by Matt Hilton
For the drop site we had only been given coordinates, but we were in dense forest on the eastern slopes of the Cordillera Central range, somewhere above the city of Ibague. There were highways south of us leading through the passes between the cities of Bogota and Armenia, but here the roads were little more than tracks. Juan Charles, whose father I discovered was an American and explained his fair complexion and blond hair, drove the big 4?4 along the rutted trail like a pro. His darker companion, Hector Nunez, brought us up to speed with the latest communication from Walter.
'The man responsible for hiring Luke Rickard has been identified as Jorge Gutierrez. This may surprise you: he is not a key player in any of the well-known cartels and hasn't featured in any recent intelligence reports.'
'Maybe he's good at concealing his involvement,' I said.
Nunez, who appeared to be the more talkative of the two, nodded. 'There is that. But we,' he indicated his blond friend at the wheel 'have been thinking this through. We think that Gutierrez is yet another front concealing the real person.'
That made a great deal of sense. 'What is his background?'
'DAS.' Nunez almost spat out the acronym.
'He's a police officer?'
'Not like us.'
The way he said it told me that despite being an agent of the American government he was also very proud to be a member of the elite Junglas. By the intensity in his gaze he bore no love for the Department of Administrative Security. Not surprisingly, really. There had been scandals where directors of the Colombian secret police were accused of feeding information to right-wing paramilitary death squads, giving them the names of rebel sympathisers who opposed the president. One director had been imprisoned, such was the strength of the accusations. The DAS had gone down a long way in the seven years since I'd worked alongside Victor Montoya.
It put a whole new slant on who Rickard could be working for. Bryce Lang had been convinced that the murders were tied to the hit we'd carried out on Jesus Henao Abadia and I realised now that I'd been going along with him for want of another motive. Now I wondered if we'd been on the wrong track all along.
Rink and Harvey held their peace but I could feel the heat radiating from them as they made sense of this new information. I leaned forwards, resting a forearm on the back of Nunez's seat. 'You're leading us to do a hit on a member of the security services?'
'Gutierrez is a traitor to his country,' Nunez said.
'You said that he did not feature in any recent intelligence reports, but now you're saying he's a traitor… that's some jump.'
Nunez nodded. He flicked a glance over at the driver. Charles looked at the rear-view mirror and met my gaze staring back at him.
'He is obviously working for one of the death squads who blight this country,' Charles stated. 'The same people who are trying to kill you, Hunter, and the people already responsible for murdering the members of your team. What do you believe that makes him?'
Sitting back in my seat, I grunted in assent. But I wasn't happy. Not for the first time, I had the feeling that those who were supposed to be my allies were using me to meet their own ends. From the stillness of my two friends they were thinking the same thoughts.
'Any sign of Luke Rickard yet?' When all was said and done, that was why I was there, and for whatever reason this situation had come about it really made no difference. Forget the politics: Rickard was my enemy whoever had engaged him to murder my team.
Both Nunez and Charles shook their heads. But then Nunez said, 'He's probably going to the same place as we are.'
And that was good enough for me.
Chapter 31
Rickard didn't have the resources of his Colombian employer to fall back on now but it mattered not. He'd been in the business of killing men for long enough that he'd set up his own network of contacts and had various drops where he stored sufficient weapons, cash and documentation to get a job done. Plus there was his man in Miami, who he could still rely on to arrange the things he couldn't.
Flying direct to Colombia was a no-no, as the likelihood that he'd be spotted was too great a possibility. Instead he arrived in neighbouring Ecuador, having transferred commercial airlines three times. Then he had organised a flight across the border and up towards the district of Tolima, paying hard cash to a one-eyed pilot. Rickard wasn't choosy about the man's lack of vision: he bragged about having been half-blinded by shrapnel when his plane was forced down by DEA agents while doing a narcotics delivery to the US mainland. The pilot had evaded capture, had his wounds tended, then had got right back in the saddle. Rickard admired his tenacity, but not the stench of body odour wafting from him. The man didn't offer a name beyond Romeo and Rickard didn't ask.
