by Ryan, Chris
They passed the rest of the time in semi-silence, checking their phones and the information boards. At exactly 13.40 hours, their gate was announced. A short while later, Bald and Porter boarded the Airbus A330, stashed their backpacks in the crammed overhead storage compartment and settled into their seats. Economy class. Typical, thought Bald as he settled into his seat. MI6 officers get to fly first class, while blokes like us have to slum it at the back.
They sat through a long safety presentation on the seat-back displays in front of them and listened to a bunch of announcements from the cabin crew. The crew finished their checks and buckled up, and then the plane began taxiing across the tarmac stand towards the runway. Bald stared out of the window at the gloomy west London sky and wondered what the fuck he was letting himself in for.
TWELVE
They landed at Houston Intercontinental Airport eleven hours later. A little before seven thirty in the evening, local time. Bald had spent most of the flight reading the travel guides Merrick had given them and keeping a close eye on Porter. He’d half-expected the guy to sneak off at the earliest opportunity and find the drinks trolley, maybe sink a few miniature bottles of whisky while Bald wasn’t looking. But Porter had stayed in his seat, arms folded, watching the live map on the seat-back display as the plane edged across the Atlantic. Bald was quietly impressed. Either Porter was putting on a world-class performance, or he really had cleaned up his act.
They grabbed their backpacks from the overhead compartment and got off the plane, following the stampede of passengers. It took them forty minutes to clear through customs and another thirty to check in for their connecting flight and make their way to the departures lounge. By which time they still had a whole three hours to burn. They found a fifties-style diner and sat in a booth with bright-red upholstery and a Formica table and a laminated menu with about twenty different types of pancakes. A bright-eyed waitress sauntered over, cheerfully introduced herself as Kimber and took their orders. Porter chose a Reuben sandwich and a root beer. Bald went for a bacon double cheeseburger with sweet potato fries, plus a bottomless coffee. He followed it up with a generous slice of key lime pie. Polished it off and asked for another slice. He didn’t know what the score was with the cooking facilities in the jungle, but he guessed the guys in the FARC unit wouldn’t be serving up gourmet dinners.
He was working his way through his third cup of coffee when he saw the news.
A couple of large TVs were mounted above the long counter at the side of the diner. One of the screens was showing a basketball game. The second TV was tuned in to CNN. A report on some sort of corruption scandal in Canada. There was a brief cut back to the newsreaders, and then the camera switched to a packed press conference in London.
Two figures sat behind a long table, a man and a woman. Both looked to be in their early sixties. The man had an olive-skinned complexion and wild white hair. The woman was small and frail with hollowed cheeks and dark bags under her eyes. A caption at the bottom of the screen introduced them as Parents of Caroline Fuller. The father spoke into a bank of microphones on the table in front of him as his wife sat silently at his side, wringing her hands.
‘It is our belief that the British government has utterly failed Caroline,’ the father said. His voice trembled audibly as he went on.
‘Two weeks have passed since our daughter was arrested, and the prime minister has done nothing to secure her release, preferring to shift the blame to others instead of dealing with her case in the proper way. He has refused to meet with us, or even to consider President Vasquez’s demands. In that time, we have heard reports that Caroline’s condition has badly deteriorated. While our beautiful daughter suffers at the hands of her captors, Peter Ashworth dithers. We call on him tonight to end Caroline’s plight.’
The father paused and looked up from his prepared statement, hands shaking as he directly addressed the camera. At his side, tears welled in his wife’s bloodshot eyes.
‘Mr Ashworth, we’ve had enough of your empty promises. If you have an ounce of decency, do the right thing and secure Caroline’s release. For the sake of our daughter, end this nightmare.’
The report cut to the shadow foreign secretary, a tall, lean man with round glasses, standing on the steps of the UN headquarters in New York. Addressed a horde of journalists in a grave tone of voice.
