by Tom Riggs
“Please Jack, see it from our point of view. Venezuela is the fifth biggest oil producer in the world right now. There is an election coming up. We know Maduro will win, but things are tense here.”
“I am not here about oil Adrian, and I am not here about the election. I am just trying to find out who killed a young English kid, Richard Lipakos. What do you guys know about that?”
Hudson took out a cigarette and lit it. Munro made him nervous, he always did.
“The Lipakos boy? Nothing really. We had a quick look at it because of who his father is, but backpacker murders are not really our thing. I heard it was a couple of whacked-out Indians from Cartagena.”
“What about the father, Constantine Lipakos, anything interesting on him?”
“I am not going to start sharing confidential intelligence with you Munro, but no, he is of no interest to us. He owns a couple of gold mines in Central Asia so we keep him on our radar. But he’s clean. With that much cash you have to be these days.”
“So you’re not really of much use to me, Adrian.”
“Sorry, detective work is not my thing. Frankly I’m surprised it’s yours Jack. I never had the action man down as a corporate bin trawler. I thought if you sold out it would be to one of the private military outfits. A man with your experience could make a lot of money guarding IT contractors in Bagdad.”
“It’s a lot more fulfilling than cleaning up your mistakes in Yemen, believe me Hudson.”
Hudson ignored him. “You know there‘ll always be a place for you in the company? You‘ve still got a lot of admirers high up. What you did for us won’t be easily forgotten. Afghanistan made you a lot of friends.”
“A job offer from Adrian Hudson” laughed Munro, half-smiling again. “I didn’t know I had fallen so far. If you recall, I never actually worked for you in the first place, the army always paid my wages. Is that why you’re here Adrian – to recruit me?”
“No, Jack. I am here to tell you to get out of Venezuela. Now. You are persona non grata here. If you get picked up by the DISIP, all the friends in high places in the world won’t be able to help you. We’ll deny any knowledge of you.”
“And why would they pick me up? I am just a humble private detective these days.”
“Not according to my office in Caracas. If you’re not gone in 24 hours, a call will go to them telling them you are an industrial spy come to steal secrets from PDVSA, the national oil company. They‘ve just entered into a big joint venture with Petro China so everyone’s pretty tense about secrecy there at the moment. That should get you at least a couple of years before you even see a courtroom. Have you ever seen a Venezuelan jail Jack? They’re a circle of hell you can’t even imagine.”
“You always were a snake Adrian.”
Hudson smiled for the first time. “It’s how I kept my job Jack. I know you want to take us both out now, but that would be no use. The call will go through in 24 hours with or without me.”
Munro slept late the next morning. The night had been fitful, full of images and dreams that he forgot as soon as he awoke. At one point in the early hours he had woken up drenched in sweat. Exactly why he was not sure. Hudson, possibly. Not the man himself, but the memories he had brought with him. Seeing him again had been unexpected. A man from his past, a past he was trying to forget. A past he needed to forget.
He walked into the hotel restaurant at 11.30, much too late for the complimentary breakfast. But he managed to persuade the ladies in the kitchen to do him a plate of ham and eggs and some coffee. Always get on the right side of the ladies in the kitchen. It was a trick Munro had learnt at an early age. Six, to be exact – when he had been sent to boarding school. He had been in institutions ever since, until two years ago. School, university, the army. All of them had dinner ladies. All of them could be won over with a smile and a few nice words. Aged six and sitting in a freezing cold dining hall in Scotland, it meant getting an extra piece of sponge cake for pudding. Thirty years later it meant being able to have eggs and coffee in an empty dining room overlooking a swimming pool in the Caribbean, an hour later than was strictly allowed.
The dining room was empty and it was cool in the mid-morning heat. Two large ceiling fans kept the air turning. One side was open to the garden, allowing fresh scented air in. A good place to think. Munro leaned back into his chair, he had a lot of questions. The police were hiding something, that much was for sure. Salinas’ attitude could not be simply written off as the South American policeman’s customary manana approach. But if he was hiding something, what was it and why?
Hudson’s appearance could have been nothing. Perhaps having him in Venezuela would lead to trouble. Or perhaps Hudson wanted him out of the way for some other reason.
But the questions that really needed answering were the fundamental ones. If Richard Lipakos had not been murdered as part of a robbery, why was he killed? And who killed him? Because the one answer that Munro did have for Mrs Stanfield was that her son was not killed by two Colombian junkies.
Munro pulled out his Blackberry. He hated the thing. Hated the name, hated the way it looked. Most of all he hated the small green light at its top that never stopped flashing, even when it was turned off. But Munro did have to admit that it was useful. He was old enough to remember a time before 4G and 5G, before the internet. In Bosnia he had been amazed when they gave each man in his unit GPS mapping guides. Now he could get satellite imagery of where he was sitting in a split second. And of course he could check his emails.
Munro had a few emails, none important. Except one. Rudd had tried to call him three times and then sent him an email. No subject, just two words. Call me.
Munro stood up and walked into the garden by the pool. The garden was grassy, but it was not English grass. This was tropical grass – thick, sharp and spread out. It was uncomfortable to walk on bare foot, but he walked anyway.
