He wondered where Wynwood was now. Either dead or back in England, he supposed.
A key sounded in the lock. Thinking it was the guard come to get the breakfast tray, Anderson did not bother to turn round.
‘Señor,’ said a voice he had not heard before. It belonged to a young man with blue eyes and a scar that split his left cheek. ‘Come with me, please,’ he said. The voice seemed almost liquid, Anderson thought irrelevantly. But polite, he added to himself. If he was being invited to his execution at least he was being invited politely. He walked past the pale blue eyes and out through the door.
‘This way,’ Chirlo said, leading him down a corridor, past what looked like a security centre, and up a flight of stairs to the first floor. Another short corridor led out onto a wide upper verandah where a man was pouring coffee into three cups from a silver jug. Beyond him lay a panoramic view of the valley leading down to the river.
‘Buenos dias, Señior Anderson – that is your name, yes?’ the man said in Spanish. ‘Please have a seat. I am Ramón Amarales and this,’ he added, indicating Anderson’s escort, ‘is Chirlo.’
Anderson sat down. Perhaps at last he was going to be told something of his future.
He accepted the proffered cup of coffee and suddenly noticed the book on the table. It was a Spanish translation of a well-known British book on the SAS.
Amarales noticed his look of surprise. ‘I am a great fan of the SAS,’ he said, stirring his own coffee. Chirlo, as usual, had taken a seat in the shadows. ‘Did you not notice anything familiar about our operation in Malverdes?’
‘The SAS doesn’t usually attack political rallies,’ Anderson said.
‘But the method – it was borrowed from your own attack on the Embassy of Iran in London in 1980.’
Anderson smiled. ‘We didn’t leave an escape route open at the back.’
‘Of course not. I am not claiming our men are trained to anything like the SAS’s level of efficiency. Yet. But I would like them to be. This is why we are having this talk. I would like you to help train my men.’
‘You must …’
‘Before you say anything, Señor Anderson, let me finish. I have made some enquiries as to how much you are being paid in the SAS – very little, it seems to me, for all that you are prepared to do and risk. I will give you five times your annual salary for a mere ten weeks of your time as an adviser.’
‘I …’
‘One more thing. You will doubtless have one of two major objections to this. If you are a typical honest Englishman you will not want to work for a “drug baron”, is that not so? Well, I think once you know more about the realities of our situation here in Colombia you may find it hard to see any great moral difference between working for the Amarales family and working for the families who run the Government in Bogotá. At one level we are all what you would call crooks, at another we are all just trying to make our way in a jungle that is not of our making.
‘If, on the other hand, you are not so “honest”, then you may be wondering how you will explain deserting your unit for ten weeks to earn a fortune. But you need not worry about that. It can be easily worked out, believe me. For all anyone knows, you are our prisoner. And there are many ways to arrange payment.’
Anderson smiled. ‘You have not reminded me of the great objection to refusing you – what will happen to me if I do refuse.’
‘Nothing. At present your embassy in Bogotá is considering a demand for half a million US dollars as the price of your return. I expect you have more idea than me whether they will agree to this …’
‘No,’ Anderson said. He did not have a clue.
‘Well,’ Amarales continued, ‘if they are prepared to spend billions on recovering the Malvinas for a thousand shepherds, then it would seem sensible to pay half a million for a highly trained officer like yourself. But …’ He shrugged. ‘I am offering no threats. As you can imagine, money like that is always welcome, but I would rather have your services for those ten weeks if possible.’
Anderson was not sure how to respond. ‘Can I think it over?’ he asked.
‘Of course.’
‘And what about Señor Muñoz?’
‘I don’t think there’s much he can teach us …’ Amarales said.
Chirlo laughed, making his presence felt for the first time since the conversation began.
‘So it’s just a matter of ransom,’ Amarales continued. ‘A million dollars in his case. He comes from a very wealthy family,’ he added. ‘The ones who care so much about the poor usually do.’ He looked at Anderson. ‘Were you in the Malvinas, by the way?’
