by Tom Riggs
Cartel Fire
Tom Riggs
Author’s note
This book is inspired by my time working as an investigator and intelligence analyst. It was work that took me all over the world and especially Latin America, a continent I have learned to love a great deal despite its troubles. During my time in Mexico I met cartel members, corrupt former Mexican military intelligence officers, UN investigators and former British intelligence and special forces men now making a living in the grey area of private security. Some of these people are still working, others have been killed in the violence. If working in Mexico, Colombia and Venezuela has taught me one thing it is that corruption and war on drugs are wrecking beautiful countries full of amazing people.
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PART 1
Prologue
Playa Agua, Isla Margarita, Venezuela
The street was a dead end. Sand, dustbins, concrete walls at least twelve feet high. Too high. Barbed wire and broken glass on top. No one around, nowhere to hide. A dead end.
The boy stopped running. On some level it was a relief. He was not sure how much more he could take, his lungs could take. The three men came round the corner, taking their time. The boy was beyond terror and now felt oddly calm. He thought what a shame it would be to die here. His body would be found in a dusty, litter-strewn alley three blocks from a dirty beach. Only twenty-four. A real shame.
“I‘ll tell you where it is,” he said, his breath slowly coming back to him.
“I know where it is chico, I already have it,” said one of the men.
The man was clearly the boss, had been all along, since he had first seen them at his posada. The man smiled and his face became grotesque. It was a mess of scars, old and new. The others stood either side of him, blocking the alleyway. Blocking any way out. They each took a step sideways, in case he thought about making a run for it. They were big men and they had steel baseball bats. There was no way he was going to make a run for it.
“I’ve got money, a lot.”
“I know you do chico.”
The boss was older than his men; smaller, leaner. It was this man that he was most scared of. But it was not his smile or his scars that terrified the boy. It was his eyes. Looking into his eyes, he knew there was no way out. There was no hint of humanity or compassion in those eyes. Nothing you could even begin to reason with.
“I can transfer one million dollars to you right now, straight away,” he was desperate now. He tried to take a step backwards but stumbled on a pile of rotting rubbish. Without realising the absurdity of his action he took a step forward, towards the three men but away from the stinking garbage.
“Please, just tell me what you want.”
“I don’t want your money chico. I already have what I want.”
The boy looked up into the dark Caribbean sky. Not even any stars out. He thought again what a shame it would be to die here. The two henchmen took a step towards him and raised their bats. This was it.
No way out. Dead end.
“So go fuck yourself then.”
The men were fast and the boy barely had time to raise his arms. He went down into a ball on the floor after the first few blows. He managed to protect his head and he did well for a time. His arms did not break until the seventh or eighth blows. Steel against bone. It was only a matter of time. Once his arms were broken and unable to protect him any longer, the men concentrated on his ribs and head. But the position was awkward. They tried crouching down and swinging and then tried a few backhand swipes. Their blows were beginning to lose power so they switched to feet. The boy was still breathing and showed signs of consciousness. They were both wearing heavy boots and were both big men. The boots were Timberlands, imported from Miami. They took turns stamping on his head. The Timberlands were tough, six inches high, galvanised rubber soles. They did their job. The boy stood little chance. With each stamp, the boy’s head caved in a little. At first, it was hard to notice – the human skull is strong. But once they got a fracture and then a break, the damage became more noticeable. After five minutes there was little left that resembled a head.
After five minutes the man had finished his cigarette.
“Basta, vamanos.”
1
Queen Street, City of London
It was eleven o’clock in the morning and Jack Munro had the office to himself. He had done almost no work in the three hours that he had been at his desk.
It was not that he was lazy, far from it. He hated having nothing to do - inactivity was the only thing that really terrified him. It was just that he did not want to do what he should be doing. He should have been doing paper work. Writing reports, preparing memos, responding to emails. Instead he was leaning back on his chair, his bare feet up on his desk. He was keeping inactivity at bay by scrunching up sheets of a half-written report and throwing the paper ball into a waste paper bin on the other side of the office. Like an NBA basketball player. Magic Johnson, or maybe Michael Jordan. His success rate was running at about sixty percent so far. The large light office was empty. His partner Rudd was out on a job. There was space for five people, perhaps more. Three empty desks. Brook Investigations was currently a two-man enterprise.
