Taking Chances

by Susan Lewis

  Michael laughed. ‘You know, it’s really good to hear your enthusiasm,’ he said. ‘Ellen seems to have developed a bit of a down on it lately. I mean, she knows it’s a great story, but she’s started thinking we’re in danger of upsetting the Colombian cartels, and considering their propensity for kidnap and murder … Well, to quote her, Robbie went through enough in Rio, we shouldn’t be putting him in the firing-line again.’

  ‘She’s got a good point,’ Sandy responded. ‘It takes real courage to make this sort of film …’ She let those words hang for a moment, then said, ‘Who are you thinking of for the female lead?’

  ‘It’s still under discussion,’ Michael answered.

  ‘Directing?’

  ‘Hopefully Vic Warren. He’s got a conflict at the moment, but he’s working on it.’

  ‘And producing? Apart from you, obviously.’

  ‘Ellen and I are the executives. She’ll concentrate more on the creative side, while I take on the finance. The actual hands-on producers have yet to be hired, Ellen’s currently working on that. We reckon the team will number around eight, including associates, by the time we’re ready to roll. Tom’s down as a producer too …’

  ‘I’d like to be included, if I come up with some of the funding,’ Sandy interrupted.

  ‘I don’t see any problem with that,’ he replied. ‘Hey listen, my other line’s ringing. It’s one of the ones I had set up for Chambers. I’ll catch you later, OK?’

  Sandy rang off and after hitting a button on her computer to print out some documents she needed she began packing up to go home. Inside she was glowing, the way she often did after speaking to Michael, though tonight she was feeling a particular elation at how readily he had accepted the idea of her being included as a producer. She tried to imagine how Ellen would react when she was informed, and spent some time enjoying the various effects it would probably have.

  Chapter 4

  FOR THE PAST five days Chambers had had one hell of a time trying to figure out where he should be from one minute to the next. Nowhere, it seemed, was safe, yet anywhere was a haven. Since abandoning Cartagena, over a week ago, he had slept in ditches, ridden on mules, eaten from banana leaves and bathed in slimy lakes. Each day brought a totally new and unexpected experience, from having his face shaved by a cutthroat’s apprentice, to secretly watching the harvest of a coca crop, heavily guarded by one of the nation’s most notorious paramilitary groups – men who were known to clear villages by decapitating peasants and using their heads as footballs, a sure-fire way of getting the rest to flee.

  Deciding whom to trust was like a game of Russian roulette with only one empty barrel. When Orlando Morales, his former contact from the Cali Cartel, had visited him in the dead of night in Cartagena, the man had been easy to believe. After all, Morales had proved himself in the past, so why not trust him again? And Pacho Martínez, the notorious Mr Fixit and friend to the cutting edge of Colombian society, was no more invincible than any other man with a passion for survival. Chambers knew that Pacho wouldn’t willingly sell him down the river, but he knew too that if it came to his skin or Pacho’s, then the Colombian’s masseuse was in a pretty safe job.

  So he’d opted to go with Morales, whose past allegiance to the Tolima Cartel was a big chapter in the little man’s history. That Morales was still alive could only be down to the protection he received from the Cali Cartel, and, if the past five days were anything to go by, there were more than a few debts owed to the FARC – one of the country’s leading guerrilla groups, and arguably the most dangerous – for more often than not it was they who had escorted them over some of the most dangerous and bitterly contested terrain of the Colombian interior.

  Chambers still didn’t know how Morales had come to find out he was in Colombia, but the fact that he’d shown up just hours after a call was made to the Santa Clara hotel looking for Chambers, had been enough to confirm that word of his arrival was out. Morales hadn’t made the call to the hotel, but, as he’d pointed out later, he hadn’t had much trouble locating Chambers once he’d known he was in Cartagena. And if Morales could find him that fast, so could others. Which was why Chambers had driven out of the city with Morales and two others in the early hours of Friday morning, and travelled with them over the next five days to this remote border village that time had clean forgot.

  It was certainly the most peaceful place Chambers had visited in this war-torn land, with barely a car to be seen on the narrow dirt roads that were edged with decrepit old houses and ran with mud for the best part of the year. The rain came every day, sweeping in a fine, gauze-like mist down over the gloriously rich green mountains of the Magdalena valley, washing the huge, succulent leaves of the banana trees and glimmering on the red-tiled roofs of the village. Dry or wet, the humidity was stifling, and the sun so bright on the whitewashed walls it stung the eyes and drowned the streets in dazzling light.

