Crisis (Luke Carlton 1) (14 page)

‘Of course,’ said Fuentes. ‘First chance I got. That’s why he was so preoccupied with this thing. Didn’t he put it in his report?’

Luke shook his head. Benton must have had his own reasons for keeping it to himself but, for the life of him, Luke couldn’t figure them out. ‘But there must be more to it than that, or why would Benton have risked his life?’

It was well past midnight now and Fuentes was yawning. Luke wasn’t feeling too fresh either, but he had to press on. At last, he felt he was making real progress.

‘There has been talk,’ said Fuentes, ‘of
la venganza.
Of revenge. The cartel really hate you Brits, especially your Service. You – we – have done a lot of damage to their operations recently.’

Luke sat bolt upright, very much awake and listening. ‘Go on,’ he said.

Fuentes tilted his head to one side. ‘It’s only whispers,’ he said, ‘they don’t tell me everything, but it seems they want to punish your country for all the arrests and confiscations, the millions you have cost them. I think they are buying in some kind of unusual weapon. They say it is to teach the
ingleses
a lesson. And they say it will travel by sea. This, my friend, is what Señor Benton was working on, and this is what he died for.’

LUKE SAT ALONE
on a hard wooden chair, facing a room full of senior officers. They made no attempt to hide their contempt: it was written all over their faces.

‘Your plan sucks,’ said one. ‘You haven’t thought this through, have you?’

‘You don’t have much of a tactical brain, do you?’ said another. ‘Have you decided to ignore all the information we gave you?’

Luke was exhausted. He had been on the run for a week, hadn’t slept for nearly seventy-two hours and his last meal had been a half-cooked rabbit. He had had diarrhoea for two straight days now.

‘Please enlighten us, Carlton,’ said a senior officer in the front row, leaning forward and fixing him with an icy stare, ‘because I for one just don’t get it. How the hell are you going to extract yourself and your team without a helicopter?’

‘If I could just explain—’

They cut him off with more questions.

‘Your men are out of rations. They’re tired, they’re pissed off, they’ve lost all confidence in you. Basically, Carlton, you’re a complete failure.’

Officer Week. Part of Special Forces Selection. The worst week of your life, they had warned him, and he wouldn’t dispute it. For the third time, Luke took them through his plan, but now there
was a persistent whining, getting louder by the second. Soon it was drowning his voice, filling his head with an urgent, rhythmic clatter. Blackhawk helicopter. He recognized the sound of the rotor blades.

His eyes popped open. Not quite five a.m. and it had been another dream, another flashback. He was not in Wales. He was on a Colombian police commando base, his room annoyingly close to the helicopter landing pad. And he was bathed in sweat, his heart racing. Awake now, the enormity of what he had learned from Fuentes came back to him in a rush. The agent had had no more details to offer, but already Luke sensed he was standing on a precipice, looking down at something very big and very sinister. The investigation had taken a whole new turn and now he had to pace himself. The obvious thing to do was to call VX: that was what they would expect of him. But he wanted more answers first, something more concrete to give them than a second-hand rumour overheard by an agent.

He got up, splashed some water over his face and stood by the window. He could hear the Blackhawk powering down on the landing pad, the yelping of the camp dogs beginning to subside. He stood there at the window, gazing out at the grey pre-dawn half-light and chewing the inside of his cheek. He knew exactly what he had to do. Friend, the Service lawyer, might not like it, and neither probably would Vauxhall Cross, but Luke had made up his mind. He needed to take the fight to the enemy.

THE PRISONER WAS
slumped on a metal chair that scraped on the floor each time he moved. His hands were cuffed behind his back, his head was bandaged and a barrel-chested guard kept watch on him from the door. The prisoner’s pudgy, bovine face bore a look of concentrated defiance and his eyes narrowed as he watched Luke and the police chief walk into the room. ‘
Malparidos!
’ he muttered, under his breath. Bastards. He spat quietly on the floor.

He was the man Luke had knocked unconscious with the butt of his Sig Sauer in his hotel room a few days ago. A phone call to Major Elerzon had secured him access to the prisoner, and now he had questions for him. He pulled up the only other chair in the room and put his face about ten centimetres from the prisoner’s, invading his personal space.

