Soldier D: The Colombian Cocaine War

by David Monnery

  Chris examined the cup, then the giver. ‘Christ, you must have had a good Christmas. You look bloody awful.’

  ‘Thanks. I didn’t get much sleep last night, that’s all. I’ll kip on the train.’

  ‘And why didn’t you get much sleep?’

  ‘I was deep in sexual ecstasy. There were these four nymphomaniacs – one blonde, one Chinese, one black and one Arab princess – and they were passing me round.’

  ‘I expect they were all trying to get rid of you.’

  Eddie laughed. ‘How was yours? You don’t look that good yourself.’

  ‘I think I’m in love.’

  Eddie groaned. ‘Not again. Another simple peasant girl, is it? A shepherdess, something like that?’

  ‘Something like that. She works at Essex University, some sort of admin job, I think. We didn’t have much time for talking.’

  ‘Well, country folks do speak slowly. Funny that – you’d think with a smaller vocabulary it’d be easier to find the right words, not harder.’

  Chris eyed him with affection. ‘Have you finished? Molly is about as slow up top as Nigel Mansell’s gear-stick. And gorgeous.’

  ‘Breasts like peaches?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Thighs to die for?

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘And you’re in love.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘How’d she take the news of your sudden departure?’ Eddie asked.

  Chris grimaced. ‘She doesn’t know yet. I’ll ring her from Hereford.’ He sighed. ‘We were going out tonight.’

  Eddie patted him on the shoulder. ‘Cheer up. Let’s go and find this train.’ He picked up his bag, thinking he would ring Lisa when they arrived.

  * * *

  Ramón Amarales was watching from the upper verandah when the red car came into view on the valley road. He had a shrewd idea why his brother was paying him a visit so early in the morning, and was not exactly looking forward to the confrontation.

  Not that he ever really looked forward to seeing Miguel. Or his sister Victoria, who was due back in Popayán from Bogotá that day. Though he, Ramón, was the head of the family, neither sibling had ever given him any respect. They just spent the money he made for them.

  Miguel was supposedly the good-looking one, the sociable one. And, by his own reckoning, the intelligent one. Ramón did not deny his brother was handsome, but anyone with any intelligence would have thought twice about tying himself to that Escobar bitch. He wondered if the woman stopped shopping when they were in bed. She had to have more dresses than Imelda Marcos had shoes. Victoria, he admitted, was intelligent. But what had she done with her brains? She had married an idiot too, albeit one who was rather more useful to the family than Maria Escobar. He bored her, and presumably she had affairs. Otherwise, as far as Ramón could see, she did nothing but read French magazines, ski and paint her toenails.

  He poured himself another coffee from the silver jug on the tray, added two spoons of sugar and resumed his position, leaning against one of the verandah supports.

  Miguel’s car was being allowed through the outer perimeter gate. Against the sweep of green mountains the red car seemed almost like an insult. But then Miguel had always preferred the city to the real Colombia. Maybe he was intelligent in his way, but he had about as much wisdom as his wife.

  ‘Juanita,’ Ramón called through the open door. ‘Fetch Chirlo for me.’ He liked having his chief sicario with him at such times, mostly because he knew Miguel disliked the man.

  The car cruised up through the paddock towards the second gate, causing the two Arabian horses to canter away towards the stream.

  ‘Yes, patrón,’ a soft voice said behind Ramón.

  ‘Chirlo, have some coffee. Miguel has come,’

  Rodrigo Sepulveda smiled and helped himself. He was twenty-four years old and looked younger, with clear blue eyes that looked out from under long, light-brown hair. The scar which gave him the nickname Chirlo ran horizontally across his left cheek like an African tribal mark. He sat down in one of the two rocking chairs, idly stirring his coffee.

  The sound of footsteps on the stairs preceded Miguel Amarales’s appearance in the doorway. He looked, Ramón thought, more than ever like a male model. Long black hair framed his Castilian features, the luxuriant moustache was cut to perfection, the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up to reveal a gold watch on one wrist, a gold bracelet on the other. He might not have been a resounding academic success at UCLA, but his fashion sense had been honed to perfection.