  Chambers and Morales had taken over a small two-storey house at the far end of the main street. No-one paid them much attention, and they rarely went out. Throughout the day locals trotted by on their trusty steeds, while others postured and swaggered about street corners in their wide-brimmed hats and thick checked ponchos. Every one of them smoked tobacco, or chewed coca leaves, indulging in rowdy games with unfathomable rules, while the women inspected hanging slabs of meat for supper and kids scuffed around in the dirt.

  It had been a quiet and easy couple of days after the ordeal of the journey, and should remain that way until Morales’s cohorts returned with word from El Patron that it was safe to move on, or necessary to stay put a while longer. El Patron – the boss – was a man without a name, though Chambers knew he was very probably paramilitary, for that was how members of such groups referred to their ranking officer.

  Thanks to Morales he now knew the name of one of Rachel’s killers. Gustavo Zapata. It had come as no surprise to learn that the kid, for he was barely in his twenties, was a near relative of Hernán Galeano’s: this would account for the older man’s refusal to hand anyone over at the time the pressure was on. Morales had obtained Zapata’s identity from one of his ‘sleepers’ inside the Tolima Cartel, but so far the other two names were proving hard to come by. But there were ways of finding out, and Chambers wanted to be around when the Zapata kid squealed.

  Morales was putting up no objection to that; he understood the need to look a killer in the eye and let him know how much worse it was going to be for him. What he didn’t understand was Chambers’s professed reluctance to execute the scumsuckers who had carried out the job on his girlfriend. But Morales was losing no sleep over it. It was Chambers’s call, he was only there to continue the payback for what the Galeanos had done to his son after the boy had been seduced by Galeano’s bitch of a cockteasing wife.

  It was evening now, a time when the veil of rain was absorbed by the humid air and the strange stone statues on the hillsides, carved by the hands of long-dead craftsmen, basked in the fiery glow of sunset. Chambers was standing before one now, gazing at the curiously monstrous face and stout cribbed body. He wondered about its origins, its creator, its link to the long-lost civilization that had once inhabited these hills. He felt a sense of timelessness stirring inside him, connecting him to the past, or maybe the future. Rachel was never far from his mind. He wondered if she was with him now, looking at this ancient symbol of indecipherable meaning. Her presence felt so real, he was sure if he turned he would find her there. Would she speak to him? Would she tell him to give up on this earthly torment and come join her in a place where vengeance had no meaning or purpose? Or would she guide him to those who had wrenched her from the bonds of their love and consigned them to this hell of divided worlds?

  Turning, he looked down over the hillside to where the village lay cradled in the bowl of the valley. It was several moments before he noticed the girl climbing the path towards him. Her thick dark hair hung loosely around her shoulders, her strong, athletic legs moved gracefully over the grassy
ascent. She waved, and though she was still too distant for him to see her face, he could feel himself warming to the childlike brightness of her eyes and guileless beauty of her smile. Her name was Carlota: she was a whore’s daughter who had ridden with them from the nearby town of Popayán to this village where her grandmother lived. She looked fourteen, though insisted she was twenty.

  ‘I was looking for you,’ she said as she joined him. She was breathless from her walk; her clear olive skin was sheened in sweat. ‘They are saying in the bar that you are wanted in your country for more than a hundred crimes.’

  Chambers crooked an eyebrow. ‘Are there that many?’ he said.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she assured him. ‘And I think you have committed them all. Morales, he says you did, and that no-one should mess with you, because you are a very wicked and dangerous man.’

  Chambers pushed his hands in his pockets and started back down the hill. He liked the girl, enjoyed her prattle, and knew he should dissuade her from seeking him out.

  ‘Where is your wife?’ she asked, falling in beside him.

  He threw her a sidelong glance, and carried on walking.

  She skipped up over a rock, then came down to block his way. ‘I want to be your wife,’ she told him, her slanted green eyes shining with mischief. ‘I am a virgin. I could be your wife.’

