Breakout: A Heart-Pounding Lex Harper Thriller

by Stephen Leather

  In the yard just in front of a ground floor cell in the next section, there was the fierce red glow of a fire burning in a small forge. One prisoner was forcing air into the fire through a pair of bellows, made from what must have once been a leather coat, because a row of sewn-up buttonholes was still visible in it. The asthmatic wheeze of the bellows was punctuated by the clang of iron on iron, as a second prisoner, his face cast into deep shadows by the glow of the fire burning in front of him, pounded a strip of red-hot metal with a heavy hammer.

  ‘They can make anything here,’ Ricardo said, ‘tools, cutlery, pots and pans.’

  ‘Weapons too?’ Harper said.

  ‘Officially no.’

  ‘And unofficially?’

  Ricardo gave a theatrical shrug. ‘Like I said, they can make anything.’

  Harper stepped closer, smiling and nodding as he studied the fuel the blacksmith was using. ‘Charcoal,’ he said. ‘That could be handy. Where do they get it from?’

  ‘Like everything else here,’ Ricardo said, ‘someone must bring it in for them through the front gates.’

  Next door to the forge was an open-fronted cell where two prisoners were up to their elbows in icy water in two stone sinks, washing some bedding and clothing, using a bar of coarse soap. Their hands and arms looked red raw. ‘It’s tough work,’ Ricardo said, following Harper’s gaze, ‘but if you’ve no money and no other work, you can make a few pesos doing other prisoners’ cleaning and washing for them.’

  On the wall above the sinks, a painted sign set out the house rules and Lupa translated them for Harper. ‘It is forbidden to steal another inmate’s property; extort or assault another inmate; do physical damage with knives or other sharp objects; or incite others to commit acts of violence. Sanctions are expulsion from the section and being reported to the Council of Delegates and the Governor.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like much of a sanction,’ Harper said.

  Ricardo shrugged. ‘Don’t be too sure about that. The Delegates appoint the Disciplina - the internal security - and nobody wants to tangle with them. At the least you’ll get a bad beating, but they can also take you to the isolation cells where not only they, but also the prison guards, can use you as a punch-bag. Even worse, they can get you transferred to Chonchocoro - the maximum security prison, and believe me, you wouldn’t ever want to go there.’ He glanced around. ‘See those two guys over there?’ He nodded towards two powerful looking prisoners wearing black tracksuits emblazoned with a logo of a lion and unicorn supporting a heraldic letter “V” with “VICTORINOS” inscribed beneath it. ‘The Disciplina all wear that uniform,’ Ricardo said. ‘There are about thirty of them altogether and if you fight with one of them, you have to fight them all.’

  ‘What does Victorinos mean anyway?’ Harper asked

  ‘Winners.’

  ‘Winners who’ll spend most of their lives in jail - not much of a victory is it?’

  ‘Just don’t let them hear you say that,’ Ricardo said.

  CHAPTER 12

  As they walked through the passage from the previous section and came out into the next open courtyard, they found themselves at the edge of a cramped football pitch complete with nets and white line markings. A game was in full flow, with both teams wearing what looked like brand new strips and boots. A painted sign, covering the wall behind the goal, read ‘Bienvenidos a Cancha’. The wooden gallery running round the walls at first floor level was packed with prisoners watching the match below, some leaning on the rail, others sitting with their legs dangling between the uprights. From the brutality of the tackling, and the shouts and curses of the spectators, this was a grudge match. ‘It’s just like professional football,’ Ricardo said. ‘The section bosses own the teams and even pay transfer fees for players switching to their section.’ A goal was scored as Harper stood watching and he could see money immediately changing hands among the spectators. ‘They bet fortunes on these matches,’ Ricardo said, following his gaze. ‘Not just on the result but on the times goals are scored and the players who score them. Men who lose big sometimes extract pay-back from the players - and I don’t mean money. One of the Guanay players missed an open goal against Cancha when I was in here and the boss of his section had him stabbed. The Palmar goalkeeper didn’t wait for his punishment after he let a weak shot go through his legs; he hung himself from the balcony surrounding the courtyard that night.’

  The bars at the edge of the yard were doing a roaring trade and many of the football spectators were drunk. Empty aluminium cans, bright purple and branded with the name Caiman littered the ground.

