Double Cross: A gripping political thriller (The Cadre Book 3)

by Stephen Edger

  Double Cross

  Stephen Edger

  MONDAY 01 DECEMBER

  1

  TIJUANA, MEXICO

  20:15 (PST)

  The pixelated image in the passport was definitely him; it had been taken in a hurry, but he had done his best to look as relaxed as he could, whilst remembering to look straight forward, without smiling. Even photographs in false passports had to look legitimate. Charles Adams: that was the name he had chosen. It sounded American. He could imagine people saying, ‘Sure, I know Chuck Adams: great guy. I think his kid plays softball with mine.’ Nobody would question American all-rounder Chuck Adams. Why would you? He was just some other forgettable guy.

  ‘What type of accent can you do?’ the forger had asked.

  ‘Accent?’ he had queried; he hadn’t thought he’d need one.

  ‘The people who are after you are looking for a Brit, right? You need to sound authentic, mate.’

  He’d put on his best American voice, like he was acting in some cheesy Hollywood movie.

  ‘You’re gonna need to work on that,’ the forger had concluded. ‘I’ll put that you’re from California; that’s probably the closest your accent resembles. You should keep practising during the crossing.’

  Anaheim, Orange County.

  That’s where Chuck Adams was from. He imagined what Chuck Adams’ house looked like: probably a big four bedroom condo, with enough grass front and back to offset the white exterior of the property. The forger had suggested he spend a couple of days there when he first arrived, just to hear how they spoke. He hadn’t bothered; there hadn’t been the time.

  He closed the passport and put it back in his inside jacket pocket. The bar he was leaning against felt sticky; the whole place looked like it needed a good clean. In fact, most of the customers inside the saloon looked in need of a wash too. He decided to keep these thoughts to himself and caught the bargirl’s eye.

  ‘Cerveza, por favour,’ he said, waving a fifty peso note.

  The girl took the money and reached into a fridge, removing a bottle and its cap in one move. She slammed the bottle down in front of him and dropped a handful of coins next to it. He had no idea if she’d given him the right change, but it didn’t matter; he had plenty more where that came from. He dropped the coins into his pocket and sipped from the bottle. The cool liquid in his mouth was exactly what he needed. Although the temperature outside had the feel of winter, inside it was sweltering.

  He could feel eyes burning into the side of his head. Glancing up, he saw two heavy men sat at the side of the bar. One with a dark, bristly beard; the other with a healthy dose of five o’clock shadow. Both were grimacing at him. In the past, it would have been enough of a confrontation for him to go over and exert his authority.

  You don’t need any trouble, he reminded himself.

  He scooped up his bottle and headed for a vacant table at the far side of the room. He slid into a chair, placing his jacket on the back of the remaining seat. It was after eight already and there was still no sign of her.

  Where is she?

  The journey from England two and a half weeks ago had been arranged in a hurry. He had called in a favour with the captain of a cargo ship and twenty thousand pounds had bought him safe passage for three to Miami. His girlfriend and her daughter had gone ahead a week before him. He had wanted them to travel as a family, but there had been business he had needed to take care of. The captain had guaranteed to take Maria and Elena to Miami, where they were to stay and wait for his arrival. However, he had made sure there was a contingency plan in place, in the event that they were discovered. He had remained in London long enough to convince his pursuers that he was in fact dead. Victor Stratovsky, the head of a Russian criminal family, and a loan shark called Royce had bought the lie, as far as he knew. As far as anyone in the UK was concerned, Dylan Taylor had been shot and his remains destroyed in a fire in a flat in Ealing. Satisfied that his cover story was in place, Charles Adams had boarded the cargo ship to Miami.

  Maria, or Louisa Adams as she was now known, had not been at the hotel where they had agreed to meet. Two hundred dollars had bought him confirmation that she had checked in as planned, but had checked out suddenly after three days. She hadn’t left him a message, but then he had made her promise that she wouldn’t leave any trail. He had slowly made his way to Tijuana, Mexico, where they had agreed to meet in the event that the hotel had become unsafe. They were to avoid travel that would highlight their names or faces, so that ruled out flight. It had taken him a week to drive and he had chanced crossing at the San Ysidro border, and despite a few cursory glances, he had passed through without any awkward questions being asked. He had no idea how Maria was planning to arrive, or whether she was still on her way.

  Las Iguanas was the name of the bar they were supposed to meet in. He had believed it was a popular tourist bar along Avenida de Revolución, which was the main entertainment strip in the city. That’s what the internet had told him when he had quickly searched for an appropriate meeting point, while standing on the docks in England. The reality was a lot different. His seemed to be the only non-local face in the bar, and it was a good ten minute walk from the security of Avenida de Revolución. He wondered whether Maria and Elena had ever made it here safely. Tonight was the third night he had come here to look for her.

  The girl who had served him his drink was now wiping his table with a damp cloth. He lifted his bottle out of courtesy and then decided to chance his luck. He removed four large notes from his wallet and waved them under her nose. She stopped wiping when she saw the money, and eyed him warily. He remembered very little from the Spanish lessons he had taken at school.

  ‘Habla inglés?’ he asked in his Charles Adams voice.