  Picking her up, he set her aside to clear his path, then laughed as she threw herself to the ground and tried to pull him down with her. ‘Morales says I must seduce you,’ she smiled up at him. ‘He says you are in need of a woman.’

  ‘And you are a girl,’ he said, pulling her back to her feet. ‘A child.’

  ‘A woman!’ she cried. ‘I am a woman. I can give you love, and I can make you special rate.’

  They walked on in silence, until finally she said, ‘The men who were with you and Morales before we leave Popayán, they arrive just now.’

  Chambers felt a rapid beat in his heart. ‘Did Morales send you to find me?’ he said.

  ‘He told me to find you, and love you, then bring you back to the house.’

  Despite the sudden edge to his nerves there was a glint of humour in Chambers’s eyes. ‘Here,’ he said, dragging a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket, ‘tell him you succeeded.’

  She snatched the money, buried it inside her dress, and said, ‘It is too soon. He will know that there was no love, because we come back too soon.’

  Ordinarily Chambers wouldn’t have cared what Morales thought, but the man had been on his case for days about a woman, and this could be an easy way of getting him off. Let him think that he had taken the girl, maybe then his celibacy would cease to be an issue. ‘Come here,’ he said to Carlota, and taking her hand he pulled her behind a boulder and pushed her down on the grass. ‘I want you to lie there and be quiet,’ he told her, sitting down facing her and resting his back against the rock. ‘I need to think, and I need you to tell Morales we made love.’

  ‘Then let’s make love,’ she said. ‘It will be easier that way.’

  There was great irony in Chambers’s eyes as he surveyed her. Lying there like that, so fresh and inviting, she looked as desirable as any woman he’d known, and God knew he needed the release. But no matter how many times she had given herself before, sex with a minor was no more his scene than sex with a horse.

  It wasn’t that he’d been celibate since Rachel died, far from it, it was just that being back in this country was reconnecting him to her in a way that made him want to exclude other women. Were he being honest, he’d have to admit, on an emotional level, it was pretty much that way wherever he was. It certainly wasn’t that he set out to hurt a woman, but after he’d slept with her he just didn’t want the additional involvement.

  He thought about Michelle Rowe, the British actress who’d worked with him on bringing down the Brazilian businessman Pedro Pastillano. In the time they were together he had probably felt closer to her than he had to anyone since Rachel’s death, but, as beautiful as Michelle was, there had never been a question of anything more than friendship between them. He wondered where her most recent letter was. It seemed he’d mislaid it somewhere between Cartagena and here. It wasn’t important, he could always get her address from Michael – as he recalled, she was currently working in the Afghan refugee camps on the borders of Pakistan. He liked the suggestion she’d come up with in her letter, and wondered if she’d put it to Michael yet. Chances were Michael wouldn’t go for it, not now he had another woman in his life. On the other hand Chambers could make it a condition of his contract, when it finally got drawn up.

  Héctor Escobar and Dario Galvis were drinking beer with Morales when Chambers returned to the house. Carlota left him at the door and gave a star performance of having just been laid. Morales looked pleased and handed Chambers a congratulatory beer.

  ‘We have news,’ he told Chambers, settling back in his chair. ‘Good news.’ He signalled Héctor to continue.

  ‘We’ve got another name,’ Héctor said, his permanent scowl allowing only a trace of satisfaction.

  Chambers looked at him, his iron-grey eyes as sharp as flint. ‘How?’ he said.

  Héctor shrugged. ‘Never dump on a woman and never trust one either.’

  Morales said, ‘Galeano’s wife, the bitch my son was killed for, is getting even with the husband who just dumped her from a prison cell.’

  ‘He found himself a nice young boy to take her place,’ Dario sniggered.

  Morales looked at him, then turned back to Chambers.

  ‘How do you know she’s telling the truth?’ Chambers said. ‘Who spoke to her?’

  ‘El Patron spoke to her,’ Héctor answered. ‘One of the names she gave him is Julio Zapata. Gustavo Zapata’s older brother. They are the sons of Galeano’s sister.’ He paused, then looked Chambers right in the eye. ‘The third name is Salvador Molina,’ he said.

  Chambers’s insides turned to ice.

  Morales and the others waited. In the end Morales spoke again. ‘It is the same Salvador Molina as Rachel named in her reports, the one who fucks with kids.’

