by Mel Stein
He awoke with a start at six, the alarm clock beneath his hand blaring out some local station. Reluctantly, he realised that he had a plane to catch and there was no question of going back to sleep. The alarm had made no impression on Patti and he left her sleeping for an hour or so whilst he made a few calls to satisfy himself that there was a spare seat on the plane which could be reallocated to her. She was never at her best in the morning and as he tried for the fifth time to wake her, he wondered how someone who had been through such a trauma could suddenly switch off when it came to sleep. Eventually he got her to open her eyes and, incapable of speech, she pointed with her right index finger to her left wrist.
‘It’s eight o’clock,’ he said giving her eight rapid, little kisses. ‘We have to get packed and out of here before you get into any more hot water. I’ve got you on the same flight as me.’
‘Too early, too early,’ she muttered, burying her head under the pillow in the vain hope that Mark would leave her alone.
‘Come on, Patti. You heard what I said about not getting into hot water. But I will run you a bath. Very hot, lots of bubbles, just the way you like it.’
‘No. Come back to bed, Mark. I’m sorry about last night. It was really dumb.’
‘I guess you’re just one dumb broad,’ he said in a mid-Atlantic accent. ‘I’d love to come back to bed, but we can’t right now. And, as for last night, I’m sure you had a perfectly good reason which you’ll tell me about when you’re ready. But you have to get up, have a bath and then we have to go catch a plane.’
Somehow or other he got her ready, throwing her clothes into the case without folding them, pushing down the lid and enjoying hearing the click of the lock, as if it signalled the end of their stay in Colombia.
They arrived at the airport about ten minutes before the England team coach and by the time they had checked in they found themselves in the midst of the main party. The journalists who were privileged to be flying on the same plane were still buzzing around Barry Reed in the same way as they would normally have gathered around a hotel bar for a free drink. Barry saw Mark and his face lit up.
‘I’m sorry about last night’s interview, but that cow never gave me a chance.’
‘Don’t worry about it. You already apologised last night. It’s my day for receiving apologies. Anyway, there’ll be lots more chances for interviews, I’m sure.’
At Passport Control Mark handed in his passport and the moustachioed official looked at it as if it were a certain forgery. After an interminable pause he begrudgingly waved him through. Barry stood back to let Patti go next. The same officer took her passport and scanned it with even more interest than he had accorded Mark’s. Eventually, he grunted, then lifted the phone and spoke swiftly in Spanish. She stood there, trying to grasp what was being said, understanding one word in three, her A-Level Grade A of no use to her in an hour of real need. All she could appreciate was that this was not a diversion, not a call from the man’s wife to see what time he might be home for dinner. This was a discussion about her. Mark realising something was wrong, tried to make it back to her side. Another official, taller, more menacing, flashes on his uniform indicating some form of seniority, blocked his path.
‘One only,’ he said in his own tongue and even Mark could understand the message and was forced to stay where he was, in a kind of no-man’s land between Colombia and the British Airways plane.
Meanwhile, the official behind the desk had received some instructions.
‘Señorita Delaney,’ he placed the accent on the first three syllables, but she was left in no doubt that he was addressing her. ‘You will follow me, please.’ The last was an afterthought. She looked pleadingly at Mark, the same look that relatives must have given to friends left behind on the platform as the cattle trucks took them away to the death camps.
‘What do I do?’ she called out. It was an odd question from a woman who in the past had always known what to do, who would have regarded as a sign of weakness any reliance on others.
‘Go with them. Don’t argue,’ he shouted back, without hesitation. He knew her all too well and was concerned that some violent reaction could see her thrown into a local jail on a trumped-up assault charge. Arrest without trial was always the threat in countries like this.
‘Don’t worry,’ he continued encouragingly, ‘I won’t let the plane leave without you.’
He sounded more reassuring than he felt. When it came down to the wire there was little or nothing he could do to affect the timetable of an airline. With or without Patti Delaney on board the plane would leave for London, even if he managed to hold it up for a little while on the pretext of avoiding an international incident.
The official with the moustache returned without Patti and stared at Mark belligerently as if to question why he was still there. The second man, who had barred his path, grabbed Mark by the arm and began to push him towards the departure lounge.
‘You go. You go now. You leave on your plane.’
The queue behind Barry was increasing in length all the time, a mumble of concern snaking its way through the ranks of those waiting as vital duty-free purchasing time was frittered away. Already a few of the journalists were sensing a story and creating rumours in the ranks. A photographer, who Mark recognised, unslung his camera in anticipation of an exclusive and a man in a military uniform immediately came across to him and angrily pointed to a sign stating that photography was forbidden.
Mark hesitated. He could wait and hope that Patti was going to talk her way out of whatever it was they wanted to question her about. Or he could report the matter to the airline and get them to phone the British Embassy. He realised that he didn’t even know if there was an ambassador or a consul, and if he had known then he was none too sure what exactly was the difference.
