Crash Course

by Derek Fee

  “We’ll be there soon,” Safardi said as their vehicle bumped along the rough track.

  Kane didn’t have to look behind to know that the second car was on their tail. The area they were entering was desolate. He noticed a large yellow sign on the side of the road with a red arrow pointing directly ahead and the words ‘Las Marismas’ beneath it. They had been driving for an hour and Kane still had no idea of the purpose of the journey although he was certain that there was a very definite objective. “What does Las Marismas mean?” he asked.

  “The swamps,” Jaime said.

  “Not really the swamps but more the marshlands,” Safardi added. “You are about to enter one of the few remaining wildernesses in Europe.” Safardi controlled the Range Rover as it hit a bump and skewed to the right, brushing against a clump of tall weeds. “The only area which compares is the Camargue in France.”

  “The wilderness has never been my big thing,” Kane replied. “Although I do seem to have spent the best part of my life either living in one or tramping around one.”

  “This wilderness is called the Coto Doñana.” Safardi glanced at the low marshlands. “At the moment it is a protected area but the developers and their bulldozers are waiting for any lack of resolve on the part of the Spanish government to keep it that way.”

  They appeared to be heading directly for a large gate in the middle of a wire mesh fence. As they approached, a man stepped out of the bushes and opened the gate.

  They were travelling through the edges of the great swamps which dominate the Coto Doñana. The edges of the marshes had already begun to dry and the summer heat had left the earth cracked and broken. Kane could see the outline of the great primeval swamps sending out streaks of water into tiny creeks like streams of tears. In the distance, strands of reeds swayed in the light breeze while clumps of pine trees stood out in relief against the light brown sand dunes.

  They bounced along a barely discernible track past glades of trees sporting thick green foliage. Two kilometres of rough track terminated in a large lake of still blue water bordered by a dense pine grove. By the edge of the grove, someone had constructed a small, rough, rectangular hut of grass and rushes. There was a door in the hut and peepholes had been cut at intervals along its length.

  “Our destination.” Safardi swept his hand around the scene of absolute serenity. A heat haze rose from the still waters.

  Safardi and Kane stepped down as the second vehicle pulled in directly behind them.

  The leaden heat and humidity of summer brought trickles of sweat running down Kane’s face and neck.

  Four men, also Latinos, perhaps even Colombians, stepped out of the second car. Kane hadn’t seen them before but he assumed that they were guards at the villa. As soon as all the occupants had alighted, Safardi began to march in the direction of the pines. Kane followed.

  The eight men formed a line weaving down a narrow trail towards the oasis of green among the trees. At last they reached an open area bordering a pool of water. Thick branches of grotesquely shaped cork oak trees surrounded the edges of the glade some sending out horizontal branches like gangplanks several feet above the water.

  A sense of unease had now come over Kane. He was walking towards a heavily wooded glade with seven armed men. You didn’t have to be a member of Mensa to know that there was danger in the air. This wouldn’t be a picnic and Kane’s brief acquaintance with Safardi told him that there was an ulterior motive for their little excursion. He had not been brought to the Doñana to view the wildlife.

  They walked on into the clump of pine trees which stretched for several hundred yards in a dense mass. The branches of individual trees and bushes twisted towards each other creating an interweaving of green leaves and cones which cut out much of the bright sunshine. The air inside was thick and heavy.

  They reached a glade and Safardi stopped bringing their little parade to a halt.

  “This will do nicely,” Safardi said in his clipped military-style English.

  The seven other men piled into the narrow clearing after their leader.

  “You are about to witness an exceptional spectacle,” Safardi said. “Have you ever seen true professional killers at work?”

  Kane didn’t answer. He’d seen all kinds of killing. Professional and amateur.

  “As I already told you, Pedro and Jaime are Bogota street children,” Safardi said expanding on his theme. “They were stealing, murdering and raping at an age when most children are learning how to read. Do you know the average life expectancy of the Bogota street children? Ten years of age. If they don’t kill each other, then the nightly death squads are there to do the job. It’s the ideal breeding ground for men who kill without conscience. The mark of Cain is indelibly cut into their foreheads. The Medellín Cartel occasionally rummage about in the sewers for their most promising recruits. And once selected, the cartel provides their troops with plenty of on-the-job training both in Colombia and the United States.” Safardi looked around his men in the clearing. “Do you know, Mark, that from a business point of view one of the most important lessons which military history teaches us is that the foremost quality any superior can look for in his subordinates is loyalty? Without the absolute loyalty of their troops no great general from Attila the Hun to General Schwarzkopf could ever have accomplished their goals. In the case of an operation which is carried out clandestinely, absolute loyalty is vital.”

  Kane shuffled nervously. He had received and given the same lecture many times himself. This was Safardi as the good officer lecturing the troops. All that was missing was the uniform and the swagger stick.

  “Loyalty can, of course, be bought with money. But loyalty can also be bought by fear. All good soldiers are motivated by fear. You pose me a different kind of problem. I need your absolute loyalty because of the task with which I am entrusting to you. Yet how can I guarantee that you will carry out this task with the requisite loyalty?”