  Inside Chambers was shaking. Of course, he’d always suspected Molina, but there had never been any proof. There was probably none now, but he didn’t need it. All he needed was a moment to make himself accept finally that no matter what he had done back then, Molina would have killed her anyway. It still didn’t let him off the hook, but it sure as hell sorted out any lingering problem he might have had about taking another man’s life.

  ‘How do you know?’ he said.

  ‘El Patron’s men did the kidnap,’ Morales answered. ‘After that, they handed over to Molina and the Zapatas.’

  It figured. ‘So what now?’ he said.

  ‘Now, you decide,’ Morales answered. ‘You want these scumsuckers dead, you give the word. You want to do it yourself, we will arrange it. Or maybe, now you have the names, you want to leave and go back to your own country.’

  Chambers looked at the three men and saw their contempt for the third choice, and for any man who would take it. He thought of Rachel and what it must have been like for her in those final moments when the gun was pressed to her head. He felt her terror, her desperation, her hopelessness …

  There had never been any choice.

  ‘You know, you didn’t have to come,’ Michael said. ‘We’d have understood if you had other things to do.’

  ‘What makes you think I had other things to do?’ Ellen countered as they watched Robbie and his two friends leaping in and out of the water jets at Universal Studios’ Citywalk.

  ‘We’ve always got other things to do,’ Michael replied, glancing over his shoulder as someone in the crowd nudged past him.

  Ellen sighed, then suddenly she was dodging behind Michael and shrieking as Robbie made a dive towards her in his soaking wet clothes. ‘Robbie! No!’ she cried. ‘Robbie! Michael stop him!’

  But it was too late as, much to the enjoyment of the crowd, Robbie embraced her vigorously, drenching th
e light cotton pants and pale silk shirt she was wearing.

  ‘Right, you’ve asked for it now,’ she declared, and scooping him up she gave him a whopping great kiss right in front of his friends.

  ‘No! No! Oh, yuk! Ugh! Dad, stop her!’ Robbie yelled, struggling to get free as his friends clapped and jeered and Michael looked on with great amusement.

  Laughing, Ellen started to put him down, then suddenly threw him at Michael. Instinctively Michael caught him, clutching the sopping little body to his own and soaking himself.

  ‘Oh no, I don’t want you kissing me too,’ Robbie cried in disgust, and quick as a flash he wriggled out of Michael’s arms and escaped back to his friends.

  Michael looked at Ellen and they laughed. That Robbie had taken so well to life in LA was a constant source of surprise and relief to them both, though they were always on the lookout for any repercussions to the trauma he had suffered while in Brazil. He had been four years old when he was kidnapped, an ordeal that was sure to bear some kind of adverse consequences the psychologists had told them. But so far there had been none, and more than six months had passed since Michael and Tom Chambers had rescued him. It was also six months since his mother had relinquished custody and allowed him to come and live with his father, which, considering how well he was adapting, went to show how remarkably resilient children could sometimes be.

  Watching them together now, it was hard to credit that Michael’s first meeting with his son had taken place on that terrifying night of rescue, for their closeness seemed to derive from a relationship that had started with birth. But that hadn’t been the case, for when Michelle had ended her relationship with Michael and taken off for Sarajevo, she had taken their unborn child with her. And in an effort to punish her Michael had refused ever to have anything to do with the child. Of course, it hadn’t worked that way, for the only one who had really suffered as a result of his pride and stubbornness was Michael. Now he was making up for lost time, and Ellen had to hand it to Robbie’s mother, the woman was far braver and more generous than she could ever be, for handing her son to his father and a strange woman wasn’t something Ellen could ever imagine herself doing. In truth, Ellen knew it hadn’t been easy for Michelle, because she was often there when Michael spoke to her on the phone and tried to comfort and reassure her that Robbie was happy and settling in well at school and at home. Ellen wondered if it hurt Michelle to know that. It had to, even though she’d never want him to be lonely or miserable, she wouldn’t be human if she didn’t crave the comfort of knowing he missed her. Which of course he did, but he loved Michael so much and was so proud to be living with the daddy his mother had told him so much about, that like any other five year old he was often too busy to dwell long on anything, even missing his mother.