  ‘Why?’ he asked angrily, shaking his head and causing a snake-shaped gold earring to dance out from under his hair.

  ‘Have some coffee,’ Ramón suggested. Maybe he should grow a moustache himself, he thought.

  ‘Why didn’t you consult me first?’ Miguel demanded to know.

  ‘You were in Miami, and …’

  ‘I was on my way back.’

  Ramón shrugged. ‘We couldn’t wait.’

  Miguel poured himself a cup, scowling first at his brother, then at Chirlo. ‘So why?’ he asked.

  ‘Leverage,’ Ramón said. ‘And example. If we send Muñoz back he’ll think twice about sounding off quite so much in future. Whatever we do with him, others will think twice.’ He tinkled the ice in his glass. ‘Everyone knows deep down that there’s two sources of power in this country, but we have to remind them occasionally, bring it to the surface of their minds, so to speak. The moment politicians think they can ignore us with impunity we’re finished.’ He shrugged. ‘It was an exercise in realpolitik. And an interesting military exercise, too.’

  ‘Was that the real reason?’

  ‘I’ve given you the real reason,’ Ramón said angrily.

  Miguel half smiled. ‘OK, OK.’ He knew his brother too well. ‘But what made it interesting?’

  Ramón smiled. ‘We based it on the British SAS attack on that embassy in London,’ Ramón said. ‘Which turned out to be somewhat ironic. We caught an SAS man with Muñoz.’

  ‘What are you going to do with him?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe ransom him back to the British. Maybe offer him work helping to train our men. The SAS are the best, you know.’

  ‘Better than the Americans?’ Miguel asked, surprised.

  ‘Oh yes.’

  Miguel looked round. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Upstairs. They only arrived this morning.’

  ‘Have you talked with Noguera?’

  ‘Of course. He and Victoria should be coming to dinner tonight.’

  Miguel grimaced. ‘With an open pocket, no doubt. Our brother-in-law’s needs seem to keep rising.’

  Ramón smiled. ‘He’s the only Military Governor of the province we have. At least for the moment.’

  ‘Maybe. How much are you asking for Muñoz?’

  ‘I haven’t decided yet. Chirlo, what do you think?’

  ‘Patrón?’

  Ramón repeated the question and Chirlo allowed half his mind to consider it. The other half was still busy absorbing the news that his mistress would be coming to the ranch that evening.

  Eddie and Chris took a taxi from the station to Stirling Lines, the SAS headquarters in the Hereford suburb of Redhill. On arrival soon after two they were told there would be a preliminary briefing at 1600 hours in the ‘Kremlin’.

  ‘Who else has been called back?’ Chris asked the orderly sergeant.

  ‘Just you two, the Dame and Monkey. But …’

  ‘They here yet?’

  ‘No. The Dame’s being flown in from Belfast. But it looks like Monkey’s not going to make this one. He broke a leg playing rugby yesterday.’

  ‘Probably on someone’s teeth,’ Eddie murmured. He got on OK with Monkey on a superficial level, but he had never been in a tight spot with the man, and he was not sure he wanted to be. He might be wrong – others had found him all right – but he had no great desire to find out. The myth about the SAS – that all three hundred of them got on with each othe
r like best buddies – was just that, a myth. They got on with each other because they all had the self-discipline not to let the ones they did not like get too far up their noses.

  ‘You know what this is about, boss?’ Chris was asking the order sergeant.

  ‘Yes thanks,’ the sergeant said with a smile. ‘And so will you come 1600 hours.’

  ‘C’mon,’ Eddie said. ‘Let’s do an hour in the gym.’

  They walked back to their adjoining rooms, and met outside again ten minutes later in shorts and singlets.

  ‘If Monkey’s kaput we’ll need another signaller,’ Chris mused.

  ‘Looks like it.’ Each four-man team had a specialist signaller, medic, engineer and linguist. Most had an array of secondary skills, more so with each year of service.

  Eddie was the linguist in this proposed team – thanks to two long summers in his teens working as a bouncer on the Costa del Sol – but he had also acquired a good grounding in communications during a stint in Northern Ireland the previous year. Chris was primarily the medic, but there was not much he didn’t know about boats, and he had more than a smattering of Spanish. Damien – the Dame – was the engineer, with special expertise in laying and defusing explosives.