‘Listen,
careculo
, I’m going to make this really easy for you to understand.’ Luke spoke in Colombian street slang, addressing the man as ‘arse-face’. ‘You’re going to tell me what I want to know or I swear you’ll never leave prison.’

‘Never,’ echoed Major Elerzon, from just behind Luke. Part of the deal for access was that he should be present at the interrogation.

‘I shot dead both your
compañeros
in that hotel room, remember? You only lived because I knocked you unconscious. Your life in prison will be shit if you don’t cooperate. So, you need to make
some choices fast. Because this opportunity is not going to come around twice.’

The man’s eyes flicked momentarily towards the guard by the door, then towards Major Elerzon. Luke understood immediately what that meant. There were things that could be said, at some personal risk, but not with policemen in the room. Luke stood up, went to the guard by the door and bent to speak quietly into his ear, simultaneously pressing a twenty-dollar bill into his hand. The guard left.

‘Major.’ He turned to the police chief.

But the major was ahead of him. ‘You need privacy. I understand.’ He too left the room. Probably going to listen in from next door, Luke reckoned. That didn’t bother him, he just needed to get the thug talking.

So now it was just himself and the prisoner.

‘So here’s how it is,’ Luke began. ‘After the trial you’ll likely be sent to La Modelo prison. Twelve years for armed assault and attempted kidnapping. I hear the overcrowding there is worse than ever. But who knows? With a bit of input from us they’ll send you to La Tramacúa instead. You can spend the next twelve years picking out the lumps of shit your fellow inmates put in your food.’

The prisoner said nothing, just stared at him blankly. Luke found it impossible to know what he was thinking or if he was even getting through to him, but he continued. ‘You’re probably thinking your cartel connections will see you through, that you’ll get some kind of special treatment. But you know what? At La Tramacúa it doesn’t work like that. The guards there really don’t like you people, but they do like their tear gas and pepper spray. In fact, they love firing it into an enclosed cell. Then there are the daily beatings with table legs. Big lad like you can probably take it for the first few months. But the bad food and dysentery will get to you – it gets to everyone there eventually. It’s all the maggots in the food and mould in the water bottles. You’ll lose your will to resist after a while. And that’s when you’ll start bending over to be the duty bitch for the
patrón
on your wing. Sound good?’

The thug sat there, silent and passive. He just gave the faintest
tilt upwards of his chin. Luke took this to mean, Go on, what are you proposing?

‘Let’s start with a simple question. Who sent you to kill me?’

The man looked up in surprise. Slowly his face creased into a grin and finally a great rasping laugh that betrayed a lifetime of smoking cheap unfiltered cigarettes. ‘You don’t know? It was El Pobrecito, of course. My God, it’s common knowledge! You people really know fuck all!’

The man was every bit as stupid as he looked. In his eagerness to insult Luke he had given away a vital clue. El Pobrecito, the Poor Little Thing. Luke recognized the nickname: he had seen it in Benton’s earlier reports. But now the dots were starting to connect. If the man had ordered a hit on him, he had something to hide. Had he also given the order for Benton to be killed? It was certainly starting to look like it. Yet something was troubling him. If it was such common knowledge that El Pobrecito was behind the attempt to kidnap Luke, why hadn’t Major Elerzon shared it with him? He must have informants on the inside here. Luke would take it up tactfully with the police major.

‘So where is El Pobrecito now?’ said Luke. ‘Where’s his base, his centre of operations?’

The thug said nothing. Luke could almost see the cogs in his mind turning, the realization slowly dawning on him that he had probably let slip something extremely dangerous. For this failed assassin, prison had just got a whole lot more dangerous. Finally he spoke, in the coarse language of the
barrio
, but not the words Luke wanted to hear.

‘You think you know this country? You think a few words in your stupid Cachaca slang will get you through?’ The prisoner shook his head, his eyes narrow slits of hate. ‘You are a fool, English. You should leave Colombia today. Get your police friends to drive you to the airport. The same one we watched you arrive at. Because the next time we send people to find you, you will not be so lucky.’

‘Right,’ said Luke, calmly. ‘Except you’re the one in prison now. I hope you enjoy your next twelve years in La Tramacúa.’

