He yawned and felt the grit of a nineteen-hour flight and two stopovers beginning to take effect. The air conditioning in the building seemed to be spasmodic, with occasional welcome downdraughts of cold air alongside pockets of warm, humid fug, heavy with cigarette smoke and the smell of overheated travellers. He needed something to drink but was putting it off until his contact showed up.
After completing his delivery of a packet of documents to a lawyer’s office in Panama City – the original reason for his journey – Mitcheson had secured a cheap onward flight aboard a cargo plane to Baranquilla. It meant making the shortest of stopovers before turning round to leave again, but that suited him fine; the last thing he wanted to do was hang around here and come to the attention of the military authorities. Luckily, he’d been able to persuade his local contact to meet him here rather than in Bogotá, avoiding the dangers of entering the capital’s airport where security was higher and faces were scanned more rigorously.
He checked his watch, wondering whether to call Riley. He decided not. She had no idea where he was, and would probably blow a fuse if she knew what he was doing. But after what she’d told him about the threats to Myburghe and the possible links to FARC or the cartels, he’d begun to have serious doubts about what she was getting herself into. British diplomats occasionally got on the wrong end of violent protests, but it was rare for the fight to be carried overseas, and rarer still for it to become so personal.
A familiar face appeared among the crowd. The man was middle-aged, stocky and slightly less than medium height, dressed in crumpled slacks and a linen jacket, like so many others here. He was casually wandering along, but there was no disguising the watchfulness in his eyes as he filtered through the bustling throng.
‘How’s it going, John?’ The newcomer smiled and drifted up alongside Mitcheson, deep laughter lines etched in the tan around his eyes and mouth. They shook hands.
Col Pierce was a former British army sergeant who had decided to stay on after leaving the army and make a life as a tourist guide across Colombia and its neighbours to the south. He had been in Bogotá several years before, when Mitcheson had arrived and been escorted out again within weeks, following a violent confrontation with a Colombian army corporal during a drugs raid on a village in the hills. The corporal had shot a pregnant woman for standing up to him, and Mitcheson, enraged at the callousness of the act, had taken the man into the bush.
Only Mitcheson had returned. It had meant a rapid exit from the country before he could be imprisoned and shot.
‘Col. Thanks for coming.’
‘No sweat. You like living dangerously or are you just bored?’
‘I should be okay up here.’ Mitcheson had never been to Baranquilla before. He’d been counting on the city’s remoteness from Bogotá to give him the best odds of getting in and out safely without being recognised.
‘I guess so. You were hardly here long enough, were you?’ He chuckled. ‘It’s still an all-time record among the lads for short stays. Still, some of their army intelligence boys have got long memories, so let’s keep it that way. What brings you back?’ He eyed Mitcheson’s suit and tie.
‘I was making a delivery to Panama City. A friend asked me to do a favour while I was down here.’
‘Must be a close friend.’ Col didn’t enquire about the nature of the delivery job. He knew how difficult it was for many ex-military men to find employment and that many of them resorted to unconventional means, not all of them legal.
Mitcheson smiled, knowing what his friend was thinking. ‘It’s all legit, I promise. And the friend’s close enough. My flight out leaves in an hour.’
‘Suits me.’ He led Mitcheson to a bar. ‘You want coffee or something stronger?’
‘Beer would be good.’
‘Okay.’ Col nodded to a passing busboy and flashed a note. ‘So, you mentioned Myburghe on the phone. What do you want to know?’
‘I know he was here before my time and left recently. Is there anything you can tell me?’
Col gave him a quizzical look. ‘You mean dirt, don’t you? What’s going on?’
‘He’s on somebody’s list.’ Mitcheson explained about the letters, the fake bomb and the delivery of the finger.
‘Christ,’ Col breathed. ‘Not sure about the letters, but the rest sounds like our old friends down the road.’ He fell silent as the waiter brought their drinks and scooped up the money. ‘If it’s the cartels, rather him than me. They’re not very forgiving.’
‘Any specific old friends?’