  ‘The Dame’s got Spanish too, hasn’t he?’ Eddie said, as he set the weights on the backbreaker. ‘I hope to Christ it’s not Gibraltar,’ Chris said.

  Wynwood climbed out of the shower, pulled on his shorts, carefully sniffed himself, and pronounced himself satisfied. The stiff nail-brush someone had abandoned in his hotel bathroom had removed the last traces of the Cali rubbish mountains.

  He unfastened the window and examined the outside world. The sky was clear, the air delightfully warm, like an early summer day on the Gower. He had grown to like Bogotá in the two or three days he and Andy had spent there after their arrival back in November. Maybe they had only seen the nice bits, but the place had a good feel to it.

  If he could only get his wife out of his head he could enjoy his last few days there as well.

  Having something to do would help. He checked his watch – twenty minutes till he was supposed to meet the man from the British Embassy. Oliver his name was, though whether that was his first name or last Wynwood did not know.

  Wynwood dressed, left his room and made his way downstairs. The man on the desk gave him a cheerful ‘buenos dias’ He smiled back and walked out onto Carrera 7. Across the street a white-towered church almost blazed in the sunlight.

  The Museum of Gold was only a ten-minute walk away. Oliver had said it opened at ten, and a queue had already formed by the time Wynwood arrived. Rather than join it he sat down on a wrought-iron seat in the square across the street, watching for anyone who might look like his contact.

  He had only been there a few seconds when a soft voice echoed in his ear: ‘Wynwood?’ He turned to find a slightly plumper version of Bobby Charlton, a smattering of long fair hairs twisting in the wind above a bald pate. ‘That’s me,’ he replied.

  ‘Oliver,’ the man introduced himself, with what sounded like a faint West Country accent. ‘Pleased to meet you. And congratulations on your escape,’ he added dryly. ‘Shall we go in,’ he said, indicating the museum across the street.

  ‘We could just talk here.’

  ‘Have you been already?’ Oliver asked, sounding disappointed.

  ‘No, but …’

  ‘Well, in that case …’ The embassy man got to his feet. ‘No one should miss the Museum of Gold – it’s Bogotá’s one great attraction.’

  Oh well, in that case, Wynwood thought sarcastically.

  At least Oliver paid for both of them. ‘I have money for you,’ he said as the two walked past a posse of armed guards and up the wide flight of stairs which led to the first-floor galleries.

  ‘Good,’ Wynwood said, and waited for more.

  He waited in vain as Oliver examined an exhibit. Inside a large glass cabinet a skeleton reclined on the earth floor of a tomb, grinning at the ceiling. Gold trinkets hung from its neck, small gold ornaments lay all around – the treasure it had taken, literally, to the grave. And as if to underline the dead man’s failure to buy the intended immortality, spindly roots were writhing in through the walls and ceiling. It was strangely moving, Wynwood thought. It made him think of his father.

  Oliver was already moving on to the next exhibit, a life-sized model of two Indians heating gold in a crucible. A few feet away a mixed group of tourists were having a selection of gold-filigree ear ornaments explained to them in both English and Spanish. Beyond them, ten or more uniformed guards toting automatic weapons and communication devices paced up and down in front of a huge mural of palms and mountains.

  I wouldn’t fancy trying to rob this place, Wynwood thought; though planning such a robbery would make a good exercise for continuation training back home. Getting hold of the plans might be somewhat difficult.

  ‘I don’t have much to tell you,’ Oliver was saying by his side. They were now standing in front of the mummified remains of a pre-Columbian woman, who could not have been much more than four feet tall. ‘There is a good chance that your people will be attempting a rescue,’ Oliver continued, so quietly that Wynwood was not sure he had heard him correctly.

  ‘Did you say rescue?’ he asked after a moment.

  ‘Yes. I’m sure you’ll have at least as much idea of what that entails as I do. I’m to tell you that nothing is finally decided. If, I repeat if, London gives the green light, I understand that three men will be sent in to join you for surveillance and preparation. In the meantime, you’re to stay out of sight. Be a tourist.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Come, they only open the Sun Room once an hour.’