  ‘What’s Caiman?’ Harper said.

  ‘Almost pure alcohol. Ninety-six per cent.’

  ‘Bloody hell - if you drank that you’d go blind, if it didn’t kill you first.’

  ‘They don’t drink it neat, the bars dilute it with water or juice, or they add a shot to a beer to boost the alcohol content.’

  ‘It would do that all right,’ Harper said

  A prisoner was shuffling round, picking up the empty cans and stuffing them into a sack.

  ‘Recycling too?’

  ‘Nothing’s wasted here,’ Ricardo said. ‘The metalworkers make toys out of the empty cans.’

  Harper thought for a moment. ‘I imagine the cells aren’t fitted with en suite facilities, so where are the latrines? I don’t need a piss or anything, I just want to take a look at them.’

  Ricardo gave him a puzzled look. ‘There are no proper drains here,’ he said. ‘So everyone just shits into a trench which the poorest prisoners have to dig out and load into the shit cart that calls once a month.’

  ‘And the urinals, what are they like?’

  ‘Some are concrete troughs, and some are just earth closets.’

  ‘Show me.’

  Ricardo raised an eyebrow but when no explanation was offered, he just shrugged and led Harper across the yard to a small, adobe-walled enclosure built in the angle of the prison walls. It was open to the skies but still stank of stale urine.

  ‘Perfect,’ Harper said, smiling despite the stench.

  As they left the courtyard for the gloom of another passageway, three figures stepped out of the shadows and blocked their way. Two of them were built like weightlifters and wore the black uniform of members of the Disciplina, but the other was dressed more like a New Jersey pimp than a prisoner, in a purple suit with a silk Versace shirt, a bootlace tie and a pair of sunglasses with the Versace crest on them. He was in his forties and more than a little overweight, with fleshy features and black, thinning hair.

  ‘That’s the boss of the prison,’ Ricardo murmured to him. ‘Don Lorenzo. Not a man to cross.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Harper said.

  The man walked over to them smiling broadly to reveal several gold teeth. ‘Welcome señor,’ Don Lorenzo said. ‘I heard there was a stranger in our midst, so I decided to come and see for myself. What do you think of San Pedro?’

  ‘It’s quite a place,’ Harper said. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like it.’

  Don Lorenzo smiled. ‘You won’t have, it is unique. Here anything is possible. You can live well and get anything you want, drugs, women, caviar and champagne, I even have a sauna, a hot tub and a masseuse. And you know the best thing of all? No one can arrest me or deport me and I can’t be guilty of any crimes because I’m already in jail. However, one can tire of the same people and the same conversation, so a new face is always welcome. Won’t you join me for a drink, señor, or perhaps a little coca?’

  Harper thought fast. ‘That’s very generous of you, Don Lorenzo, but I’m here to visit an old friend. Could I take you up on your kind offer a little later, after I’ve seen him?’

  The prison boss’s smile remained in place but his eyes, glimpsed though his sunglasses, were hard and predatory. ‘People do not usually turn down my hospitality señor, but as you please.’ He paused. ‘But tell me, who is this prisoner you are visiting? Pe
rhaps I know him and can help you find him.’

  Harper felt a warning pressure as Lupa placed her hand on his arm. ‘It’s all right,’ he said out of the side of his mouth. ‘I can handle this.’

  ‘He is another Englishman like me,’ Harper said to Don Lorenzo. ‘A man of about my age and build, called Scouse Davies. Do you know him by any chance?’

  Don Lorenzo’s smile snapped off. ‘I know no one of that name, señor, and believe me, I know everyone in this jail. Nothing happens here without my being aware of it, so I can assure you that there are no Inglés in San Pedro. Bolivians, Colombians, Peruvians, of course, and sometimes we have even had a Yanqui in here, but an Inglés - never.’

  ‘Then I must have been misinformed,’ Harper said, giving him a friendly smile. ‘But you’ll understand if I make sure of that before leaving.’

  Don Lorenzo hesitated then inclined his head. ‘As you wish, but allow me to send one of my bodyguards with you for protection. This is no place for strangers to be wandering unprotected, least of all when one of them is such a beautiful young woman.’ He flashed Lupa a smile.