  “You’re paying me a whole lot of money,” Kane said. There were beads of sweat forming on the olive skin of Safardi’s forehead.

  “Yes, there is the money. But you may not be clear as to how far I will go in ensuring that you will not in any way jeopardise the operation you are about to undertake for me. Our acquaintance has been too short for me to have instilled in you how ruthless I am.” Safardi clicked his fingers and two of the guards quickly grabbed the man who stood between them.

  “This is Jesus,” Safardi said walking to the man who was now being held firmly by the men on either side of him. Jesus struggled in vain against his captors and there was a look of stark terror in his eyes. “Jesus is one of my Spanish employees who should owe me absolute loyalty. I pay him well for this loyalty.” Safardi stopped in front of the man and punched him savagely in the stomach. Jesus doubled over but was firmly held in place by his captors. “This piece of human filth has been stealing from me to feed his habit.” Safardi punched Jesus a second time. A bead of sweat ran down Safardi’s hawk nose and fell to the parched earth at his feet. “But even a piece of filth such as this has its uses.” Safardi was walking up and down in lecture mode again. He nodded to Jaime and Pedro and the two Colombians stepped forward. “Deal with him.”

  Kane could smell the stench of fear and urine which emanated from the stunned Jesus. The wave of apprehension which passed around Safardi’s men as the Colombians pushed the two men holding the prone figure out of the way was palpable. For the first time since he had seen Pedro, Kane noticed signs of animation in the Colombian’s thin face. Jaime let his Uzi slide back on its strap in order to grasp the prone figure of Jesus. A murmur ran around the men standing in the clearing and one or two shuffled their feet.

  Jesus voided himself in fear and the stench of faeces was added to the smells of the glade.

  “Now,” Safardi shouted.

  The Colombians moved in perfect tandem performing like some well-rehearsed stage act. Jaime jerked Jesus’ head back sharply and Pedro ran a knife smoothly across hi
s throat. Before the wound could bleed properly, Pedro shoved his free hand into the fresh gash pushing the loose jaw upwards. In the same movement, he pulled Jesus’ tongue out amid a torrent of bright red blood and left it hanging through the gaping hole in the man’s neck. Jaime released his grip on Jesus and the Spaniard stood for a second like some grotesque doll. Blood soaked his shirt and flowed down his exposed tongue before dripping into the pool forming at his feet. He swayed momentarily and then collapsed forward into his own blood.

  Kane watched the scene in fascination, only partially aware of the retching noise behind him as one of the guards threw up at the rear of the clearing. Violent death was nothing new for him. But this was something altogether more horrific. This was the first time that a death had been organised as a spectacle specifically to impress him. He was appalled that human beings could behave in this fashion but he tried to hide his feelings. He knew that he was being watched by Safardi and his crew. Any show of weakness now and he could end up like the recently deceased Jesus. You fucking scum, Kane thought as he tried to control himself. He wanted to throw himself at these animals. Another thought assailed him. If he betrayed these people, he had better be prepared to go the whole distance. Anything less would be a severe threat to him and possibly to Morweena. Going rogue didn’t look like such a good idea after all.

  Pedro turned Jesus’ prone body over so that those assembled in the clearing could admire his handiwork. The Colombian’s left arm was drenched in the Spaniard’s blood to the elbow but he seemed to be oblivious to the fact.

  “You have seen the perfect demonstration of the Colombian necktie.” There was an edge of excitement in the Arab’s voice.

  The bastard likes killing, Kane thought. Safardi was getting off on the obscene spectacle which had taken place before their eyes. He felt a wave of revulsion washing over him and remembered the picture of Lamont, the French detective. He would bring this bastard down no matter what it cost.

  The drug baron slapped Jaime and Pedro on the shoulder. “My Medellín contacts sent me only the best. Is not Pedro as consummate a killer as any trained falcon? Such grace and such skill.” Safardi squeezed the Colombian’s shoulder.

  The thin Colombian stood smiling at his master’s pleasure like a trained animal.

  “Bury this garbage,” Safardi said and the guards picked up their ex-colleague. Jesus’ head rolled back, exposing for the last time the gaping wound in its full grotesqueness. “Don’t bury him too deep,” Safardi added. “The creatures of the Doñana also have to eat.”

  The guards carried Jesus’ body out of the clearing and into the pines.

  “Is the demonstration over or will there be an encore?” Kane’s mouth had gone completely dry.

  “We’re finished for today.” Safardi released his grip on the two Colombians. “But the question of whether an encore will be necessary remains very much in your court.”

  “The whole exercise was for my benefit?” Kane said, feeling revulsion at Safardi’s methods.

  “I have known about Jesus’ little forays into my cocaine for some time. He was marked for death. The timing was the only variable. It would be a pity if the point of the exercise was completely lost on you.”

  “I think I understand the point well enough,” Kane said coldly.

  “Good.” Safardi smiled. “I would hate to think that Jesus died in vain. I’m trusting you to carry ten million dollars of product. You succeed then you earn what we agreed. You fail and I will give you to Jaime and Pedro. It’s what they call the carrot and stick approach. Please do not make me use the stick.” Safardi’s small sharp white teeth flashed.