“Rudd, talk to me.”
“Morning Jack.”
“Evening, glad you’re still in the office at 7pm.”
“You know me old boy.”
“I certainly do, must be an emergency to keep you there so late. Or are you in trouble with Mrs Rudd again?”
“I’m always in trouble with Mrs Rudd, Jack.”
“What have you got for me?”
“The mountie came back. He‘s actually pretty efficient, flew over to Vancouver himself as soon as I put the call into him.”
“Telling someone that money is no object tends to have that effect on people.”
“Quite.”
“So has he found Anna Neuberg?”
“No, but he can confirm that she is not dead and has not come back to Canada, at least not as far as the Canadian authorities are concerned. And before you ask, yes, he is sure on that one. It’s pretty easy to check if you still have some friends working in Immigration and police, which he does.”
“Parents, family?”
“I was just getting to that. Harris went to her house and asked around. Her parents are both dead. Died in a car accident six years ago. No brothers or sisters. She lives with her grandparents in Vancouver.”
“What did they say?”
“Nothing, they’re snowbirds.”
“They’re what?”
“Snowbirds. Retirees who head south for the winter every year. Usually with an RV or mobile home attached.”
“So where are they?”
“Mexico old boy, Mexico. The grandparents go to Mexico every November. They stay there till things begin to warm up in Vancouver in spring.”
“So she’s gone to Mexico?”
“That would be my guess. As you said, if she sees something nasty, the first place she will go is home. But home for her happens to be her grandparents RV, somewhere in Mexico. Plus it’s much closer to Isla Margarita than Vancouver is.”
“Did the mountie say where in Mexico?”
“The closest he could get from the neighbours was that they usually went somewhere near Puerto Valla
rta. But they didn’t know any more than that. They have a mobile home, big one apparently. So they’re mobile.”
“Looks like I better get to Mexico.”
“Want me to book you on to a plane to Puerto Vallarta?”
“Yes, but via Mexico City. Leaving tonight.”
“Mexico City?”
“Correct, and find a number for Ed Castillo.”
“Who is he?”
“An old friend from Sandhurst. Should be pretty senior in the Mexican military by now.” Munro paused and then continued. “How are you doing on the boy’s file? I need more information.”
“It’s on its way, but these things do take a bit of time you know.”
“I know, sorry to hassle you Rudd. You’re doing a sterling job. One last task though. I got a visit from Adrian Hudson and a couple of subcontractors late last night. Told me to leave town. Says he’s still SIS.”
“I thought he would have been out on his heels after Yemen.”
“Me too. Find out what you can. Something’s not right with that one.”
Munro hung up. The last plane back to Caracas left at five that afternoon. There would be at least two evening flights from Caracas to Mexico City. It was a well- used commuter route. The commercial hub of Latin America to the oil hub. Lots of money moving back and forth, lots of flights.
PART 2
13
Colonia Condesa, Mexico City
To the casual observer, the two men sitting at table nine of Boludo could have been two ordinary Mexico City businessmen enjoying a good lunch. Boludo was a popular spot for a business lunch, lying in the middle of the city’s best neighbourhood, Condesa, and serving the best imported Argentinean beef in the city. Both men were smartly dressed in dark suits and open neck light shirts, the uniform of the successful man in this part of town. Large arched windows on the two street sides let in plenty of light, although the glass was smoked so as to not allow passers-by to peer in. The black and white mosaic floor and semi-open kitchen meant that it was always noisy giving the dining area a busy air, even when it was relatively empty. The dark leather banquettes lining the walls were plush and deep, as befitted their occupants who often spent entire afternoons working through the imported wine list to accompany their imported steaks.
Then the casual observer may have noted that the two men eating at table nine were a little leaner and tougher looking than the average Mexico City businessman. Although they were both in their mid-thirties, both men were obviously in good physical shape. They weren’t the types to overindulge in the wines. The casual observer might then have noted that table nine lay at the back of the restaurant, away from the other tables and banquettes. It was cordoned off from the rest of the tables by a wooden, waist-high railing. Clearly a table set aside for important people. The three tables standing closest to table nine were empty, which may have seemed odd as Boludo at lunchtime was always full.
Any idea that the two men at table nine were ordinary businessmen would have vanished when the causal observer noticed the four men standing close by. They stood with their backs to the wooden railing, just out of earshot of the two diners. Each was facing away from the table, scanning the restaurant’s other customers. All four men wore jeans and dark coloured sports jackets. All four had buzz-cut shaved heads and were much taller than the average Mexican. All four men carried Heckler and Koch MP5 submachine guns.
The two men at table nine were not two Mexico City businessmen enjoying a good lunch. They were in fact Lieutenant-Colonel Eduardo Santiago de Castillo, Mexican 12th Infantry Battalion and Captain (retired) Jack Munro, formerly Royal Green Jackets and 14th Intelligence Company. Both Sandhurst Military Academy graduates from the same class.
“You’re looking well, Ed,” said Munro as he cut into his steak. 12 oz arrachera, rare. They had spent the first twenty minutes talking about old times, reminiscing about mutual friends from the academy.