He made his way into the departure lounge, passing by familiar faces as if they weren’t there. At least that would get him near to a phone. He assumed Barry was following close behind, but the youngster wasn’t his immediate problem. In fact, if he’d glanced back he would have seen that the Geordie was undergoing the same sort of suspicious treatment that had been accorded to Patti. Once again Moustache was on the phone, his gaze not leaving Barry’s face, the eyes accusing him of some unknown crime.
‘Señor Reed, you too will follow me.’ He did not accord him a please, perhaps because now he was dealing with a man rather than a lady. Kenny Cunningham was only a place or two behind his player in the line. He saw Barry being led away, and leapt forward to restrain him as if claiming a piece of stolen property.
‘What’s going on? I’m the England manager and that kid there is in my care.’
A man emerged from a side-office, drawn by the commotion. The journalists now had their pencils at the ready. The photographer had surreptitiously produced a tiny camera which he could conceal in his hand, thinking that the opportunity was worth the risk. The Colombian looked cool in his neatly-pressed uniform, despite the lack of air-conditioning in the terminal building. He was tall and slim, his shirt so white as to be fluorescent, the creases in his trousers like knives. His grey hair was cut short in military style and the ramrod backbone also suggested that he had been used to the parade ground at some time in his career. As soon as he spoke, in near-perfect English, he exuded an air of authority that the other two officials had lacked.
‘We know who you are, Mr Cunningham, and we know who your player is as well. And he is not in your care. He is in my care, or custody as the case may be.’
‘Then if you know, what the hell are you playing at? And what do you mean by talking about custody?’ Cunningham asked, unable to conceal his anger, aware by now that whatever happened, this story would be the next day’s headlines back in England.
‘We are not playing. This is not a football stadium. My name is Fernando Diaz and I am in charge of our anti-drug squad in Bogota.’
‘I’m delighted to meet you,’ Cunningham said with heated sarcasm. ‘Now perhaps you�
��d tell me what drugs have to do with this young man.’
‘It is all very simple, Mr Cunningham. This young man, as you describe him, has tested positive for drugs after last night’s match. That in itself is evidence that he has been using illegal substances in our country. I do not think that your British government would take kindly to one of our nationals using drugs in London, so why should we? Now, if you would release his arm, we can take him away for interrogation.’
Barry Reed was the colour of Diaz’s shirt, suddenly looking too small for the England blazer that he had been wearing so proudly. He followed Diaz like a man being led to his execution, pausing only to look back at the stormy face of his manager.
‘I didn’t do anything, boss, honestly. I didn’t take anything.’ But his words echoed down the corridor like an exit line from a play spoken to an empty theatre.
CHAPTER 22
Patti knew she was in big trouble this time around. The previous night, waiting in the street, was merely a prelude. Now there was no Luis to come to her rescue and she did not see what Mark could do on foreign, seemingly hostile, soil. She was playing away and the officials in charge of the game had been bought off.
There had been two men questioning her when she’d been brought into this tiny office. Even as a smoker she found the nicotine-thick air disgusting. The room was little more than a cell, six feet by eight, with one skylight window and one battered desk occupying most of the floor space. An ancient fan creaked asthmatically overhead disturbing the contents of an ashtray filled to overflowing with cigarette butts.
They had left her alone after a while and she was still none the wiser as to why she was being detained. Yes, she was a journalist; yes, she had only been in the country a few days; yes, she’d lied, she had come just for the football match because her fiancé (she didn’t think Mark would mind his elevation) was a commentator for a television station. And yes, she was due to be on board a plane heading home in less than an hour.
It was as if they had been sent in as advance troops, to upset her balance, to turn her upside down, like the crocodile dealing with its prey, making her lose her bearings. Breathe out and follow the bubbles, she’d been told once on a trip to Africa. That’ll take you to the surface. She felt as if she were underwater right now, but breathing out would not help her. Breathing in was causing her a problem as the lack of air caused a tightening of her chest. If only she could have a cigarette then she might be able to forget the haze of smoke around her. It seemed to penetrate her clothing like an old-fashioned London fog. But they had removed her bag and presumably were ripping it apart at this very moment searching for goodness knew what. She just hoped they didn’t destroy her tampons because she knew her period was due any time now. Apart from that the bag didn’t concern her. It was replaceable. All she wanted was to get out of the country and get out fast.
The door opened and she half rose to her feet, then slumped back on to the hard, rickety chair with its uneven legs, feigning boredom. Keep cool, she told herself, don’t let them realise they’ve got you rattled. This time it was only one man. She bit her lip. She had seen this man before, spoken to him just the once. He was immaculately dressed in a pale-blue light-weight cotton suit, a blue silk tie, white button-down shirt, the sort of man who would certainly brush the seat before he risked placing his posterior upon it. He was not really tall, yet he gave the impression of height because of his slender build. His dark hair was combed, swept back in the style of a Latin 1950s movie star. The face was good-looking in a classical way, straight Roman nose, dark eyebrows carefully trimmed, a full mouth topping off a chin with a Kirk Douglas dimple. She had not had the opportunity to look at Riccardo Branco when she had met him in the gloomy light of the stand at the match, but she had every opportunity to do so now with his face just a few inches from hers.