  The guards returned and Kane noticed that Pedro had washed the crimson stains from his hand and arm.

  “Let’s get back to the villa.” Safardi began to stride back to the cars. “It’s time for your departure for Galicia.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Doc Watson was sweating bricks. It had taken all his nerve to present himself at the reception of the Carlton and ask for the key to Barrett’s room. He was surprised how easily the clerk passed over the copy of the piece of plastic with the chip. Slipping the card into his jeans pocket, he made for the bank of lifts.

  Morweena watched Doc at the reception. She saw him pocket the key card and make his way to the elevators. As soon as he had disappeared inside, she went to the lifts and pushed one of the buttons, all the time watching the flashing numbers on the lift which he had taken. The door opened beside her and she noticed that his lift had stopped on the fourth floor. She jumped into the elevator and pressed the button for the fourth floor.

  Doc looked along the long bare corridors. If he was lifted in Barrett’s room, there would be hell to pay. He pulled the plastic key out of his pocket and slipped it into the lock. The bell of the lift sounded behind him but he resisted the impulse to turn around and look. He had to behave as though this was his room. He pulled the key out swiftly and sighed with relief as the lock clicked. He pushed the door open and stepped quickly into the room.

  Morweena watched Doc push in the door and, without looking around, go immediately into the room. She knew that he and Reg were staying together in a small pension in the streets behind the Croisette. What the hell was he doing with a key to a room at the Carlton? It wasn’t Mark’s room so whose was it?

  Barrett entered the lobby of the Carlton and hobbled to the reception. He ached all over but he hated hospitals. He was out of there as soon as his legs could carry him. It was an almighty fuck up. Kane was down in Spain moving his load while he’d twiddle his thumbs in Cannes.

  “Four fifteen,” Barrett said.

  The receptionist hesitated.

  “Four fifteen, now!” Barrett was in no mood to put up with hotel staff who felt they were superior to the guests.

  The receptionist looked puzzled but handed over the plastic key.

  Doc pulled open the bottom drawer of the chest in the corner of Barrett’s room. So far, nothing. The sooner he got through with this bit of madness the better. He searched carefully through the shirts and underwear, taking care to disturb them as little as possible.

  Morweena listened at the door but could hear nothing. If Mark was inside, Doc and he must be talking in whispers. She felt a knot in her stomach. Did she really want to know what lay behind that door? If Mark did have attachments that he didn’t want to talk about, shouldn’t she give him the opportunity to sort them out? To hell with it. They were both adults and she wasn’t about to be treated like a child. She rapped on the door.

  Doc turned sharply when he heard the knocking. He closed the drawer and stood like a statue. The knocking came again, louder and more insistent.

  “Doc, I know you’re in there. Now open this door right now,” Morweena said.

  Doc recognised Morweena’s voice and the limbs which were frozen a second ago agreed to move. He walked quickly to the door, opened it, and pulled Morweena into the room.

  “What the…!” Morweena said as she was pulled bodily into the room and the door slammed behind her. “Okay, where is he?” she said as soon as she had regained her composure.

  “Where’s who?” Doc looked puzzled.

  “Mark. Tell him he can come out now.”

  “He’s not here, Morweena. This isn’t his room.”

  “Then whose room is it?”

  “I’ve no idea.” They both had to get out of there quickly.

  “You mean you don’t know where he is or you don’t know whose room this is?”

  “I have no idea where Mark is and this is Barrett’s room.” Sweat was beginning to run down Doc’s face. “We’ve got to get out of here.” He took her by the arm.

  Doc’s heart hit his boots when he heard the click at the door.

  Barrett pushed open the door with his good hand. He stopped dead when he saw the two figures standing at the foot of his bed. He turned and locked the door.

  “Now this is one for the scrapbook.” He walked to the edge of the bed and sat
down heavily. “When the cat is banged up in hospital, the rats are running around his hotel room.”

  “Graham,” Morweena said quickly. “How wonderful to see you out so quickly. Somebody said that you needed new clothes and I enlisted Doc to help me make a bag up for you.”

  “Is that so?” Barrett opened the drawer beside the bed. “How very kind of you, Morweena.” He reached into the recess of the drawer and pulled out a small revolver. “Now unless you give me a good, and reasonable, explanation as to what you’re doing in my room I think we’ll have some fun and games. It might even be a bit like old times, eh, Morweena? Wouldn’t that be fun? Who would like to begin?”

  “Graham, this is not funny. Put away that gun. Someone could get hurt.” She looked anxiously at Doc as though commanding him to come up with something.

  “So, that’s the way it is.” Barrett walked to the closet and removed a tie from the rack. He tossed it to Morweena. “Tie his hands behind his back and do it right. I’ll examine the knot when you’re finished.”

  “And if I don’t?” Morweena was indignant.

  “Then I’ll shoot your mechanic dead.” Barrett’s voice was calm. “I returned and found a burglar in my room. I tackled him and my gun went off.”

  “I’ll tell what happened,” Morweena said.

  “Who says that you’ll be in any condition to speak? Tie him up and use all that nautical skill of yours to make sure he can’t get free.”