‘I’m afraid that Peter Ashworth has singularly failed in his duty to Miss Fuller,’ he said. ‘Instead of making a concerted effort to secure her freedom, he has refused to enter into negotiations with President Vasquez. By failing to do so, he has effectively abandoned a British citizen – an esteemed academic, no less – to her fate. Now we learn that Miss Fuller’s health is reportedly failing. Mr Ashworth is actively prolonging the suffering of this poor young woman.’
‘Do you think the prime minister should resign?’ a journalist off-screen asked.
‘That’s for Peter Ashworth to decide,’ the politician replied smoothly. ‘But I will say this. His attitude towards Miss Fuller has been scandalous. I think it’s perfectly reasonable to question whether such behaviour is in keeping with the office of prime minister.’
The report cut again, this time with a recap of the deteriorating security situation inside Venezuela. There were shots of vast crowds in Caracas, waving colourful flags and banners. Masked protestors hurled bricks and Molotov cocktails at government buildings. Cars were ablaze. Smoke rose from burning storefronts. Riot police fired tear-gas canisters at people fleeing through the streets.
A country descending into hell.
‘Looks like them lot in Westminster are feeling the pressure,’ Bald said.
‘Same old story,’ Porter grumbled. ‘Some tossers in Whitehall need us to save their arses. And they need us to do it on a shoestring budget, while they take all the credit.’
‘If that’s how you feel, why did you agree to the op? You can’t be doing it for the money. Not as if you’ve got loads of expenses, either. Meals for one and a shite haircut once a month.’
‘You don’t know my life.’
‘Maybe not, but I know a washed-up soldier when I see one. You’re ready for the scrapheap, mate. You should be seeing out your twilight years bodyguarding celebs and house-sitting for wealthy Russians. Why this?’
‘This is all I’m good at,’ he said. ‘It’s all I’ve got left.’
‘Not all,’ Bald corrected. ‘You’ve got a daughter.’
‘Who won’t speak to us.’
‘She’s going through some shit. It’ll pass.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ Porter replied quietly.
‘You’re her father. You might be a lame old tosser as far as I’m concerned, but she’ll forgive you. Daughters always do.’
‘I’ve fucked up too many times, mate. Should’ve been there for her, when she needed me.’
‘Forget it. Looking backwards is for losers. You did some shit in the past, tough. Get over it. Regret gets you nowhere.’
‘Says the bloke without a pot to piss in.’
Bald shot him an icy glare. ‘That’s temporary. Once we come back from this op, I’ll get my own security company off the ground. Give it a year and I’ll be minted.’
‘We’ve got to get through this op first,’ Porter reminded him. ‘Won’t be easy, breaking Fuller out of the president’s gaff.’
‘Let’s hope the Yanks have got a good plan up their sleeve, then.’
They finished their last morsels of food, helped themselves to more coffee and root beer and watched the TV. An hour later, Bald and Porter paid their bill, left a healthy tip for Kimber and headed for their gate. At ten minutes past midnight, they boarded their flight.
Five hours later they were touching down in Bogotá.
THIRTEEN
The Boeing landed with a jolt and a shudder. They crawled along the runway for a couple of minutes, steered on to a wide tarmac apron and lurched to a halt beside a scattering of commercial aircraft parked up in front of the termin
al building. Engine reduced to a faint whine. Seat-belt sign turned off with a diplomatic ping; the passengers rose up en masse as they scrambled for coats and laptops and carry-on luggage.
Bald and Porter grabbed their backpacks and disembarked at the front of the Boeing. They made their way through customs. Got a stamp in their passports and an indifferent welcome from the security guard, who cursorily examined their work visas. They bypassed the luggage carousels and headed straight for the arrivals hall. A sea of faces crowded the hall, hugging friends and loved ones as they spilled out of the exits. Chauffeurs stood clutching signs with their clients’ names scrawled on the front. Sniffer dog teams and guards in olive-green uniforms and caps patrolled the floor, searching for anything suspicious.
Bald moved to the side of the hall with Porter, dug out his Six-issued phone and unlocked it. He had two new messages, both delivered within a few minutes of each other, shortly after their plane had landed. The first was a generic text from the phone company, detailing a bunch of international data usage and messaging rates. The second text was from the UK number stored on their phones, linked to Vauxhall.