‘Yes,’ Anderson said, seeing no reason to deny it.
‘Excellent,’ Amarales said. ‘I would like to talk to you about the reconquest some evening. I have read many accounts of the battles, but there are several questions which never seem to be answered.’
Anderson said nothing.
‘Very well then,’ Amarales said in dismissal. Chirlo rose from his seat and accompanied the SAS man back downstairs, not saying a word. The key turned in the lock once more, leaving Anderson feeling the need for someone to talk to.
He walked through to the adjoining room, where Muñoz was lying on his head gazing at another pornographic comic. ‘They want a million dollars for you,’ he told the Colombian. ‘The man himself just told me.’
‘Amarales?’ Muñoz pulled himself up to lean against the headboard. ‘I expect my father will pay,’ he said. ‘What about you?’
‘He only wants half as much for me. But he’d rather pay me to stay on voluntarily to train his goons.’
‘I shouldn’t put too much store by any promises he makes,’ Muñoz said. ‘And don’t make the mistake of thinking that because he’s a well-spoken Spaniard he won’t just have you killed. These people only understand the law of the jungle, my friend.’
That’s what he said about you, Anderson thought. Jesus, what a country. He would swap all these fucking mountains for one square foot of Morecambe Bay mud. If he ever got the chance.
It was soon after five when their plane completed its descent into the mountain bowl which housed the capital of Ecuador.
The first flight, across the Atlantic, had been uneventful. Chris had drunk, slept and browsed through The South American Handbook; Eddie had drunk, slept and watched the movie; the Dame had drunk and read Wilbur Smith. Shortly after noon US Eastern Time they had landed in a grey-skied Miami, and spent another two hours in a departure lounge.
The AeroPeru flight to Ecuador was notable only for the identical gorgeousness of two of the hostesses. They had eaten their third major meal in nine hours and watched an American movie with Spanish subtitles that featured an English torturer working for a corrupt Latino crime syndicate. It had not seemed like a particularly good omen, but the twins had smiled at them as they left the plane.
Customs and Immigration took an irritating amount of time, but otherwise there were no problems. It was almost dark by the time they had found a taxi for the ride into the city.
London had booked three rooms for them at the Hotel Valencia. The receptionist seemed blissfully unaware of this, and after fifteen minutes of argument tiredness was turning irritation into anger. Fortunately, at this moment someone arrived from the embassy, a few notes changed hands, and the reservation was discovered. They went up to their rooms, which were in a line on the second floor front, overlooking the park.
They all trooped into Chris’s room. The man from the embassy – ‘just call me Stephen’ – underlined what the briefers at Hereford had told them, that they would need a couple of hours’ rest before their bodies were ready to cope properly with 2700 metres of altitude.
‘No problem,’ they all agreed.
Stephen arranged to come back at nine that evening, and the three SAS men went to their rooms and laid themselves out.
Eddie could not rest. And he felt fine. He decided that as long as he did nothing too strenuous he would not have any problems. They
would probably be heading north in the morning, and who knew when he would ever get to see Quito again. It was not exactly next door to Hackney.
He pushed a note under Chris’s door and went out. The streets seemed fuller than when they had driven in, as if everyone had suddenly come out for an evening stroll. There were eating-places everywhere, and walking along the pavements of the old city was like moving through a long line of delicious smells. It was almost enough to make him feel hungry.
He reached a square where a small band was playing, surrounded by a large circle of onlookers. In a farther corner of the same square three jugglers were practising, throwing tenpins between them. It all seemed extraordinarily alive.
Down a narrow side street he got a surprise – pride of place on a stall selling posters belonged to a large picture of a topless Samantha Fox. ‘And they say our exports are shrinking,’ Eddie murmured to himself. Almost as incomprehensibly, most of the other posters seemed to be of Swiss scenery. He had been under the impression that Ecuador had mountains of its own.
It was gone eight now, yet the shops were all still open. A bookshop had a window display devoted to the Galápagos Islands, which made him think of Chris and his wildlife fetish. Chris had been moaning all day that he had not had time to get a book about South American birds.
