by Greg Coppin
‘I’m saying,’ he shouted, ‘it’s gone. Everything’s gone. All the evidence has been wiped. ‘Day One’, the lot, it’s gone.’
‘What? How the hell could that happen?’
He sighed, shook his head. ‘I should’ve seen it. He had Time Sensitive Security Armour. Dammit.’
‘What does that mean?’ Warita asked.
‘It means that we should have input a code or a password after five minutes, or however long it was set for. We didn’t, so it knows it’s not the correct user and so it wipes everything.’
‘Oh god.’
‘Can you retrieve it?’ I asked.
‘I mean I could try, but…’
‘Try.’
Warita tensed her jaw and gripped her machine gun tighter. She turned back to the oncoming cars, resuming her onslaught with even more intensity.
We had got rid of one vehicle, and the second one was injured, but the two behind were still firing at us. We took another turning and watched as the wounded animal went straight on and crashed into a ditch.
‘Everyone okay?’ Warita called out, speaking into her radio.
One armed officer down in the neighbouring car.
‘Keep alert, everybody. We’re still some way off the facility; this is far from over yet.’
As if to underline her point, the third car now moved up to the front position and inside we could see a man standing up through the sunroof. He lifted a rocket launcher onto his shoulders and pointed it in our direction.
‘Jesus,’ I said.
‘Take evasive action,’ Warita shouted into her radio. ‘RPG.’
We all fell to our left as the car swung right and mounted the kerb. A fiery flash of light streaked past us and our neighbouring vehicle suddenly exploded in a fireball. The blast picked up our vehicle and I grabbed the seatbelt and swung it round me and gripped tight. I glimpsed Warita doing the same, just as there was an almighty explosion of glass. We tumbled over and knees and legs lashed at me and I tried to shield my head. There was more crashing sounds and my hip smashed against the ceiling, then I was hurled against the seat, tumbling, over and over.
When I started breathing again I realised we had stopped moving.
My head was spinning.
I released my grip on the seatbelt and sat up.
We had come to a halt the right way up, all four tyres on the ground. Or as I now could see, floor. We were inside somewhere. At first I thought there were dead bodies lying all around us. Then I realised they were clothed mannequins. We had been hurled through the window of a women’s clothes store.
I kicked at the door, but it was jammed shut. I climbed out of the shattered rear window and dropped down onto the carpet, realised my balance was none too clever. Groggily, I leaned back against the car. I carefully touched the side of my head, feeling blood. There was a gash, and I gently wiped some of the blood away. Looking inside the vehicle, I noticed movement from Warita. I reached into the open side window, picked up a sub-machine gun lying on the seat. I clumsily made my way to the front of the store, sidestepping mannequins and scattered racks of clothes.
I was aware that something was different, but I couldn’t quite place it. Then I realised: no sound of vehicles moving. I crunched over broken glass and carefully peered out to the left. Immediately a hail of bullets slammed into the store. They were all parked up on the left there.
‘We all okay?’ It was Warita, climbing out of the back of the car. She immediately checked on her colleagues.
I took a couple of steps towards her.
‘Lined up on the left. How are we for ammunition?’
‘Low.’ She removed her head from inside the car. ‘Earl didn’t make it.’
I took a glance around.
‘Go,’ I said. ‘The back way. Get Mortlake and the laptop back to a secure environment. I’ll hold them off.’
‘On your own?’
‘Just do it, Warita. We haven’t got time.’
For a touch of a second she gazed down the road at the burning wreckage of Ramos’s vehicle. Then she looked back at me and nodded. ‘Good luck,’ she said.
‘Same to you.’
She and the driver quickly disappeared out the back, dragging Mortlake and his laptop bag. I turned and fired a volley over to the parked cars on the left, earning a massive retaliation in return. The onslaught tore up the flooring of the store, right up to the right wall. I ducked back out and released another storm of firepower and then hurled myself back in as the floor shredded behind me. Landing hard on my shoulder I rolled, crunching over broken glass, and came to a halt next to a dead body. Not a dead body, it was a mannequin. Had to keep reminding myself of that. I looked up. And saw a white phone lying on the floor.