“It’s good of you to say so, but I look in the mirror and I see an old man,” replied the smaller of the two men, Eduardo Castillo.
It was true, Eduardo did look well. His already olive skin was tanned and his dark hair was still dark and still there. But it was also true that he looked old. Munro saw it in and around his eyes. They were the eyes of an old man.
“I am sorry about the theatricals,” said Castillo waving his hand dismissively at the four men standing at the railing, guns prone, ready to shoot anyone who approached. He was also referring to his arrival. Munro had arrived first and was taken straight to their table. Five minutes later a convoy of four black armoured Chevrolet Suburbans with army motorcycle outriders front and back had screeched to a halt outside the restaurant. Eight plainclothes men, all carrying submachine guns, had then come into the restaurant. They had cleared the tables around Munro and searched several diners. Four had stayed to guard Munro’s table. The others, along with more uniformed soldiers, had taken up positions outside the restaurant. Everyone who came in was being searched. The other diners were in the main ignoring their table, doing everything they could not to look in their direction. Perhaps this was out of politeness, more likely it was fear of the guards.
“In a way, I shouldn’t really eat out in public, but I refuse to let them deny me a good steak.”
Munro smiled. Eduardo had been one of the best cadets Sandhurst had seen, but the English food had been a problem for him. He had been raised on a diet of daily red meat and had not taken well to the chips and beans that the military canteen offered. On one exercise they had been dropped in the highlands of Scotland, sixty miles from the nearest human habitation, and told to fend for themselves for three days. Eduardo had found and killed a bullock up in the hills. The steaks that he had prepared for the group meant that they had eaten better that weekend on the moors than they ever did at the academy.
“Are things really that bad?” asked Munro.
Eduardo paused to cut and eat some more steak before answering.
“They are worse my friend. My country has descended into a state of civil war. On one side is the president, most of the army and a few federal police officers. On the other side are the drugs cartels, the local police forces they control and every other public official that they’ve bribed.”
Munro stopped slicing his steak and looked up. “Since when does the army fight drug dealers?”
“Since the new president realised that the police weren’t up to the job,” replied Eduardo. “For the past forty years the police in Mexico have not really been about fighting crime, they have been about keeping order – stopping bar fights and keeping the unions in line. They weren’t trained to investigate. So for the most part, the real criminals went unchecked. The old ruling party, the PRI, tolerated the small drug gangs along America’s borders as they were running heroin and cannabis into the US and so weren’t causing any trouble at home. Plus they paid the PRI a nice levy every month.”
“But then the PRI lost power.”
“Exactly. A new president came in and took a fresh look at things. He saw it wasn’t just heroin and cannabis being run across the border but cocaine, tons of it. And the small drugs gangs were not so small anymore. The Colombians paid them in product and the gangs had taken that product and were distributing it themselves in America. The new president realised that the little drugs gangs had morphed into cartels responsible for the distribution and transportation of literally billions of dollars worth of cocaine every year. Our cartels now export more cocaine to Europe and America than the Colombians themselves do. We are world leaders in drug transportation, if nothing else. The South Americans can’t get the stuff into America directly. Florida has been effectively closed down by US Customs patrols. So everything comes through Mexico. Pretty much every line sniffed and rock smoked in the US has come via Mexico.”
“And everyone gets their cut.”
“Everyone. We estimate that ninety percent of local police in some states are on the take…I kid you not. The few honest men left live in fear
of assassination every day. If they’re lucky they resign before they can be killed. We’ve just arrested the head of the police anti-organised crime division, the lead guy responsible for tackling the cartels. He was getting $450,000 dollars a month from the Tijuana cartel.” Castillo leant back in his chair and took a sip from his mineral water before continuing. “Last year we purged over 400 corrupt officers from the police force, including the director of Interpol and the chief of the Federal Police himself – the most senior police officer in the country. I almost feel sorry for them – you can take a bullet or you can take the money. It’s not much of a choice.”
“Plata o plomo,” said Munro.
“Right,” said Eduardo, “silver or lead. It was Pablo Escobar who came up with that and the cartels have taken it up. Taken it up con mucho gusto. Escobar even came up with an equation. If you offer a man four times his annual salary, he will probably turn. If he turns that down, you threaten to kill him and his family. If he still says no, you kill him and try his replacement.”
“And it works here?”
“On the police it does. They have adapted Escobar’s equation, Mexican style. The cartels offer a senior police officer twice his annual salary a month. If that doesn’t work they kidnap the guy and cut off his head. Eight headless bodies were found in Juarez City just last week. The men were part of a new federal anti-corruption police task force. They were good men, from Mexico City, so harder to corrupt than local boys. So the Juarez Cartel killed them and then decapitated them as a warning to other police officers.”
“Nasty,” said Munro almost to himself, “have they managed to get to your men…is the army still clean?”
“In the main part, yes. There is still some honour left in this country, although..” Eduardo paused. “You remember I did a spell in the GAFE? Our very own special forces division.”
“I remember, I met a few of them during some joint exercises up at Fort Bragg.”