As Munro came to the end of his report, he reached over to Rudd’s desk for more ammunition for the bin/basketball hoop. It was a brochure from one of their US rivals, DuraCorp. Glossy, shiny and to the point. The world was an uncertain place. You buy a business in Africa, Asia or South America and you never know who you might be getting into bed with. Employ us and put your mind at rest. Corporate sleuths - gumshoes a few years ago – now rebranding themselves to be taken seriously like accountants or lawyers. The front cover showed a hazy montage of the corporate and the unnerving. Computer screens from a stock exchange, a close-up image of a microchip, a jihadi fighter and an oil tanker. Munro flicked through the short brochure. They were a bigger operation than him and Rudd, that was for sure. DuraCorp offered political risk analysis, corporate investigations and ‘security personnel’. Mercenaries. Most of their rivals were, when it came down to it. That was where the money was. Protecting oil installations in Iraq, copper mines in Chad. Guns for hire. Munro snorted and carefully ripped off the shiny front cover before scrunching it into a ball and shooting. Hole in one. Watch your back Jordan. He leaned back further and looked out of the window. Well-dressed men and women were scurrying back and forth around the street below. Hurrying to and from meetings or getting their mid-morning cups of coffee, rushing in and out of the shadow of two brand new steel and glass towers, one only half-built, that loomed over the street below. Everyone was rushing on their own trajectory, but somehow never collided.
The phone on his desk rang. Munro quickly sat up from his recline and put his feet under the desk. He still had a business to run. He saw on the caller id that it was Rudd, calling on his Blackberry.
“Good morning Charlie,” said Munro, “How’s Cambridge?”
“Quite nice actually. Lovely clear skies.”
“Found the thief?”
“Not yet, but we will. I‘ve put hidden cameras above all of their server-access computers. A sensor will trigger it when the user accesses confidential data, which should be soon. Then it’s just a matter of following the bastard.”
“Good work Rudd, good work. It’s good to know that our years of training are being put to good use catching corrupt software engineers.”
“Someone got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”
“Sorry. It’s been a slow morning. These reports aren’t writing themselves.”
“They don’t sadly, that’s why our clients pay us to write them.”
“Indeed…” Munro looked across the street at a drab concrete office block, much like the one he was sat in, a
relic of 1960s concrete still hanging on.
“Ever wonder where we‘d be if we stayed in service?”
“A bit of Thursday morning existential angst eh? If you’d stayed you would still be in some valley in the Hindu Kush, trying to persuade terrified villagers to tell you who comes down the road. Or you’d be dead. You’d most likely be dead. I’d be in a small van somewhere in East London, listening to teenagers talk about jihad.”
“You’re right. Sorry. Angst over. What can I do for you?”
“I‘ve got something that might brighten up your morning,” said Rudd. “Small job, lots of cash, pretty easy, all for a rich divorcee. Interested?”
“Who’s the divorcee?”
“Straight to the point Jack, as always. She’s called Sarah Stanfield, previously Sarah Lipakos. Ex-wife of Constantine Lipakos, Greek billionaire ship owner. Won millions in the divorce a few years ago. That was the rumour anyway.”
“What does she want with us?”
“You specifically, what does she want with you. Her son was murdered three weeks ago, in Venezuela. It was in the papers. She wants you to look into it, or something. She wasn’t very clear on the phone.”
“Not really our thing is it? I’m not sure Brook Investigations does family work…do we?”
“We don’t, but she wants to give us fifty thousand up front, just to ask a few questions. For that kind of money, I’ll look into a corrupt babysitter.”
“Who’s the son?”
“I don’t know, she just called me now, she was looking for you. Someone must have told her about the great war hero.”
“Why did she call you?” asked Munro.
“Hazard a guess pal. You’ve diverted all the office calls to my phone. Trust you’ve had a nice quiet morning.”
“Lovely thanks.”
“Good, because she’s coming to the office in twenty minutes – I’ll be back in forty - so put your shoes on.”
The line went dead and Munro looked around the office. Rudd was right, he had woken up in a bad mood, exhausted. He thought back to the night before. Sweats, chills, broken fragments of sleep. Images coming into his head unasked for. Images he thought he had forgotten. He stared at a point on the wall directly in front of him: the off-white paint was discoloured by some unidentifiable stain. It was oddly hypnotic. After a while, he couldn’t say how long exactly., he shook himself. He needed coffee.
2
By the time Sarah Stanfield rang the buzzer for Brook Investigations, Munro was ready. His shoes and socks were on. As was his suit jacket and a tie. In his dark blue tailored suit and pale blue shirt, he could have been any successful City of London businessman. He smiled at the thought, thinking back to his childhood in Glasgow. Not many City businessmen where he grew up. Only Munro’s build and physique hinted that he might be something more than a City gent. He was just over six foot two, and powerfully built, although still slim. The main difference between Jack Munro and the average City businessman was in posture though. When Munro walked into the small first floor lobby of Brook Investigations, Sarah Stanfield could immediately tell from his straight back, slight swagger and air of complete but relaxed confidence that this was man who had given orders and had them obeyed.
“Mrs Lipakos, Jack Munro, how do you do?” said Munro holding out his hand.
“Please, Captain Munro,” she replied taking his hand, “I now go by my maiden name, Stanfield.”
Munro smiled politely and assessed his client. The accent was American, but faint. East coast WASP he guessed. Sarah Stanfield was clearly rich. She was in her late fifties or early sixties. Munro distractedly noticed the details. A good hair stylist, high-end jewellery and expensive skin care products. Money well spent.