It was a landline phone and I scrambled to my feet, ran over and picked it up. Putting it to my ear I was grimly satisfied to hear the dialling tone.
I dialled the number and hoped Warren didn’t answer.
‘Charlie.’
‘Hello Charlie. It’s Luc. Have you got any air support in Belmopan?’
***
I jogged back over to the shopfront. Had to keep them occupied or they might decide to come in. I edged round and was surprised to find two of them tramping towards me, massive Heckler and Koch assault rifles aimed. Startled, I loosed off a volley of bullets before launching myself back inside. I was massively punched in the arm by something and I span round and landed on my back and rolled over. Blood down my arm. I’d been hit and I raised my machine gun and fired. I was still on my back but I had to stop them getting closer. Bullets sprayed the floor in front of me and I rolled swiftly to my left and they wouldn’t be long in coming in and I heard a distant rumble, a sort of drilling sound. I fired again at the shopfront, keep them out, and then, click, I was out of bullets, and I could hear their footsteps, careful, deliberate, professional. Shadows swept across the floor, two shadows, two men, filling the shop front, armed men, professional men, grinning. The drilling sound from above was loud now and they looked up and all hell rained down on them.
They spasmed for a few seconds as they and the ground around them was torn apart by the firepower from above. The sound was intense, it echoed like a cathedral of noise and violence. The rest of Giuttieri’s men must’ve returned fire but as I staggered to the front of the store I saw men and cars almost disappear under a hail of bullets from above. The vehicles twitched, men were thrown helplessly about, smoke filled the darkened street. The helicopter swung round and the firing continued and shrapnel and blood was being sprayed everywhere and the smoke was almost a blanket and then suddenly…
…It stopped.
Peace.
There was a ringing in my ears, the drilling sound from above continued, but, still, peace.
Crunching over broken glass and stepping over dead bodies I emerged from the store into the smoky street. The hovering copter lowered gently to the road and I padded over, the down draught rippling my hair and clothes, Earl’s dead body slung over my shoulder. I raised a hand to the pilot and lowered Earl into the cabin and climbed inside. We lifted off and swept around, our nose tilted forward and we soared off into the night.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Thurton was a dull speaker. But he was getting his points across, if in the usual politician speak. The assembled audience of about a hundred were listening blank-faced, mostly, so it was difficult as an outsider to gauge how well he was doing.
‘Could you hold this?’ Lucia held a dressing to the oozing wound on my head. I was looking at her soft neck. I could feel her breath on my hair. I held the dressing and she began cleaning away the dried blood from my head. Her throat was inches from my face and it was crying out to be kissed, but I remained strong and disciplined.
Thurton and the interviewer, a bald brown-skinned man of about fifty, with bushy white sideburns, were sitting, facing each other, on a raised platform. A small table stood between them. Behind them, a large TV screen had the graphic logo, ‘Ask The Questio
n’.
‘And you can guarantee a decrease in prices? Really?’ the interviewer asked.
Thurton smiled uncomfortably. ‘I didn’t say that, and of course, I can’t guarantee it, but…’
‘I could have a nice scar after this,’ I said to Lucia. She was using a cotton bud, softly stroking away the blood from above my eyes.
‘I don’t like scars,’ she said.
‘Probably heal quite nicely, to be honest.’
She threw away the cotton bud and picked up a bag of cotton wool, pulling away a ball and dipping it into a small bowl of liquid.
‘This might sting,’ she said. She smelled of jasmine and as she wiped my face with this solution I kept my mind on that smell and focused my eyes on her lovely throat. Because it did sting. As if the solution was acid or vinegar.
I had phoned Warita as soon as I’d got into the helicopter.
She said she was safe. She and her driver had used the back streets and then one of their team had picked them up in a secure car.
‘What’s that noise?’ she had asked.
‘I’m in a helicopter,’ I said. ‘What about you? You at the facility?’
‘No. We’re with Falcao. He wants to confront Thurton.’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘What, after the interview?’
‘Nope.
‘No?’
‘No. Not after.’
I had straightened up. ‘Wait,’ I said. ‘He’s going to confront Thurton live on TV?’