  ‘That’s very generous of you,’ Harper said, ‘but she is perfectly capable of protecting herself and if she needs any extra help, myself and my friend here are all she’ll need.’

  ‘Nonetheless I must insist. I would never forgive myself if anything should happen to you while within these walls.’ He gave a chilling smile. ‘So Mateo will look after you.’ He turned to murmur something to one of his bodyguards, then bowed. ‘I hope we will meet later. Ask anyone and they will show you to my cell.’ He and the other bodyguard disappeared into one of the passages, leaving Harper, Lupa and Ricardo under the brooding gaze of Mateo.

  ‘Do you speak English, Mateo?’ Harper said.

  The bodyguard did not respond.

  ‘Hablas Español?’

  Mateo gave a slow nod.

  ‘Pero hablas Inglés?’ Lupa said.

  He hesitated, then shook his head.

  ‘Do you think he’s telling the truth?’ Harper murmured to the others, studying Mateo’s face as he did so. ‘No matter, let’s speak quickly to make life more difficult for him, but anyway, best to assume he understands more than he lets on and be a little cautious about what we say. So… looks like we’ve got company for the rest of our tour but we’ll just have to put up with it and if things turn ugly, I’ll deal with him or whatever else comes our way. So, where now?’

  ‘One more section,’ Ricardo said, leading them into another passageway, this one so narrow that Harper’s shoulders brushed both walls as he walked through. It was cold and dark, the floor was wet and the walls were filthy and stained with damp. ‘This is the last one,’ Ricardo said, ‘and definitely the worst, the place where those who have no money and no influence have to sleep. People who have to exist here, don’t tend to live that long.’

  Harper nodded. ‘I can see why.’He studied the faces of the men sitting against the walls, their faces and hands so filthy that he had to look hard to even establish their race. He scanned each face but once more Scouse was not among them. ‘Have we seen it all now?’ he said. ‘If so, either Flores was lying or Scouse has already been taken somewhere else.’

  An old prisoner, grey-haired and dressed in rags, was sluicing the yard with a bucket of water. He looked up, saw Harper and at once dropped his bucket and brush, and hurried over. ‘Cocaine señor?’

  ‘No thanks,’ Harper said.

  ‘You sure? We have the best you can buy.’

  ‘So everyone keeps telling me,’ Harper said, ‘but the answer’s still no.’

  ‘Maybe you could give him a few Bolivianos anyway, Lex,’ Ricardo said. ‘This is Luis, he’s an old friend from my own time in San Pedro.’

  When the old man heard Ricardo’s voice he broke into a broad smile and embraced him. ‘Ricardo? Is that you? I didn’t recognise you. You look so… so different.’

  Ricardo laughed. ‘So I should. I’ve washed off all the filth, shaved and had a haircut, changed my clothes and eaten enough proper food to put on a few kilos since the last time you saw me.’

  ‘For you,’ Harper said, giving the old man a handful of Bolivianos.

  ‘Muchas gracias, señor,’ Luis said. ‘Eres un caballero - you are a gentleman.’

  ‘That’s one thing I’m not,’ Harper said, ‘but you’re welcome. What are you in here for anyway?’

  ‘For dealing coca,’ Luis said. ‘Almost everyone here is in for that.’ He shrugged. ‘You don’t bribe the right policía or someone else pays him more, and they send you here. Once you’re in, it’s hard to get out and this place is heaven and hell all in one. It’s a heaven because everything a man could want is here - alcohol, coca paste, cocaine, marijuana, prostitutes - and every one a lot cheaper than they are out there in the city, but a hell too because you can never stop and you can never leave, or if you do, you soon find yourself back here.’

  Ricardo and Luis chatted for a few minutes and then Ricardo said ‘You haven’t seen any new gringo prisoners recently, Luis, have you?’

  Luis shot a nervous glance at Mateo, standing impassive next to them.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Harper said, ‘he doesn’t speak English.’

  Luis gave him a doubtful look. ‘Please Luis,’ Ricardo said. ‘If you know something, tell us.’

  ‘Well, I’ve not seen one myself,’ Luis whispered, ‘but I’ve heard rumours of a gringo being held in the isolation cells.’ He shrugged. ‘Who knows if they are true, there are always rumours.’