Contact is sending his two sons to meet you. Hector and Luis Mendoza. They have your descriptions. Wait outside the Barrios Coffee Shop. They’ll find you there.
Bald showed the message to Porter, hit Delete and stashed the handset away. He scanned the hall, spotted the coffee shop and pointed it out to Porter. A generic-looking establishment, with wood flooring and soft lighting, next to a duty-free perfume store. They started across the hall, threading their way through the dense crowd and stopped beside the coffee shop entrance. Then they set their bags down and waited.
Thirty seconds later, two youthful-looking figures approached.
The younger kid was eighteen or nineteen, Bald guessed. He was scrawny and short, with a bumfluff moustache and a Mohawk haircut. A Barcelona football shirt hung from his skinny frame.
The taller kid was the older of the two. He looked to be in his early twenties. Had the rugged look of someone who had spent most of their life outdoors, working the land. His skin was the colour of teak. His eyes were dark and narrow, as if he had been squinting at the sun. He wore a baggy green polo shirt, tattered jeans and a pair of mud-spattered trainers, along with a bright-red baseball cap.
The older kid looked at him and said, ‘Mr Bald?’
‘Call me Jock,’ said Bald. He waved at his colleague. ‘This is John Porter.’
The guy thrust out an arm. ‘Hector Mendoza.’
They shook hands. Hector grinned and gestured to the kid in the Barcelona shirt at his side. ‘My little brother, Luis. Welcome to Colombia.’
He spoke good English, but with a strong accent, mangling words as he fired them off in a rapid stream. Bald could just about understand what the kid was saying.
‘There a problem, mister?’ Hector asked.
‘I thought we were supposed to be meeting your old man,’ Porter said. ‘Alberto.’
Hector made a pained face. ‘His English, not so good. Me and Luis, we speak better. He sends us instead.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘At the farm. To the east.’
‘How far?’
‘Many hours’ drive. We’ll take you there now, mister.’
Bald said, ‘You’re supposed to take us to the training camp. That was the deal. We’re expected.’
‘Tomorrow. Today, is not possible. Too far away. We sleep at the farm tonight.’
‘Is it secure?’
‘The farm?’ Hector grinned, revealing a row of rotted black teeth. ‘Si, mister. Very safe. Trust me. Now, you come with us, okay?’
Before Bald could answer, Porter gripped him by the arm. ‘We’re not gonna rely on these two to get us to the camp, are we? Fuck me, they’re barely old enough to shave.’
Hector’s grin widened. ‘Don’t underestimate us. Where we come from, you learn how to shoot before you can walk.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ Porter growled. ‘We’re travelling across bandit country, with no way of defending ourselves. We need better protection than this, for Chrissakes.’
Hector gave a casual shrug and folded his arms. ‘Up to you. Makes no difference to us. But if you want to join your friends, you need to come with us.’
‘We could rent a car,’ Porter suggested to Bald. ‘Make our own way there. Get the coordinates from the Yanks.’
Which drew an amused look from Hector. ‘The roads are very dangerous. Full of bandits. Narcos. Gangs. You try to go alone, you’ll get captured. Or worse. Me and Luis, we know all the back routes. Been living there our whole lives. We can keep you safe.’
‘I don’t like it,’ Porter muttered.
‘Me neither,’ said Bald. ‘But the kid’s right. We don’t have a choice.’
He sighed bitterly and nodded at Hector. ‘Fuck it. Let’s go, kid.’
Hector promptly turned and started towards the exit, his younger brother hurrying alongside him. Bald and Porter snatched up their backpacks and followed the kids outside.
Dawn in Bogotá. A fine grey drizzle was slanting across the city, a brisk chill in the air. Bald remembered reading somewhere about the city being one of the coldest places in the country. Something to do with being 2,600 metres above sea level. But still much warmer than Dundee in the depths of a Scottish winter.