They had one inside. It was heavy, would cost most of his cash, but looked good. He bought it and started back for the hotel.
Chris was waiting for him. ‘If you collapse from altitude sickness don’t expect me to carry you,’ he said angrily.
‘You’ll be too busy carrying this,’ Eddie said handing him the book.
Chris looked at it. ‘Oh you bastard,’ he said. ‘You beautiful bastard.’ He grabbed Eddie and kissed him on the forehead.
‘I thought you two were only into women,’ the Dame said from the doorway.
‘And goats,’ Eddie corrected him.
‘Gentlemen,’ Stephen said from over the Dame’s shoulder.
He shut the door behind him, paused theatrically, and gave them the same time and place Oliver had given Wynwood.
‘How long will it take us?’ Chris wanted to know.
Stephen considered. ‘Four hours to the border, two to get across, five or six more to Popayán.’
‘Looks like an early start,’ Eddie said.
Wynwood had been woken from his siesta that afternoon by the phone. ‘Your car’s in the hotel parking lot,’ Oliver told him. ‘A green Fiat Uno, registration 6785 B 34. It’s on hire from Hertz. There are some maps in the glove compartment which I thought you’d find useful. The keys are at the desk.’
‘Is the hotel bill paid,’ Wynwood asked.
‘Until tomorrow lunchtime.’
‘OK …’
‘Only call me if you have to,’ Oliver reiterated. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
‘Over and out,’ Wynwood said and hung up. He sat on the side of the bed for a moment. ‘No time like the present,’ he murmured to himself. He gathered up his belongings, packed them into the blue holdall he had brought from England, and left the hotel by the back exit. He found the car, threw the holdall in the back seat, re-entered the hotel by the back door, picked up the key and left again through the front.
In the car he spent several minutes examining a large-scale road map of the country, and made a snap decision. The quickest route to Popayán was via Ibagué and Cali, but he did not fancy retracing his route of three days before. The route via Neiva had dubious roads and would probably be an even longer drive than it looked, but he had plenty of time and it felt safer. It was the way to go.
He pulled the Fiat out into the afternoon traffic. Twenty minutes later he was skirting the ridge of the bowl which contained the city, and heading south on the aptly named Carretera del Sur.
At what seemed the last major intersection before the city fell away he found what he was looking for – a fellow-Caucasian hitchhiker. And a female one to boot.
She had to be crazy, he thought as he pulled over, a single woman hitching in a country as macho as it was lawless. And she was certainly not unattractive, he discovered as she climbed gratefully into the front seat. Her hair was long and blonde, framing a face that seemed instantly welcoming. ‘Hi,’ she said in the American accent he had expected, stretching long legs to hoist her rucksack into the back seat.
‘Hi,’ he said.
‘Where you headed?’ she asked.
‘Neiva,’ he said. ‘That do you?’
‘It’s great. I’ve been standing there nearly an hour – anywhere’s great. But Neiva’s on my way.’
‘To where?’ Wynwood asked. He could hardly credit she had been there that long. Maybe it was National Celibacy Week in Colombia.
‘San Agustn, you know?’
‘No, what’s there?’
‘Wow, don’t you know?’ she said, unable to believe his ignorance. ‘It’s like the biggest tourist attraction in Colombia almost. After Cartagena, maybe. There’s lots of old statues – really old statues, from before Columbus, you know – and they’re spread out on green hills in this gorgeous valley. But that’s not all – it’s like a kind of place where there’s a lot of, you know, travelling people living there. Some have been there for twenty years, ever since the hippie trail started down to Peru in the sixties. It’s a really peaceful place.’
‘You’ve been there before?’
‘No, but I know people who have. Everyone says it’s the one place in Colombia you have to see.’
‘Maybe I’ll get there,’ Wynwood said.
‘Where do you come from?’ she asked. ‘Are you English?’
‘Welsh,’ he said. ‘My name’s Joss.’