‘My dear Miss Delaney. I do apologise for the surroundings in which you find yourself. They are definitely not suited to a lady of your background and resources. But you disappointed me by failing to keep our appointment last night, or should I say this morning. Ever since I was a little boy I have not liked to be disappointed. After our first encounter I was so looking forward to talking to you, to getting to know you a little better.’
‘And now you are,’ Patti said, with a bravado she did not feel.
‘And now I am.’ His tone suddenly changed and he brought his fist down on the desk so violently that Patti thought it might collapse there and then. ‘But what I truly wish to know is why you wanted to know me a little better.’
Patti hesitated. Here was a man who according to everything she’d learned about him was Public Enemy Number One. Yet he seemed to have been able to take over government resources for his own purposes with consummate ease. A powerful man that was for sure, a chameleon who could run with the hare and bribe the hounds. He looked at his watch and made sure that Patti saw it was a solid gold Cartier. A man who needed others to notice him. She could have afforded to buy such a watch herself, but she still preferred the Disney one she wore whenever she travelled, with Minnie Mouse’s hands telling the time. It gave her a feeling of security, her own comfort blanket on her wrist, and she needed all the security she could get.
‘So. A few questions,’ Branco said, his voice once more calm and friendly.
‘And if I give a few answers?’
‘Depending upon the quality of the answers then you will be on your plane.’
‘And if the answers are wrong?’
‘Ah.’ He inspected his fingernails as if he had written the reply there earlier in the day as a crib. ‘If the answers are wrong, then I am afraid we have to flunk you in the exam, as our American brothers say, and I have to implement my reserve plan.’
‘You’ve told me the prize for success, what do I get for failure?’ She couldn’t believe what she was saying, but somehow she felt she had to keep the man talking. What was that they said about hijackers? Try and humanise yourself to them and it makes it harder for them to kill you.
‘Allow me to ask the questions and then all will be revealed.’ He looked at his watch again. ‘We do not have all the time in the world. There are some individuals in the airport who do not welcome me with open arms, a regrettable state of affairs.’
Patti tried to sit back on the hard upright chair and look as relaxed as she could in the circumstances. She would have killed for a cigarette but did not want to give Branco the satisfaction of asking for one.
‘So,’ he began, all business. ‘Our meeting at the football match was planned?’
‘I don’t have to answer your questions. You’re not the police.’
‘No. I am not. But, believe me, I am far more powerful than them. Now, let’s begin again. Was our meeting at the stadium planned?’
Although he had, as yet, not laid a finger upon her, she could feel the goose bumps rising on her flesh, could sense that she was trying to withdraw away from him as far as the confines of the room would permit.
‘No,’ she replied in a voice that did not seem to belong to her.
‘Who gave you the ticket for the match?’
‘My friend.’
‘Who is?’
‘Mark Rossetti.’ Was that a betrayal or was she helping him by demonstrating that she had nothing to hide?
‘Your lover?’
‘Mind your own fucking business.’
Branco shook his head in mock disapproval.
‘In my country our women do not swear unless they are whores. They cook and they clean and they have babies. They are faithful and devoted to their men. They are more often than not virgins when they marry and before and after marriage they go to church and they light candles. Are you a whore, Miss Delaney?’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘Good. We have a straight answer to a question. Perhaps we can build upon that start. So, you say you didn’t plan to meet me at the match.’
Patti glanced at her watch. Forty-five minutes to take-off.
‘Th
is is getting really boring.’
‘Fine. Let me make it more interesting. If you didn’t plan to meet me, then how did you know who I was?’
‘I’d been told about you. I’d seen photographs.’
‘You read the Colombian newspapers?’
‘No, but I read the international press. I surf the internet. I’m a journalist. It’s my job. If I’m visiting somewhere I have to make it my business to discover as much as I can about that country in case the opportunity arises to write something.’
He nodded, digesting the reply, analysing it like a spider dissecting the prey that is caught in its web.
‘You were here to write a story about drugs?’
She realised that all of his questions were also statements as if he were going through the motions to demonstrate that she was being given a fair trial, but as judge and jury he knew all the answers already.
‘No, I wasn’t originally here to write a story about drugs. I was here to be with Mark and to watch a football match. I saw you, I recognised you and I thought it might be an opportunity.’
‘A woman and football?’
‘Not unusual any more, at least not in our country. That’s how I first met Mark, when I tried to interview him.’
She bit her lip, annoyed that she was confiding in this man, when she had been determined to answer in monosyllables if she were to answer at all.
‘Do you go to bed with everybody you interview?’
She did not give him the satisfaction of answering that one and, having made what he thought was a joke, he did not press her for one.
‘So, your decision to ask me for an interview was on the spur of the moment?’
‘Yes.’
‘And if we had not seen each other then you would have just watched the match, cheered your team on, gone to the reception, returned to the hotel, made love with your man and then gone back to England with fond memories of Colombia?’