‘That’s his plan, such as it is. He’s angry, Luc. When you land, get to a TV. Channel 5.’
Lucia was softly pushing the cotton wool up through the top of my forehead and into my hair. Small, successive movements, cleaning away the wounds, stemming the flow of blood.
Thurton was still talking about prices and ‘cracking down on the cost of living,’ and then it started.
We could hear noises, a distant crashing, and then murmurs from the audience, but the camera was focused on the two men on the dais so we couldn’t see anything.
Then there were some louder gasps from the audience, some shouting from somewhere, and then from the bottom of the screen Falcao appeared.
He shook off a studio assistant and strode up to the dais. The picture suddenly cut to a shaky close up of Falcao, as the camera operator struggled to keep him in shot. Falcao’s eyes were hard. He looked determined. He stepped up onto the platform, a big bear of a man in a dark blue shirt.
Lucia’s neck was now twisting as she turned to see what was happening on the TV. The soft lines of her throat were extending. It was a hot evening and I could see the beginnings of perspiration at the base of her throat, the top two buttons of her blouse were undone.
The picture cut back to a wide shot of the three of them. Falcao was holding a dark grey laptop bag. I had seen that bag before only recently. The interviewer had swung round and was looking at Falcao with alarm. ‘Mr Falcao,’ he said. ‘Erm, this is…’
‘What’s he doing?’ Lucia asked.
Thurton’s eyes were wide and he had gone from alarm, to a sort of nervous smile.
‘Falcao’s telling the world what Thurton has done,’ I said. ‘And what he is going to do.’
‘I’m sorry to interrupt, Gareth,’ Falcao said to the interviewer. ‘And I apologise to all those watching who had looked forward to an hour’s viewing of Mr Thurton exclusively. But this needs to be said. Doesn’t it, Bob?’
Falcao looked at Thurton. Thurton had seen the laptop case now. He wiped his top lip with the back of his hand.
‘Are you okay, Mr Falcao? Would you - can we get a chair for - ?’ the interviewer busily asked. Falcao stopped him with a raised hand. He was still looking at Thurton.
‘It’s over, Bob.’
All eyes turned to Thurton and he wiped his lip again and then gripped the metal armrests. He tried to smile. ‘I don’t know - .’
‘It’s over,’ Falcao said again simply. Wearily. ‘And you know everything. You know about the bomb. About the riots. About the hostages. About the murder of innocent people. And you could’ve stopped any of them at any time.’ Falcao continued to stare into the eyes of Bob Thurton. ‘Except, why would you? Because they were the plan all along. Your plan. Yours, Ray Mortlake’s, and Ernesto Giuttieri’s. A trio of filth this country could well do without.’
The interviewer decided to intervene. ‘Now, hang on, Mr Falcao. Before you - .’
Falcao undid the zip on the case and pulled out a laptop computer. It looked exactly the same as Mortlake’s.
Lucia continued to gaze at the TV screen. I guess she was realising she was watching, in Thurton, one of the men ultimately responsible for her granddad’s murder.
‘I have all the evidence here. But Bob knows that already.’ Thurton snapped a smile on and off. ‘Busy itinerary for your first day in office, Bob?’ Falcao flicked open the cover and tapped away at the keys. ‘Now then, Day One.’
He let the words sink in. Thurton gently scratched his forehead with his fingertips.
‘Would you like to give the public a brief preview of your first speech as Prime Minister? Would you like to read it out?’
Falcao looked up from the screen. ‘We’ve got Mortlake, Bob. In case you were wondering. He was brought in an hour ago. And from what I hear, he’s singing like Aretha ruddy Franklin. Excuse my language.’ I imagined Falcao wasn’t telling the whole truth there. Didn’t sound like Mortlake.
The interviewer leaned forward. ‘Mr Thurton, do you know what Mr Falcao is speaking about? Is this something you want to deny - ?’
‘Do you deny, Bob, that your very first act on becoming Prime Minister was to bomb Guatemala?’
Lucia’s hand went up to her mouth. There were some gasps from the studio audience. Slightly disconcertingly, some cheers too.
‘Bob?’
Thurton’s forehead was glistening under the lights. He cleared his throat and brushed his trousers.