Col laughed without humour. ‘Hell, name any of them – they’ll all send trophies as a warning if they think it’ll work.’ He frowned and scooped some froth off his beer glass with the tip of his finger. ‘They don’t usually go after outsiders, though. Not once they’re gone. Mind you, it kind of makes sense, from what I’ve been able to put together since you rang.’
Mitcheson sipped his beer and tried to remain calm. He wasn’t as close to this as Riley or Palmer, but he shared their sense of excitement when the balls began to click into place. ‘Go on.’
Col looked at his watch, then flicked his eyes towards two more men in uniform who were loitering and looking their way. These two, Mitcheson noticed, were not as smart as the others he’d seen, nor as well-armed. They were also overweight and didn’t seem too interested in any of the locals, only the more prosperous looking business travellers.
Col said quietly, ‘Finish up. Something tells me those two jokers are after some easy money. And we don’t need that kind of hassle. Let’s go get you checked in. I’ll tell you what I’ve got on Myburghe on the way. One thing, though: you never heard any of this from me. I don’t want to get dragged into this end of it.’
‘It’s that bad?’
‘If rumours are accurate, it’s worse. And if what they say is true, Myburghe’s got himself into a shitload of trouble.’
********
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The first rush of guests began arriving at Colebrooke House just after five. Most were transported in a fleet of gleaming Bentleys, crunching expensively on the gravel drive and spinning round the fountain to form a neat line in front of the house. The occupants stepped out and milled about in the warm evening air, shaking out the stiff formality of the service, which had been held at the village church of St Peter’s, half a mile away. Other cars followed in quick succession, forming a line down the drive
Riley and Palmer were waiting, having made another inspection of the grounds first, while Rockface checked the house and the catering staff. As far as they could tell, Colebrooke House was clear and ready to go.
‘It would have been nice to have gone to the service,’ Riley said wistfully, eyeing the display of elegance emerging from the cars. It looked to her as if half the fashion houses in Europe had been raided to meet the demands of the occasion, and it was clear that, although small by some standards, this was an important date on the wedding calendar.
Palmer, wearing a smart lounge suit - a rare event for him - gave her a sideways look. ‘Jesus. Women and weddings.’
‘It’s all very well for you,’ she said curtly. ‘I feel somewhat underdressed. Make that hugely underdressed.’ Pressed at short notice to wear something other than her customary jacket and jeans, she had been forced to settled on a lightweight summer suit bought a couple of years ago for a cousin’s wedding. It may have been appropriate for that occasion, but she knew it wouldn’t match the present level of glamour on display by a long way.
‘You look fine,’ said Palmer, somewhat belatedly.
‘Fine?’ she hissed, although it was quite a compliment, coming from Palmer. ‘Fine doesn’t cut it. If I’d known it was going to be as glam as this, I’d have held out for a minimum clothing allowance.’
‘If I’d known you were going to witter on about it,’ Palmer retorted calmly, ‘I’d have hired a bloke.’
‘Philistine.’ She decided she was wasting her time. Apart from the suit, she was
wearing a pair of medium heeled shoes. They didn’t enhance the outfit, but she’d already decided that if called on to break into anything approaching a trot beyond the firmer terrain of the paths and terraces around the house, she’d kick them off and to hell with convention. Stumbling about on heels like an idiot while pretending to provide security for the Myburghes would be far more humiliating than going barefoot.
Palmer moved away, shaking his head, and began cruising the gathering crowd, instinctively checking out the men first. They were a mixed group, ranging from fresh-faced young turks in search of a party, slightly older types from the city and the civil service, to a mostly conservative and senior scattering in morning suits and double chins.
Riley hung back, preferring the fringes of the crowds, where it was easier to watch people, and where she felt a little less conspicuous. Palmer seemed unbothered by any such distractions, and seemed to blend in easily, although a couple of very tall ex-cavalry types gave him keen, knowing looks as they strode by. They joined two other men of the same brand, and Riley overheard them reminiscing about people called Neville, Alistair and Jonty, and an evening at the officers’ club in Pristina, before they wheeled away with promises to meet up for a game of squash. They smiled briefly at Riley as they passed, too well-schooled to ignore her but probably aware that she wasn’t there by the same invitation.