The plane put down in a field cleared by local farmers, ready for sowing the next crop of erythroxylaceae, a plant with great significance to the Andean culture and also the basis of the drug cocaine. From there he hitched a ride on the back of a flatbed pick-up truck to a small village that had an unusual profusion of shacks covered in black plastic sheeting.
In what amounted to the village square, he clambered down off the flat-bed and slung his bag of equipment over his shoulder. The pick-up immediately drove away, leaving him standing in the cool breeze washing off the hills round him. There he was met by mistrust and a number of guns levelled at his chest. Rickard looked each of the four men surrounding him in the face. He showed them as much disdain as they directed at him.
Since looking like Joe Hunter was no longer an issue, he'd cut and dyed his hair a sleek black, tinted his skin and added dark contact lenses to his new image. He looked passable as a local, but no one here was fooled. It didn't matter as they knew exactly who he was anyway; if not by name then by reputation.
'Silva didn't see fit to come meet me himself?'
The four men sneered at him now.
'Didn't expect he would,' Rickard shrugged. 'But I didn't think he'd send the Marx Brothers either. Which one of you is Groucho?'
'That would be Guarapo,' said one of the men, slapping the back of a hand to his chest. He was a tall, sloping-shouldered man whose round face looked like he'd done a few rounds in the boxing ring. There were ridges of scar tissue along his eyebrows and his nose had been flattened along the bridge. He indicated that Rickard follow him, while the others made a loose skirmish line behind him. Rickard smiled at the man's naivety as he walked.
Parked under a lean-to was a much newer pick-up than the one Rickard had travelled here on. It had a tarpaulin canopy on the back and bench seats. He didn't expect to ride up front, so Rickard tossed his bag inside and then clambered up, taking a seat at a back corner. Guarapo and a curly-haired man climbed in the front while the others kept Rickard company. They held their assault rifles across their thighs and he thought that if he wished he could take out both of them with his knife before they got off a shot. But to do that would disenfranchise him with the local warlord, Alvaro Silva, and for the time being Rickard needed him.
In recent years Colombia had been in internal strife. Senators and congressmen and even high-ranking members of the secret police had been arrested and tried at the Supreme Court for various crimes including corruption, extortion, funding paramilitary groups and even ordering murder. The president himself hadn't escaped suspicion and neither had his alleged ties to the United Self-Defence Forces of Colombia, known locally as the AUC. For some time now the AUC had been in peace negotiations with the government, but there still remained breakaway groups headed by men like Alvaro Silva. People talked about the cartels when in fact more of the cocaine making its way to the Western world was trafficked by these paramilitary groups. Silva had no love for Rickard's previous employer and would gladly help him wipe out a major rival.
Guarapo drove the pick-up like he owned the roads, honking the horn and demanding right of way whenever he came across another vehicle. There was an excessive amount of braking and swerving and driving with two wheels along verges. Rickard had a feeling that some of the dr
iver's aggressive actions were to unsettle him in the back. Rickard didn't let his discomfort show; he simply sat with his ankles crossed and his hands folded in his lap, smiling wistfully. His armed guards didn't fare so well. They rocked and bounced with each lurch of the vehicle.
The journey took them north through land that alternated between arable pastures and untamed forest. On one occasion Guarapo slowed down as a convoy of vehicles sped by in the other direction. The convoy was made up of buses full of workers destined for coca plantations. They were travelling under guard of Jungla troopers to rip the plants out of the ground. Rickard heard Guarapo swearing savagely from the front. In situations like this, he guessed, Guarapo and his men would follow the workers and try to pick them off from sniper positions on the hillsides. Stuck with transporting him, they had no option but to trust the landmines they'd sown among the coca leaves to derail the effort.