  The girl nodded.

  ‘I’m looking for someone,’ he continued, pushing the notes closer to her face. ‘Maybe you have seen her?’

  He placed the money on the table so he could remove a photograph of Maria and Elena from his wallet. He passed the photograph to the girl. She glanced at it for a moment and then handed it back shaking her head. She grabbed the pesos quickly, and then moved back to the bar before he could say anything more.

  ‘I’d be very careful if I was you,’ said a voice behind him.

  Dylan turned and saw a man with white hair and a wispy beard. The man didn’t wait to be invited and sat down in the vacant seat.

  ‘I’m not sure if you’ve noticed,’ the older man continued, ‘but your face doesn’t really fit here. It’s best to avoid doing anything which might rile the locals.’

  ‘You’re white,’ Dylan replied. ‘Nobody’s bothering you.’

  The older man laughed as he drained his glass of tequila. ‘I’ve lived amongst them for almost a decade. I might not be one of them, but they know I mean no harm. You on the other hand...’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘Well, that’s a conversation in itself, isn’t it? What about you? I’m not sure where to begin to be honest…Perhaps we should start with your appearance: you’re dressed like a tourist, but you’re wearing a troubled expression on your face. Heck, I feel anxious just talking to you! Then there’s your accent. It’s certainly not Mexican, but then it’s not American either. Now, the question I ask myself is this: why would someone purport to be that which he’s not in a place like this? They’ve been known to behead Yankees in these parts, you know. So, what’s your story? Who are you, and what are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m looking for someone,’ Dylan replied quietly, suddenly feeling overly self-conscious, but maintaining the
accent.

  ‘You’re looking for trouble is more like it. You see those two animals sitting at the bar glaring at you?’

  Dylan glanced back to the dark bristly beard at the end of the bar. ‘What about them?’

  ‘The one with the beard is called José, and the man next to him is his cousin Miguel. They’re very patriotic and resent the number of Americans who treat TJ as a vacation spot. Right now, they’re probably trying to decide where they’ll bury your body once they’re through with you.’

  Dylan gulped. ‘Who are you? Why are you helping me?’

  ‘Me? I’m nobody. I was a reporter a lifetime ago, but now I’m just trying to enjoy my retirement without sobriety. The last thing this city needs is another tourist murder.’

  ‘You think I can’t take care of myself? I’ve fought bigger men than them in my time.’

  The older man considered the response for a moment, before continuing. ‘You need to consider things from their point of view. They’ve probably spent the day working hard, and have come to their favourite bar for a quiet drink and some relaxation. But who do they see invading their space? A wannabe Yank looking for trouble.’

  ‘I’m not looking for trouble.’

  ‘They don’t know that! They’ve just witnessed you paying José’s sister two thousand pesos for sex.’

  ‘I did no such thing! The money was for information!’

  ‘But they don’t know that! Do you know how many men have tried to pay her for sex? Of those, do you know how many are still alive today?’

  The older man made a zero with his fingers. Dylan glanced over just in time to see the two animals striding across.

  ‘You’ve got to help me,’ Dylan pleaded. ‘I have money. You must be able to speak the language? Please, tell them I don’t mean any trouble.’

  The old man laughed as he stood and moved away from the table. ‘Are you serious? There’s no way I’m crossing the head of the Juárez cartel.’

  Before Dylan could say any more, the one with the beard had grabbed his shirt and lifted him out of the chair. ‘You dishonour my family!’

  He was about to correct his aggressor on the point when the man’s fist collided with his cheek. Dylan fell to the floor, slightly dazed but ready to defend himself. He lashed his foot out, connecting with the beard’s knee. There was an audible snap as the knee buckled, and this was followed by an agonising howl as the beard dropped to the floor. Dylan kicked out again, this time connecting with his aggressor’s face, and then José was out cold. The one with the five o’clock shadow, José’s cousin Miguel, then lifted Dylan to his feet and threw several punches into his belly. Dylan fell once more, this time winded, but still not ready to give in.

  An audience was already gathering around them, forming an unconventional arena to the maddest show on earth. Miguel was too far away to hit, so Dylan kicked a nearby chair instead, sending it crashing towards Miguel. It wasn’t hard enough to do any damage, but it distracted the Mexican long enough for Dylan to get to his feet, grab his bottle of beer from the table and launch it at Miguel’s face. The bottle, caught the Mexican in the eye, before smashing on the floor. Dylan dived towards him. The two men fell to the floor, Dylan sitting astride Miguel, pounding his face with punch after punch. Blood began to seep from the wounds in the Mexican’s face before another local pulled Dylan off and began to deliver a beating of his own. He took two knocks to his rib cage, but returned with a knee to the man’s groin, and the local collapsed.

  A glass bottle was then cracked over the back of Dylan’s head, but he didn’t see who did it, before his vision began to spin. He put his fists up, ready to protect his face, but instead he was rugby tackled to the floor, before someone pinned his wrists behind his back, and he felt the familiar clasp of cuffs tightening. He was then lifted by the arms and a badge waved in front of his face, before he was dragged from the bar and thrown headfirst into the back of a waiting patrol car. Dylan’s head sank to the seat as he momentarily lost consciousness.