The women were less restrained, given to peels of surprised greetings and much air kissing. Already fashionably colourful, the amount of jewellery on display was impressive, and the air was soon rent with shrill, catch-up gossip and bursts of laughter as friends and acquaintances spied each other through the crowd.
Uniformed catering staff directed party guests towards the rear gardens, where a large marquee with a service annexe had been set up on the lawns. The atmosphere was balmy and pleasant with only a faint breeze, and most of the arrivals made for a line of champagne-laden white-clothed tables, pausing to scoop up a drink. Then it was onto the lawns in search of fresh air, scenery and some soft grass in which to squish their toes, a sort of sophisticated limbering up before the main event.
Like Clacton beach, thought Riley. Only posher.
Palmer had already checked out the caterers’ vans, along with a generator truck to provide extra power for lighting and refrigeration. Each vehicle carried a ‘By Royal Appointment’ crest. The marquee was a bustle of activity, with trays of food being passed along a line of waiters, and more champagne being packed in ice for later. A manager in a crisp morning suit was directing his troops like a regimental sergeant major, keeping staff in line with a beady eye, calm authority and close attention to his watch. The atmosphere was full of the scent of flowers, with giant floral displays in each corner to add to the sense of colour and glamour.
Riley drifted towards Palmer and nodded towards the roofline, where the silent and deserted scaffolding stuck out like spiky, gelled hair.
‘He’s pushing the boat out, isn’t he?’ she said. ‘With the wedding, it must be quite an outlay, doing up a place this size.’
Palmer nodded, strictly neutral. ‘Lady Myburghe has money, and Sir Kenneth got lucky on the stock market. As for the wedding, Victoria is his eldest daughter. It’s traditional.’
‘So how rich is he?’ Riley was wondering how much in real terms Sir Kenneth could put together if and when his son’s kidnappers finally made their demands. Judging by the scale of the renovations and the size of this celebration, he evidently wasn’t short of funds.
‘I’ve no idea. You thinking about a ransom?’
‘Yes.’
He stared off into the distance, his face grim. ‘If he pays up, whatever he has, it’ll never be enough. They’ll come back for more. Come on, let’s take a walk. I want to check the track.’ He set off with a nod towards a line of trees near the edge of the estate.
Riley followed, still trying to get to grips with the fact that the wedding was going ahead as planned. It was either an attempt by Sir Kenneth to deny the worst, or a brave front against the certain knowledge that Christian would not be coming back. Either way, whenever they had glimpsed the former diplomat, he had seemed brittle, his smile stiff and robotic.
Neither Victoria, nor her young sister, Annabel, had yet put in an appearance at the house. When questioned, Rockface had informed Palmer that they would be travelling directly from London to the church, shadowed by a couple of Keagan’s men.
‘What’s the official explanation for Christian’s absence?’ Riley queried. ‘Surely everyone’e expecting him to be here for his sister’s wedding?’
‘They put the word around that he’s down with a stomach bug and too ill to travel,’ Palmer explained. ‘It doesn’t seem to have raised any eyebrows.’
Thoughts of stiff upper lips came to mind, but Riley had to admire their bravado. It was quite a display. If it had been her family under such pressure, she doubted weddings would have figured too highly on the social calendar.
They pushed through a small thicket, Palmer leading the way and Riley treading carefully on the softer ground, until they found themselves overlooking a broad sweep of countryside fading into the distance. A rutted track ran from right to left in front of them, the ground marked by the treads of tractor tyres and horses’ hooves. It was evidently a regular exercise route for local riders, as well as an access track for farm workers, and even without Palmer’s security experience, Riley knew that this point, like the vast amount of open countryside around the house and grounds, was a security team’s worst nightmare. It was impossible to keep an eye on all fronts, and the amount of cover provided by shrubs, bushes and several acres of trees could have hidden a small army. Add to that the amount of scaffolding and building materials scattered around the place, and it was a terrorist’s dream on a plate.