An hour later the truck plodded its way up a winding track overlooking a river valley. Everything here was green and dripping wet. Rickard still kept his cool even when his guards began to sweat and squirm uncomfortably. Both men had stopped watching him some time back and had started a low conversation, muttering and cursing in their native tongue. A few of their comments were aimed surreptitiously his way. But now he noticed that both men had fallen silent. They were approaching their destination and the men were once again preparing themselves to take him under their weapons to their vaunted leader.
Guarapo halted the truck at a checkpoint. He exchanged pleasantries with the two men armed with assault rifles who pulled the temporary sawhorse blockade aside and waved them through. As the truck again picked up speed, Rickard watched the guardsmen muscle the barricade back in place. He couldn't help but think that – for the hidden base of a feared death squad – security was woefully inadequate. If he chose to invade this place he could slip inside, kill Silva and be gone again without anyone noticing.
Guarapo drove the truck over a hill and down into a valley. Trees clung to the slopes, their canopies almost, but not quite, concealing the camp below from aerial observation. Buildings had been erected under the trees, all except for a large white hacienda-type structure standing in its own field. As they drove past, Rickard studied the number of men and vehicles mingling among the trees. Maybe getting in undetected wouldn't be as easy as he'd first assumed.
With a crunch of gravel under the tyres, Guarapo brought the truck to a halt. He banged his hand on the cab wall, shouting in his native language. His voice was garbled but emphatic: out now.
Rickard climbed down, hitching his bag on his shoulder, then walked towards the large ranch house. His guards rushed to surround him.
'Easy, gang,' Rickard said. 'We're all friends here.'
It seemed that Guarapo was the only one of the four who could speak English. Rickard could have conversed with them all in Spanish, but he didn't care to.
'You must give up your weapons before you meet with Senor Silva.'
Rickard shook his head. 'I'm afraid not, Sugar.'
Guarapo was the name of a local drink laced with sugar, a delicacy that was sickly sweet to some palates. It didn't much fit the man's demeanour.
He squinted at Rickard from below his lumpy eyebrows. Not so much at his refusal to hand over his weapons but at the use of the nickname that Rickard chose. 'You know of me?'
'I've heard your name mentioned, yes.' Rickard didn't expound. He simply continued to walk.
'Then you will know I am not a man to be ignored, marricon.'
Rickard grunted at the man's choice of words. He was anything but a faggot. He chose instead to respond to the man's insult by ignoring him.
Guarapo grasped hold of Rickard's elbow, tugging him to a stop. 'No me jodas! You are making a mistake if you think I'm someone to be disregarded like this.'
Rickard unhooked his elbow from the man's grasp. He turned to stare into Guarapo's blunt features. 'I want to meet with your boss, Sugar. When I've done that if you want to renew this conversation then let's do it. However, for now vete al infierno! I've more important matters than to butt heads with someone who smells like a donkey's ass.'
Guarapo blinked slowly. Then a smile grew, showing discoloured teeth. Guarapo lifted his assault rifle so that it was braced across his chest: a reminder of his power. 'You are either insane or you are a very brave man.'
'Maybe I'm both.' Rickard gave a subtle dip of his head, inviting Guarapo to follow his gaze. The tip of Rickard's ceramic knife was a mere hair's breadth from the self-styled soldier's groin. 'Do you still want to contest which of us has the biggest cojones, Sugar?'
'Cono!' Guarapo swore. Then his self-satisfied grin wavered and he edged slowly away.
'I didn't think so.' Rickard turned away from him and continued walking. Behind him he could hear the muttered curses of all four men. Then Guarapo swore savagely – something about shitting in Rickard's milk – and all four of them hurried to surround him again. This time they all moved off, and Guarapo attempted to regain some of his composure in front of his men by edging ahead so it looked like he was leading. Rickard allowed him the illusion.
There had been no real threat of violence during their exchange; Rickard knew that he had been undergoing a test. One that he'd passed. If he had backed down it was probable that Alvaro Silva had ordered Guarapo and his men to gun him down where he stood. Test number two would come soon.