  2

  It was the smell of stale vomit that woke Dylan, as the patrol car sped along the bumpy road, somehow managing to hit every pothole along the way. It took him a moment to remember where he was and why. The smell was on the seat his face was pressed against, so he used his shoulder to force his body to straighten up. The two men who had thrown him in the back of the car had made no effort to deploy a seatbelt, meaning he was bouncing around quite freely. He still felt dizzy and, as he began to mentally check the parts of his body that ached from the fight, he realised he was feeling nauseous, which meant he could add mild concussion to his list of ailments.

  The two men in the front were wearing dark shirts with ‘Policia’ emblazoned in gold on the short sleeves. The driver was clearly overweight and, from what Dylan could see of his wrinkled face, he was no model. The man in the passenger seat was much younger; maybe in his early twenties. He kept turning to his partner and saying things with a big grin on his face. The driver was making no effort to reciprocate whatever the joke was.

  The car hit another pothole and, this time, it caused Dylan to fall to his side again; back towards the stained seat. He corrected his position once more and decided to try and communicate.

  ‘Excuse me?’ he began, still maintaining Chuck’s accent. ‘Hello? Habla inglés?’

  ‘Cállate!’ the driver shouted back; his eyes not leaving the road.

  ‘No hablo español,’ Dylan continued. ‘Por favor? Soy americano.’

  The second officer leaned around and fired off something that Dylan couldn’t understand. When he had finished, he turned back and continued his conversation with the driver, who in turn grunted occasionally.

  Dylan shook his head and decided to concentrate on where they might be heading. It was pitch black outside, with the moon offering little resistance against the enveloping darkness. An occasional cluster of rocks at the side of the road was highlighted from time to time, but otherwise the arid landscape remained hidden.

  He had read stories about corrupt officials in northern Mexico, so he hoped that he was just allowing his paranoia to get the better of him. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious for, so he didn’t know how far they had travelled from the city, nor in which direction they were headed. He was about to attempt to speak with the officers again when the view through the windscreen brightened. Street lights indicated that they were entering a town of some sort. Dilapidated houses lined the edge of the road now, and there was even the occasional street light. The car swung to the left and pulled into a small car park, before coming to a stop between two other patrol cars. Dylan was dragged from the back seat by the younger officer and led into a glass building, about the size of a large bungalow.

  The driver was already standing at the large mahogany counter at the far side of the room, talking to the custody officer. Dylan was pushed towards the counter, where his pockets were emptied by the driver. Dylan’s passport, wallet and mobile phone were placed on top of the counter.

  ‘Cómo se llama?’ the custody officer asked.

  ‘Charles Adams,’ Dylan replied. ‘Soy Americano. Habla inglés?’

  The custody officer nodded. ‘Where you are from?’

  ‘California. I’m looking for a friend of mine.’

  The custody officer held up his hand. ‘Date of birth?’

  He recited the date in the passport, already starting to think about how he would explain what had happened at Las Iguanas. He didn’t get the chance. The custody officer muttered something to the driver, who then pulled Dylan away from the counter and led him through a door at the side of the room. The corridor led to four large barred enclosures. The first cell held a dozen or so men, in various states of drunkenness. The second cell held five women, heavily made up and anxious to return to work. The third enclosure was empty, and the final one held just one man. It was in here that Dylan was pushed. Once inside the cell, his handcuffs were removed and the door locked.

  The man in the cel
l was sitting on the bench that lined the back wall, with his eyes closed in quiet contemplation. He looked familiar somehow, yet Dylan couldn’t place where he recognised him from. He knew better than to ask, so instead he attempted to catch the departing officer’s attention.

  ‘Teléfono,’ he shouted, uncertain how to ask for a phone call; he wasn’t even sure if he had the right to make a call, or even who he would call, but he knew he needed to get back to the bar in case Maria turned up.

  The officer ignored the request.

  ‘Por favor, señor,’ Dylan continued. ‘I want to make a phone call.’

  ‘They won’t listen to you,’ said the man on the seat behind him.

  Dylan was surprised to hear that the man was English.

  ‘Why not?’ he asked, still using Chuck’s voice.

  ‘Things here happen a bit slower than the rest of the Western world. You shouldn’t waste your breath. They’ll get round to you when they’re good and ready.’

  ‘You’re English. What are you in for?’

  The man looked up and considered Dylan for a moment. ‘I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time…I’m assuming you had a disagreement with a door?’

  Dylan stroked the bruises on his cheeks. ‘Something like that. What’s a Brit doing in a shitty Mexican prison?’

  ‘This isn’t prison, my friend…we’re in a holding cell in a delegación; it’s a state police building. Prison is a lot less civilised. I’m assuming you were in a bar fight? They’ll probably hold you for the night and release you in the morning in return for a hefty fine. You’ve got nothing to worry about.’

  Dylan nodded his understanding and sat on the opposite end of the bench. ‘What part of England are you from?’

  ‘Southampton,’ the man replied cautiously.

  Small world, Dylan thought.

  Shouting in the first enclosure caught their attention.