‘This is crazy,’ she breathed, appalled once more by the size of the task they had taken on. ‘We couldn’t cover all this, even if we had Keagan’s entire team with us.’
Palmer shrugged. ‘True. But I’ve done worse jobs. It’s all about being seen to be there.’
‘I thought security was supposed to be unobtrusive.’
‘Some is, some isn’t. We’re both.’
‘Palmer, are you armed?’ Riley had been meaning to ask him from the outset.
‘No. I asked Keagan to get authorisation, but he was blocked. Insufficient need, apparently.’
‘So what do we do if someone does have a go?’
‘We could always throw champagne bottles.’
‘Great. I should have stuck to writing about Myburghe - it would have been easier.’
Palmer gave her a quick smile. ‘Well, you insisted on sticking your oar in.’ He took a small, lightweight Motorola GP radio from his pocket and checked it out. Riley did the same. They were little bigger than a mobile, and Palmer had given Riley and Rockface a quick briefing earlier on how to use them. With so much ground to cover, it would be their only way of summoning each other if needed.
Just then, both radios crackled and Rockface’s voice spoke briefly. The bride and groom were on their way.
‘Time to trot,’ said Palmer. ‘Let’s go.’
They returned to the main house just as a limousine decked out in ribbons purred up the drive and the newly-weds ducked out amid cheers and flashing cameras. The groom, Simon Biel, who seemed more assured here than the photo Riley had seen on the Internet had portrayed, hovered supportively as his bride, Victoria, greeted friends and revelled in her new-found status, her smile outshining by a long way all the other splashes of colour. Every step was recorded by a frenetic photographer, and from his work-rate, it was plain he had been warned that he would have only seconds to record the necessary outdoor shots before the couple were herded inside.
Rockface also danced close attendance, towering over his charges like a large mother hen. As soon as the happy couple were over the threshold, he closed the door. Next, Sir Kenneth appeared and moved through the assembled guests, any signs of nerves no doubt excused as the u
nderstandable jitters of a typically proud father. He caught Palmer’s eye and nodded briefly. He was accompanied by a slender, elegant woman whom Riley guessed was his ex-wife.
‘Lady Susan Myburghe,’ confirmed Palmer, when she asked him. ‘Nice woman.’
A man with the focussed air of a professional watcher appeared through the crowd. He was dressed in a smart lounge suit, but to expert eyes there was no mistaking his profession. He threw Palmer a brief look, clicked through his mental slides of okay faces, then carried on scanning the people around him before turning to nod to a new arrival in a black Jaguar. The male passenger climbed out and Riley recognised the familiar, burly figure of the Defence Secretary.
‘Is that who I think it is?’ she said, as the man was ushered inside by the minder.
‘Friend of the family,’ murmured Palmer. ‘Let’s hope he doesn’t come to regret today’s visit.’
They trawled the crowd, picking out a scattering of other public faces. Two peers and couple of back-benchers moved by in easy familiarity; a middle-ranking female opera singer swished past with a party of admirers; an eagle-eyed entrepreneur who had graced the pages of the tabloids the week before was trying hard to be ignored, while two cat-walk models glided past with the grace of gazelles among wildebeest, displaying the hauteur of their trade. A few obviously foreign guests wandered around like confused minnows, no doubt trying to come to grips with the eccentricities of British etiquette and quickly losing the plot.
In between the chatter, the crunch of cars arriving on the gravelled drive continued, interspersed with the thud of doors slamming and cries of greeting. The vehicles were beginning to stack two deep along the drive, some driven onto the grass verge with their noses into the shrubbery. A couple of local youths were trying to maintain order out of this chaos, but whatever system might have been planned beforehand, it was already beginning to break down under the sheer volume of numbers and the exuberance of the occasion.
No Tears for the Lost Page 9