  ‘Is that the only place we haven’t seen?’ Harper said.

  Ricardo nodded.

  ‘Then let’s go.’

  Luis had tucked the Bolivianos inside his jacket and with a farewell wave, abandoning his bucket and brush, he headed for one of the bars to celebrate his new-found wealth while Ricardo led the others through another dark passageway into a cramped, enclosed courtyard. It sloped steeply downwards and at the bottom end, carved out of the bedrock beneath one of the prison buildings, was a row of six iron doors, each with a hatch and a tiny grille set into it. The cells were guarded by two scowling and powerfully built convicts.

  ‘I’m guessing those are two more of Don Lorenzo’s boys,’ Harper said as he studied them. ‘But where are the guards?

  Ricardo shrugged. ‘They’re lazy pigs. The cells are locked and unless there’s a prisoner to interrogate or beat up for sport, they’d rather be pocketing bribes at the front gates than scuffing their boots in the dust back here.’

  ‘So why are Don Lorenzo’s boys here then?’

  Lupa chipped in. ‘Presumably because there is something - or someone - here of value to them.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Harper said, ‘so let’s find out what or who it is.’

  The two convicts had been giving them baleful stares and one now pulled an ugly-looking knife out of his waistband and took up a fighting stance with the knife gripped in his right hand.

  ‘I thought you said weapons were the only things you couldn’t bring into the prison,’ Harper said.

  ‘You can’t - or not guns anyway. The guards are the only ones with those and make sure it stays that way, but knives… You can either pay the guards a big enough bribe to forget that rule for a few moments or you can get the metalworkers in here to make you one.’

  One of the thugs took a step towards them. ‘Qué pasa?’ Before they could reply Mateo intervened, stepping in front of Harper. ‘Mantén la calma, manejaré esto,’ he said to the thugs.

  He turned to face Harper and the others and spoke in Spanish, gesturing for them to turn round and go back the way they’d come.

  Lupa translated. ‘He says we’re not allowed here, it’s off limits to all outsiders.’

  ‘Yeah, I’d already got the gist of that,’ Harper said spreading his hands in a show of resignation. ‘Oh well, in that case we’d better go. Vamos.’

  Lupa and Ricardo exchanged baffled glances. ‘Are you serious?’ Lupa said. ‘That’
s it? You’re just going to leave?’

  Harper didn’t reply. He turned away from the cells and took a couple of steps towards the passageway, but then whipped around, brushing past Mateo and yelling at the top of his voice ‘Scouse! It’s me, Lex! If you can hear me, make some noise!’

  The second convict had now also drawn a knife and took a few steps towards him but he stopped as Harper’s words were choked off by Mateo’s powerful arm clamping around his neck.

  There was a weak cry from one of the cells. ‘Lex? Is that you, mate?’

  Mateo’s grip tightened, setting Harper’s heart racing as he struggled for breath, but he threw himself back into him, smashing the back of his head into the bodyguard’s nose, then stamped down viciously on Mateo’s instep. The iron grip on his neck loosened and at once Harper tore Mateo’s hand away and forced it back against the wrist until there was a crack of bone and a cry of pain. Harper let go of the wrist, smashed a side-arm chop into the bodyguard’s Adam’s apple, rendering him speechless and unable to breathe, then felled him with a roundhouse punch to the jaw that put Mateo’s lights out.

  The two convicts were now advancing on them again. ‘Get going!’ Harper said, pushing Ricardo and Lupa towards the passage. He shouted ‘Scouse! Keep the faith! I’ll be back!’ He stepped over Mateo’s prone body and dived for the passage. The convicts hesitated for a few seconds, torn between wanting to pursue him and the need to keep watch on the cells, and Harper used the time to get away.

  He caught up with the other two. ‘Right, Ricardo, take the fastest way back to the main gates. We need to get out of here, regroup and make a plan, and then get back in.’

  ‘And Don Lorenzo?’ Ricardo said, as they hurried back through the maze of passages and courtyards. ‘He is not going to be pleased about what you did to Mateo and if we come back…’

  ‘Let me worry about Don Lorenzo,’ Harper said. ‘You just concentrate on getting us out of here now.’