The Mendoza brothers led Bald and Porter past the taxi rank and across the road towards an open-air tarmacked parking lot the approximate size of a rugby pitch, enclosed by a two-metre-high chain-link fence. They swept into the lot and beat a path down a long line of parked motors before they stopped in front of a sandy-brown five-door Jeep Cherokee. An American classic. From the angular frame, Bald guessed that it was about twenty years old. The sides were streaked with dirt and the bodywork was marked with several scrapes and dents, and at some point the radio antenna had snapped off. But otherwise it looked in decent nick.
Hector tugged open the front passenger door and indicated the rear. ‘You guys ride in the back.’
Bald and Porter circled round to the rear of the Cherokee and dumped their backpacks in the boot. They clambered into the rear passenger seats while Hector sat up front. Luis hopped in on the driver’s side and sat behind the wheel. Bald watched the kid buckle up and made eye contact with Hector in the rear-view mirror.
‘Is he old enough to drive this thing?’
Hector laughed. ‘My brother looks young, no?’
‘Too fucking young.’
‘Don’t worry, Mister Jock. Luis, he’s a good driver. Best in our village. He’ll get us there safely.’
‘He’d better,’ Bald replied sharply. ‘Otherwise I’ll give him a fucking slap.’
Luis grinned at him inanely. At his side, Hector gathered up a pile of brochures and maps scattered across the dash and passed them back to Bald and Porter.
‘Here. In case we get stopped.’
Bald snatched one of the brochures and took a cursory look through it. A tourist guide, written in English. There were soft-focused shots of people riding on horseback and lush savannahs and exotic animals.
‘Your cover story,’ Hector went on. ‘If the police stop and ask questions, you tell them we’re tour guides. You pay us to take you here. Llanos Orientales. Eastern Plains.’
Porter said, ‘Will the cops buy it?’
Hector nodded enthusiastically. ‘Many people go to the Plains now. Big sightseeing tours. They pay lots of money to see the birds, ride horses, take selfies.’
‘Place has changed. I thought that whole fucking area was a drug-trafficking corridor.’
‘Still is, in many places. Lots of narcos.’
‘Are they likely to stop us?’
Hector chuckled. ‘Killing tourists is bad for business. Don’t worry about the narcos. They won’t bother us.’
‘How long?’ asked Bald. ‘Until we get to the farm?’
Hector fished out a pack of Lucky Strikes from his jeans pocket, plucked out a cigar
ette and wedged it between his lips. ‘Luis can get us there in eleven hours. No problem.’
Bald caught sight of the time on the dashboard clock: 06.43 hours. Which meant they would arrive at the farmhouse at a little before six o’clock that evening.
A long drive.
‘Better get a fucking move on, then,’ he said.
Hector grabbed a lighter from the coffee cup holder, sparked up his cigarette and said something to his younger brother in machine-gun Colombian Spanish. Luis grinned manically at Bald and gave him the big thumbs-up. Then he twisted round in his seat and cranked the ignition and the Cherokee sputtered into life.
A minute later, they were steering out of the airport car park.
Luis pushed the Cherokee hard. The wagon bounced and juddered over the potholed road as they motored south, following the steady stream of gold-coloured taxis and minibuses shuttling towards the downtown area. After a couple of miles Luis turned off the road and merged with the traffic on a busy main thoroughfare, taking them through the western part of the city. A blue-collar neighbourhood, by the looks of it. The road was lined with eyesore apartment blocks and discount fashion shops and garages. Not a slum. But not an area that attracted much tourism, either. They carried along the thoroughfare for another four miles, then took the next slip road and drove north on something called the Autopista. Which Bald vaguely recalled was the Spanish word for motorway. A three-lane stretch of worn blacktop, flanked by Japanese car dealerships and American fast-food chains and brand-new high-rises.
A few miles later, the high-rises and the out-of-town malls abruptly disappeared, and suddenly they were driving through rolling green countryside. Hector lit another tab, blew smoke out of the window and tuned the radio to a station playing Colombian rap music. He glanced back at Bald and Porter.
‘First time in Colombia?’
‘We’ve been here before,’ Bald answered for both of them.
‘When?’