  Wynwood followed him up the stairs, absorbing the information he had just been given, working out which questions he should ask. There seemed only one that was relevant. ‘Do you know when the final decision is being taken?’ he asked.

  ‘Probably today,’ Oliver said. ‘There’s a meeting this evening – 8 p.m. London time – so if a decision is taken the embassy should be informed today.’

  The Sun Room occupied the centre of the third floor, and a small crowd was already gathering at its doors. A host of uniformed schoolchildren, all with shining black hair and bright-red uniforms, giggled and poked at each other. Several paler-skinned tourists, most of them looking significantly shabbier than the Colombians in the crowd, chatted to each other in English and German.

  His mind still racing through the possibilities, Wynwood waited with Oliver for the doors to open, then filed in with everyone else. The doors clanged shut behind them, causing one of the tourists to gasp, but a split second later the lights came on in the glass cabinets that lined the walls. Each was top-lit, revealing a shining, beautifully crafted gold headpiece against a blue-black surround.

  Wynwood had to admit to himself it was magical. He turned to find Oliver watching him, a faint smile on his face. ‘OK,’ the SAS man said, ‘you were right, it’s amazing.’

  Oliver half bowed.

  On their way round the rest of the third floor he asked if Wynwood had recognized any of the opposition in Cali.

  ‘Didn’t see a single face,’ Wynwood said. ‘You don’t have any news of Andy – Sergeant Anderson?’

  ‘Not yet. But I’m expecting something on that today as well.’

  ‘Where from?’ Wynwood asked innocently.

  ‘Sources,’ Oliver said curtly. ‘I shall be leaving you now. Your hotel is all right? Good. I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Today?’

  ‘If I have anything to tell you,’ Oliver said over his shoulder.

  Wynwood spent another ten minutes desultorily examining the exhibits, but his heart was not in it. He made his way outside into the sunshine and started walking. Down a nearby street he found an outdoor café, with several metal tables in primary colours spilling across the pavement. He sat down, absent-mindedly studied the menu and watched the world go by.

  Oliver, he guessed, was better a
t his job than he looked. And Colombian women tended to be on the plump side. How the hell was he going to fill up the rest of the day?

  His mind was a blank, he just sat there. As usual, thoughts of Susan came to fill the vacant space. The two of them were through, and they both knew it, and though both felt sad about it – at least he thought she did – neither of them really wanted to turn back the clock. The marriage had run its course – that was all there was to it. They had both accepted it in their heads, and she seemed to have accepted it in her heart as well. Why the fuck couldn’t he?

  She can accept it, a voice in his head reminded him, because she’s fucking that bastard teacher she met at her fucking watercolour fucking painting fucking evening class.

  ‘What would you like, sir?’ a waiter asked, apparently not noticing the anger still infusing his customer’s eyes.

  Wynwood ordered a black coffee. It was the sense of failure that he found hard to cope with, he decided. And losing Andy as well. Oliver had congratulated him on his escape, but he knew better. They had fucked up somewhere along the line, and he had had the luck which had obviously deserted his partner. He wanted the chance to do something right.

  Several shoeshine boys inspected his boots with optimistic interest, but he sent them all away – there was something he didn’t like about the idea of someone kneeling at his feet. Something demeaning, though who it demeaned he was not sure. The boys certainly showed no signs of embarrassment – in fact they carried their little wooden boxes with a definite swagger.

  A trio of Colombian girls – young women really – probably secretaries – sat down at a nearby table. An Indian walked by, wearing a black hat with an embroidered headband. He stopped to look back at the woman trailing twenty metres behind him, who was carrying a huge pile of similar hats in a polythene sack on her back. The noble savage, Wynwood thought.

  Yellow taxis went by in profusion. A man suddenly appeared alongside his table, one arm outstretched towards him, the other cut off in a neat stump. ‘No,’ he said instinctively.

  The coffee finally arrived.

  ‘How are you doing, lads?’ a voice said from the doorway.