“Of course, Ms Stanfield. And please call me Jack. I left the military two years ago, so I’m not a captain of anything anymore.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, … sorry it is under these circumstances.”
Munro led her into the small meeting room that Brook Investigations shared with the two other offices on their floor. It was not big and was furnished with little more than a pine wood table, five chairs and a large map of the world tacked onto one wall. The strip lighting and threadbare institutional carpet was more like the office of a government department than that of a City of London security consultant. But Sarah Stanfield didn’t seem to mind. Munro could tell she was grieving and straining to hide it. He had seen it in the faces of other mothers too many times. Mothers of other boys, mothers of his men. Her every movement was completely controlled and rigid. He wondered if she was on some kind of medication. Munro knew from experience that one break in her composure and she might fall apart completely. He gave her a glass of water and sat down opposite her.
“I heard about your son Ms Stanfield, I am very sorry. It’s always a tragedy … to lose someone so young.” Munro winced at how meaningless he sounded.
“Thank you Mr Munro. And, to get right to the point, my son is the reason that I am here. How much do you know about the circumstances of his death?”
“Very little I’m afraid, apart from what I’ve read in the papers.” He had only had time to do a quick internet search on the death before Mrs Stanfield had arrived. A one paragraph Associated Press report had told him the basics – the son of a Greek billionaire had been murdered in Venezuela, robbery suspected, no arrests. “Perhaps you could start at the beginning. I know it is difficult, but then we can work out how we may be able to help you.”
“Of course. The beginning is my son, Richard. He is – was - my third child. My third son. I was married to his father for twenty-three years.” She paused, as if uncertain how to go on. Munro prompted her.
“When did you last see Richard?”
She smiled weakly, grateful to Munro for giving her some direction.
“I last saw him the day before he left for South America. Richard was passionate about the environment, it was all he thought about.” Again she paused. The strain of talking about her son was clear.
“I know this is difficult Ms Stanfield, but if you want us to help you…”
“I know, I know,” she said, taking a deep breath, “… thank you. Richard was passionate about the environment. He decided to go out to Brazil to work for an environmental group. I can’t pretend that I knew much about it; it was something to do with Amazon preservation. Richard believed that the future of our planet would be decided in the Amazon basin, so much so that he persuaded his father to buy up several hundred thousand square miles of it.”
“He was working for his father out there?”
“No, I don’t think so. I don’t know. Sorry if I sound vague, but it’s not really my thing. It was Richard and his father’s thing. It was what really bonded them, and I kind of stayed out of it. Some fathers go to football matches with their sons, Richard and Constantine saved the planet.”
“So the last time you saw your son was the night before he left for South America, and that was when?”
“About six months ago.”
“Were you in regular contact?”
“Not really. He would send me the occasional email, and called me on my birthday, but he was a grown man and was doing what he needed to do. I didn’t want to be a controlling mother.”
“What was he doing in Venezuela?”
“I don’t know I am afraid. I didn’t even know he was in Venezuela until this.”
“You thought he was in Brazil?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know if he was alone in Brazil, or Venezuela?”
“I don’t know, Mr Munro, I’m sorry. I know this sounds terrible, but I didn’t want to interfere. As far as I know, he was alone. He was working with a charity in Brazil so I suppose there were other people there, but I don’t know who. I’m sorry to sound so vague…” She paused and took a sip of her water.
“And then four weeks ago, he was murdered.”
Ms Stanfield closed her eyes and took a deep breath before beginning.<
br />
“A police officer came round in the morning, while I was having breakfast…They told me that Richard had been killed. I can’t really remember much about that morning. Apparently I collapsed, passed out…”
There was a knock at the door and Rudd came in, apologising profusely. He shook Sarah Stanfield’s hand warmly. After the introductions, he sat down beside Munro, across from their prospective new client. He opened a notebook and sat back slightly, happy to be the junior partner.
“Charles,” said Munro to Rudd, “Ms Stanfield was just telling me about the circumstances of the death of her son, Richard. Please go on.”
“The police didn’t tell me much, only that my son had been killed in Venezuela. As I said, I didn’t even know he was in Venezuela – he wasn’t very good at keeping in touch. But anyway, they told me he was dead, and had been dead for three days. It had taken them that long to find me. The embassy out there arranged for his body to be flown back. It… he… arrived at Gatwick the next morning. Some girl from the Foreign Office, younger than Richard, came round to offer condolences. She had never even been to Venezuela. She took me to the airport. Luckily Constantine was there too. He was wonderful and arranged everything, the funeral, an autopsy…” she paused, “…his identification.” She paused again and closed her eyes inhaling deeply as she did so.
She spoke again suddenly, the words coming out fast and flat, devoid of any emotion. “He had been so badly beaten that they had to identify him from his dental records. And even that was difficult, apparently.”
There was a pause as they all considered what she had just said. Rudd looked up from his pad and took over the questioning. Munro leaned back.
“Ms Stanfield, what did the Foreign Office tell you about the circumstances of your son’s murder?”