‘I’m Bobbie,’ she said. ‘From San Diego. How far is it to Neiva?’
‘Just over three hundred kilometres.’
She absorbed the information. ‘I’ll have to stay the night there,’ she thought out loud. ‘Do you know anywhere good to stay?’
‘No,’ Wynwood said absent-mindedly. The black Merc two cars behind him seemed to have been there as long as he could remember. Or was he just getting paranoid? He would find out when they stopped for a drink.
‘Shall we have some music?’ Bobbie was asking.
‘I don’t have any,’ Wynwood said.
‘I do,’ she said, leaning back over the seat again and rummaging in her rucksack.
He had been afraid of that. A few seconds later Mick Hucknall’s voice was echoing round the car. It could have been worse, Wynwood thought. At least it wasn’t grunge or Barry Manilow. And it might stop her talking. It didn’t, but he didn’t really mind.
She was quite entertaining, brighter than she was knowledgeable, and older than she looked. Closer to thirty than twenty, a lot closer. As they swapped tales of their countries and families and travels he began to get the sense that she had been pretty bruised by something or someone, and for some reason that made him like her the more. He had always been a sucker for wounded birds.
Through Fusagasuga he drove, and down from the mountains and into the Magdalena valley, the heat rising to meet them like a damp mist. They crossed the river at Girardot and headed south up its valley, passing the turn-off to Ibagué and Cali as the sun disappeared beyond the western crest. Behind them the black Merc kept its hundredmetre distance, only passing them when Wynwood stopped at a small and grubby roadside stall for two bottles of coke. Three kilometres farther on it pulled back onto the road behind them.
So who was it, Wynwood wondered. Amarales family goons? That seemed the best bet, but how the hell had they traced him? It did not say much for Oliver’s security, or for any hopes of achieving surprise in any action against the drug lords. For all he knew the men in the Merc – he assumed there was more than one – were Colombian police or security people in the pay of one of the drug cartels.
Either way, he had to shake them off. His thoughts turned to when, where and how. If it had not been for Bobbie he would have opted for somewhere near and soon. Picking her
up to give him protective colouring might have been a good idea, but it looked like he had picked up the tail before her. Now the protective colouring was more like a millstone. He could always just dump her somewhere, but he would have found it hard to dump his worst enemy by a Colombian highway at nightfall, let alone a pretty American blonde with a faith in humanity that verged on the suicidal.
But once in Neiva both he and the car would be more exposed and more vulnerable. And whatever happened he did not want it to happen in front of witnesses. He needed to stay as invisible as a Welshman could in Colombia; he needed to reach Popayán with no one in pursuit.
And even if he had been willing to let his presence be known there was no way he could trust the local authorities. God only knew whose side those in Neiva were on – he might find himself arrested on some trumped-up charge that night and handed over to the Amarales tomorrow.
It had to be before Neiva. And he had to get Bobbie out of the way. A good-sized roadside restaurant, he thought. He had not given his pursuers much warning of his departure from Bogotá, so unless they kept a picnic hamper permanently stashed in their back seat they were probably as hungry as he was. He started watching out for one.
Bobbie, he discovered, had fallen asleep to her Joan Armatrading tape, her mouth slightly open, revealing a pink tongue and perfect American teeth.
He found the restaurant half an hour later, and pulled in to the large parking lot. He nudged her awake. ‘Dinner time,’ he said. ‘My treat.’
‘That’s very nice of you,’ she said, eyes shining.
‘Can you go in and get us a table,’ he said. ‘I’ll be with you in a few minutes.’
She looked surprised but said OK.
Once she was gone he recovered the cross-draw holster from the holdall and put it on. He slipped the Browning in, and pulled the windcheater on over his shirt.
Outside the car the air was hot and sticky. The restaurant was perched between the highway and the Magdalena, whose wide dark waters rolled majestically along fifty metres to his right. Wynwood walked across to the front door, brushing insects from his face.
Soldier D: The Colombian Cocaine War Page 10