‘These are dangerous allegations,’ he said.
‘You’re Ernesto Giuttieri’s puppet man,’ Falcao almost spat back.
‘Ernesto Giuttieri,’ the interviewer chimed in. ‘I’ve heard that name recently.’
Thurton nodded. ‘Yes. Yes.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Ernesto Giuttieri is a very successful businessman. The head of a large corporation. I don’t deny that Mr Giuttieri is a supporter of mine. A powerful, successful supporter, yes, but that’s surely not a crime.
‘And the reason you may have heard about him, Gareth,’ Thurton said, turning to the interviewer, ‘is that two hours ago an explosion ripped apart his yacht.’
Immediately a sickening feeling crept into my stomach.
‘The yacht was moored down on Montego Quay. Five people lost their lives in that explosion. One of them was his beautiful wife Salamar.
‘Thankfully,’ Thurton continued, ‘Ernesto Giuttieri was not on board at the time as he was dealing with business matters. But he will never get over the loss of his wife. I spoke to Mr Giuttieri just before I came out for this interview. He was a broken man.’ Thurton looked up at Falcao.
The picture cut to a close-up of Falcao. His eyes were wide. He looked as if he couldn’t quite believe it. Neither could I. But we both knew what had happened. Giuttieri had sacrificed his own wife and yacht for the sake of looking like another victim of some unknown terrorists. But what could Falcao say? I could sense the audience in the studio were turning against Falcao. And no doubt he could too. That would be reflected by the audiences at home.
I hugged Lucia’s waist and pulled her closer. I rested my cheek against the side of her abdomen as she wrapped a warm arm around the back of my neck. We both stared at the screen.
‘I think we need to see this evidence you say you have…’ the interviewer said, indicating the laptop in Falcao’s hands.
Had they retrieved the information?
If they hadn’t…
Falcao gripped the laptop. He was staring at Thurton.
‘I apologise
for the intrusion,’ Falcao said. He turned and walked off the platform.
The audience erupted.
Most stood and were shouting at him, pointing at him, cursing him. The camera stayed with Falcao as he strolled out of the studio, scrunched up paper now being hurled at him.
He didn’t once drop his head.
But that was a beaten man we were both looking at.
CHAPTER FIFTY
The perky waitress strolled over with the Gifiti. She poured the rum-based drink from a long bottle that was visibly filled with large chunks of herbs, roots and spices.
‘You like this, no?’ she said smiling.
‘It’s something I’ve heard mentioned. I’ll give it a go,’ I said. ‘I’m hoping it’s cooling.’
She nodded and walked back into the cafe.
I sat back in the chair. A welcome breeze fluttered the newspaper on the table.
I took a drink of the Gifiti.
Holy Moley.
The drink was not exactly cooling. Although it did burn off a few layers of the inside my mouth.
I was sitting under a parasol beneath the heat of the morning sun. Down the street a woman and a couple of children sat under the shade of a balcony. A police car slowly cruised down the sand covered road, and I watched it go. It turned left at the end of the street.
A young couple, a man and a woman, stepped out from the cafe and took a table near the pavement. They had matching red T-shirts and from the way they kept gazing into each other’s eyes, were clearly enamoured.
The waitress brought out two long drinks for the couple and they all shared a joke.
I glanced again at the newspaper. The large headline above the fold said: ‘Falcao Charged with Murder’.
Sitting up, I wiped the back of my hand across my forehead.
I unfolded the newspaper and read again the rest of the story.
The Minister for National Security, Julio Falcao, was yesterday charged with the murder of sixteen-year-old Kellie Agermon. Miss Agermon, who worked as a prostitute in the eastern region of Belmopan, was found dead in the Minister’s apartment on Monday evening. She had been strangled.
Mr Falcao, 49, was charged shortly after a bizarre and embarrassing impromptu appearance on live television. During an ‘Ask the Question’ appearance by Robert Thurton II, the audience at home and in the studio were left shocked as a dishevelled and rambling Falcao burst into the studio and proceeded to hijack the show. After launching a bitter and incoherent attack on his rival, Mr Falcao was forced to make a hurried retreat when it became clear to all that his accusations were groundless.
