathan parked the SUV in a corner, on the opposite side of the car park to the other SUV. He checked the two guns in his inside jacket pockets, then stepped out of the vehicle. He walked up to the main house, trying to look relaxed. It was two stories high, with white walls and small windows with bars on them. A veranda with a red tile roof leaned off to the right side. To the left was a smaller, one-storey block with small windows with blue frames. His boots crunched on the gravel.

Nathan walked up the stone steps to the front door. He tried the keys one by one. He dared not glance behind him, but could nearly feel the dull stares of the guards on the back of his neck. He swung open the door as though the house belonged to him. He heard the gate clang shut behind him. He entered the house, his boots sinking into the cream carpet. Everything was so British inside: the patterned wallpaper in the hallway, the carpeted staircase with oak banister, the wooden hat stand in the corner.

He clicked the door shut behind him and stepped into the lounge. A brown leather sofa and armchairs surrounded a glass coffee table. It had half-empty mugs of tea and coffee on it. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. A grandfather clock ticked next to a large mahogany desk with a computer screen and keyboard, both with orange standby lights.

Floorboards creaked above. Nathan ducked behind the door to the lounge, gun ready. Footsteps pattered down the stairs.

‘It must be in the car,’ a Scottish male voice said.

‘I was sure I brought it in,’ said another male voice with a posh English accent.

‘Or it could be back at the embassy.’

‘Sir Hitler won’t be too chuffed.’

‘Rupes, watch your mouth,’ said the Scotsman. ‘Or he’ll have you publicly hung, drawn and quartered.’

‘That’s precisely my point. The chap’s a maniac.’

‘Look, mate, I’m just saying.’

‘Do you have any idea what’ll happen when London finds out?’

‘Yeah, well, not much we can do about that.’ The footsteps got closer. ‘Maybe it’s in the lounge.’

Nathan pinned himself against the wall behind the door. His finger curled round the trigger. He had the element of surprise on his side, so he could easily take them out. But the gunshots would alert the guards, and he’d never survive a siege.

The side of a face appeared just beyond the door. The Scotsman looked younger than his rough voice suggested, with a three-day stubble, short hair and sideburns, and a blunt nose that looked like it’d been punched one too many times.

‘Nope,’ he said. ‘Must be in the car.’

The front door opened and closed. Nathan allowed himself a quiet sigh of relief. He waited a few seconds, then darted through the doorway to the hallway and up the stairs, crouching at the top.

There were three rooms, all with doors shut and shiny brass doorknobs. He tried the first one. Just a double bed with fat, fluffy pillows, a wooden bookcase lined with Jeffrey Archer’s full paperback collection and a glossy leather armchair in the corner. The second door opened into a huge bathroom with marble tiles, an iron bath with golden taps and a shower that looked powerful enough to wash down an elephant.

The third room was also large and expensively furnished. It had a polished desk on one side, a chandelier similar to the one downstairs, and a glass cabinet in the corner. Framed paintings depicting British countryside landscapes adorned the walls. On the desk sat a pile of papers. They were minutes of meetings of British embassy staff with the Colombian authorities and mainly administrative stuff: legal agreements, vague policy decisions.

He yanked open the desk’s drawers: boxes of paperclips, staplers and other stationery. He looked around again. The glass cabinet contained rows of books on various topics: Colombian law, Colombian drugs policy, even a guide to the dos and don’ts of Colombian culture.

Where was the evidence that Manuel was convinced was here?

The front door creaked open. The Scotsman and Rupes were arguing. Nathan left the office and sidestepped into the bedroom. The voices came up the stairs.

‘Just chill out,’ said the Scotsman. ‘I don’t give a damn what Amonite wants it for.’

‘Ha! You won’t be saying that when you’re tucked up in your cosy little cell in Pentonville Prison.’

‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’

‘You read the email, didn’t you?’ Rupes said as they reached the top of the stairs. He was breathing hard. ‘We’re moving to the next stage.’

‘We’re just obeying orders.’

‘D’you think the Foreign Secretary will believe that bollocks when he finds out? And what about all that shit in the basement?’

The Scotsman grunted and went straight into the office.

‘You remember who El Patrón is, don’t you?’ Rupes shouted, following the Scotsman into the office and closing the door behind them.

Nathan crept down the stairs. There was a door at the end of the hallway. He opened it gently. Stairs led into the basement. He flicked the light switch and went down. The basement was full of wooden crates stacked to the ceiling. There was hardly room to squeeze through them. On a table in a corner was a long flat nosed screwdriver. He pried open the side of one of the crates and peered inside.

The crate was full of SA80s, the standard assault rifle of the British infantry, with 30 round magazines. These particular SA80s were the L85A2 improved versions. Nathan knew them well.

Were George and Amonite using embassy safe houses to stash weapons destined for the Front?

Nathan put the screwdriver on the table and crept back upstairs. He glanced into the lounge. One of the men had left his bag on the desk next to the computer. Nathan looked in it: a novel, a chocolate bar, a can of Coke, some random documents, a USB key, a diary. Nathan pocketed the USB key and flicked through the diary. It was full of notes. On the back page was a list of words and letters that looked like a series of usernames and passwords.

Nathan tapped the space bar on the computer. The screen flickered to life, asking for a username and password. He typed in the first pair.

It beeped.

Error: Wrong Password.

Nathan held his breath. The men upstairs were still arguing. He typed in the next username and password. It beeped again. He went through the whole list, until he came to the last one. He typed it in and hit enter. The password box disappeared. The computer’s desktop loaded.

Bingo.

He searched through the computer’s files. It was mainly admin again: budgets, position papers, minutes of meetings, strategy documents, reports of investigations. Nathan opened the email software. The screen froze. Seconds ticked by, stretching into minutes. The voices stopped. Nathan got up, his pulse racing. The email box began to download messages. The arguing started again. Nathan skimmed the subject lines. It was the usual spam of Viagra, false Rolex watches and sex sites, interspersed with emails about upcoming meetings and conferences, although one in particular caught his eye.

From: Office of the British ambassador
To: all staff
Subject: President at gala
The Colombian president is expected to speak at a major gala this weekend. Sir George will represent the British government. Security will be tight, so please register early for attendance.

 

Nathan closed the email and kept scrolling through the hundreds of others. He was about to give up when an email popped into the inbox.

From: Sir George Lloyd Wanless
To: embassy security and intelligence group
Subject: Urgent
As discussed at the meeting, Octavia Glosserto’s assassin has been named as former Soca agent Nathan Kershner. The Colombian government’s Agency for Security and Intelligence has asked Interpol to put out a red notice for his prosecution. This is on top of the request made by Scotland Yard a few days ago, which wants him for the attempted murder of a British policeman and for large-scale drug smuggling. He’s armed and dangerous. Alert all validated sources. Use all means necessary. Photos attached.

 

Nathan was stunned. The assassin? Him? He clicked on the attachment. Photos of him with and without long hair and beard appeared on the screen.

The voices upstairs had stopped. Nathan’s hand hovered over the keyboard. Someone had gone to the bathroom. He reached for his gun, stood up. The toilet flushed, then the voices started again. Nathan glanced at his watch: 5.54pm. He scrolled down the inbox one last time and clicked on an email he hadn’t noticed before.