On the approach to the ranch house, some care had been taken to mow the lawn and a path of white gravel had been laid all the way to the front door. It was an attempt at giving the place an illusion of respectability, but it was purely masculine; no hint of a woman's touch could be discerned in the sterile flower beds or the hangings in the windows. It did not look like Alvaro Silva had lived here very long and Rickard guessed that the warlord had taken ownership following a bribe from an official or having extorted it from its previous owner. Maybe said owner was in one of those flower beds he'd passed.
The door opened and they were met by a tall, muscular man wearing khaki fatigues. His blond hair had been recently cut into a flat-top, as angular as his Teutonic features. Rickard took the man to be of northern European stock even before he invited them inside in a gruff German accent. A mercenary – not unlike Rickard – he'd been drafted as extra muscle for Silva's campaign to capitalise on the collapse of the AUC. One of many, Rickard assumed, judging by the other pale faces he'd noted out in the woods.
The German led Rickard inside. Of the original group only Guarapo followed. The others went off, pulling out packs of cigarettes and searching for matches.
As he walked, Rickard judged the man walking ahead of him. The German had that straight-backed stance of someone indoctrinated by military training, but he also walked with the free and easy grace of the most dangerous of killers. A man cut from the same ream as Rickard and Joe Hunter. Special Forces undoubtedly; maybe even from GSG 9 – Grenzschutzgruppe 9 – the famed counter-terrorism unit of the German Federal Police or from KSK – Kommando Spezialkrafte – the army equivalent. With men of the German's ilk already on Silva's books, he wondered if the warlord was as eager to engage Rickard's services as he'd made out when they talked on the phone. Maybe he should kill the German now and ensure there was a vacancy open for him.
He let the thought go in the next instant. He was waved into a large room that once had been a family living room. Now it was purely utilitarian, a work space. A desk was situated centrally, a leather office chair behind it. Other chairs, wooden with straight backs, were ranged round the wall. In each and every one of those chairs sat men who regarded Rickard with mean eyes. They all wore clothing reminiscent of paramilitary groups the world over: green or khaki fatigues, berets pushed into their shoulder epaulettes. Sidearms strapped to their hips. The man sitting in the leather chair was distinguished by his maroon belt and the tassels drooping from his shoulders.
Alvaro Silva stood up. He was a man of medium height and build, a slightly protruding belly pushing at the fabric of
his dress shirt. He looked mildly amused as he extended his hand across his desk to welcome Rickard to his war counsel. He looked like a genial old man playing at soldiers; however Rickard knew that Silva was anything but.
Silva had a good grasp of the English language and spoke with barely a trace of accent. 'I am pleased that you could join us, Mr Rickard. I trust that your journey here went without incident?' His eyes flicked past Rickard and came to rest on Guarapo, who had stationed himself beside the doorway.
'Your men were pleasant company on the ride over. They made me very welcome.' Rickard didn't bother looking at Guarapo, but knew he probably hadn't earned himself any less enmity from the rough-faced man.
'Good. Good.' Silva indicated a chair that one of his men placed alongside the desk. 'Please be seated, Mr Rickard. We have much to plan and much to do. But first! There was something you promised me…?'
The second test. Rickard placed down his bag of equipment. He sat, placing his forearms on his thighs and peered across at the men ranged round the room. 'Yes, Senor Silva, there was. So… which of these men is the DAS commander?'
Directly opposite him, a moustachioed man jerked at his words. He looked at Rickard and then swung his disbelieving gaze on to Alvaro Silva. The man's face began to elongate in realisation of his fate, a mix of hurt and resolution.
From the front of his jacket Rickard pulled out a Glock 17 and fired a single round between the eyes of Jorge Gutierrez.
There was a stunned silence. It was broken moments later by Alvaro Silva's slow handclap, which was joined by the others in the room, growing in volume and enthusiasm with each beat.
Rickard slipped the Glock 17 back inside his jacket as the man who had acted as intermediary between him and his original employer slumped down in his chair.