THE DOOR CLANGED
shut behind him and Luke walked down the green-painted prison corridor behind Major Elerzon and the guard. Had they been listening in on his ‘conversation’ with the thug? He didn’t really care: the prisoner had given away so little. But now, at least, he had a name to put in his report. Dark arms were reaching out of barred cells trying to touch him as he went past, the unhappy inmates of Tumaco’s overcrowded penal system. The stench was overpowering and Luke quickened his pace until they left the prisoner wing and reached the guardhouse. Now was perhaps a good time to tackle Major Elerzon about El Pobrecito. But first he had some urgent business.

Luke sat himself in a corner of the guardhouse, away from the policemen, who paid him little attention. On his personal mobile he sent an email to Commander Jorge Enriquez at the Colombian Embassy in London, asking for anything he had on El Pobrecito, his known locations, his organization and his TTPs – his tactics, techniques and procedures. Next, on his secure phone, he took a deep breath and sent the briefest of messages to Sid Khan back at Vauxhall Cross:

Progressing here. Benton closing in on transnational deal. N. Korea? Possible weapon headed from Colombia to
UK
by sea. Target is UK. Much to discuss. Talk in 2 hours.

He knew this would set the hares racing and that his phone
was about to start glowing red hot with frantic calls. So he turned it off. He still needed more answers and now it was time to turn to the Americans for help.

Luke’s police escort was waiting for him just outside the main gates of the prison. ‘
A la base militar, Señor?
’ asked his driver, already putting the vehicle into gear and revving up.

‘No. The Hotel Paradiso.’ Not exactly his first choice for a rendezvous with the CIA but their local station chief had apparently classified it as ‘secure’. This, to Luke, was unbelievable irony. But the CIA station was adamant. He was to meet his contact out by the pool, where he had met Clements, from MI6, on his first day down there.

Luke walked through Reception and was relieved to see a different manager on duty. Only the cleaner recognized him from his earlier eventful stay and she crossed herself before hurrying away down a corridor, throwing anxious glances behind her in case Luke was pursuing her. He wasn’t. He made his way out to the pool area. He was fifteen minutes early, a habit he had acquired long ago in the forces, preferring to check out a place for entrances, exits, hiding places and ambush points. He wondered how the hotel made any money as, again, it was practically deserted, just a couple of old Colombian men playing draughts in the corner and ignoring him.

Luke pulled up a white plastic chair, sat on it with his back to a wall and contemplated the lime-green water of the swimming pool, which reflected the lowering sky. The minutes ticked by and nobody came. Luke glanced at his watch and frowned. It had gone eleven forty, ten minutes past the agreed time. It was unlike the Yanks to be late. He’d give it five more minutes, then head back to the base. Bloody CIA. And now one of the old men was lurching towards him. Luke groaned inwardly. He really didn’t feel like striking up a conversation with a stranger right now.

‘Easy, kiddo,’ said the ‘old man’, in perfect English. ‘I’m not asking you to join in our game.’

Luke nearly fell off his chair. He should have spotted this one coming.

‘Sergio Ramirez,’ said the man, holding out his hand in greeting. ‘Station chief for Tumaco.’ He was clearly enjoying Luke’s reaction. ‘Guess you were expecting some clean-cut Ivy League type?’

Luke grinned. ‘I guess I was,’ he said non-committally. All he really cared about was whether the man could help him.

‘I’m Colombian-American, in case you’re wondering,’ continued Ramirez. For a spy, he certainly had a lot to say. ‘That’s right. Raised in the
barrio
, emigrated with my dad, got my degree from UCLA, then joined the Agency. And now, all these years later, for my penance, they’ve sent me to this shit-hole.’ He threw a tanned arm around Luke’s shoulders. ‘Welcome to Tumaco, my friend. May your stay be short and profitable.’

‘Thanks,’ said Luke. ‘I’ve had a ball so far.’

‘So I hear.’ Ramirez pulled up a chair and sat down heavily. They were a generation apart, him and Luke, and while they had both done the hard yards in their own ways, their physique was very different. While Luke was lean and fit, he reckoned it had been some years since Ramirez had darkened the doors of a gym. Now he was pulling out a packet of cigarettes, Marlboro Lights, the smokers’ equivalent of a Diet Coke. He lit one, then waved the packet in Luke’s direction. ‘Thought not,’ he said. ‘So, buddy, how can I help?’